The Girl You Left Behind

said.
     ‘Of course you can. Jean-Michel will come home,and your life
     will be good. France will be free, and life will be as it was. Better than it
     was.’
    She lay there in silence. I was shivering
     now, out from under the blankets, but I dared not move. My sister frightened me when she
     spoke like this. It was as if there was a whole world of terrors inside her head that
     she had to battle against twice as hard as the rest of us.
    Her voice was small, tremulous, as if she
     were fighting back tears. ‘Do you know, after I married Jean-Michel, I was so
     happy. I was free for the first time in my life.’
    I knew what she meant: our father had been
     quick with his belt and sharp with his fists. The town believed him to be the most
     benign of landlords, a pillar of the community,
good old François Bessette
,
     always ready with a joke and a glass. But we knew the ferocity of his temper. Our only
     regret was that our mother had gone before him, so that she could have enjoyed a few
     years out of its shadow.
    ‘It feels … it feels like we
     have exchanged one bully for another. Sometimes I suspect I will spend my whole life
     bent to somebody else’s will. You, Sophie, I see you laughing. I see you
     determined, so brave, putting up paintings, shouting at Germans, and I don’t
     understand where it comes from. I can’t remember what it was like not to be
     afraid.’
    We lay there in silence. I could hear my
     heart thumping. She believed me fearless. But nothing frightened me as much as my
     sister’s fears. There was a new fragility about her, these last months, a new
     strain around her eyes. I squeezed her hand. She did not squeeze back.
    Between us, Mimi stirred, throwing an arm
     over her head. Hélène relinquished my hand, and I could just make out her
     shape as she moved on to her side, and gentlytucked her
     daughter’s arm back under the covers. Oddly reassured by this gesture, I lay down
     again, pulling the blankets up to my chin to stop myself shivering.
    ‘Pork,’ I said, into the
     silence.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Just think about it. Roast pork, the
     skin rubbed with salt and oil, cooked until it snaps between your teeth. Think of the
     soft folds of warm white fat, the pink meat shredding softly between your fingers,
     perhaps with
compôte
of apple. That is what we will eat in a matter of weeks,
     Hélène. Think of how good it will taste.’
    ‘Pork?’
    ‘Yes. Pork. When I feel myself waver,
     I think of that pig, and its big fat belly. I think of its crisp little ears, its moist
     haunches.’ I almost heard her smile.
    ‘Sophie, you’re mad.’
    ‘But think of it, Hélène.
     Won’t it be good? Can you imagine Mimi’s face, with pork fat dribbling down
     her chin? How it will feel in her little tummy? Can you imagine her pleasure as she
     tries to remove bits of crackling from between her teeth?’
    She laughed, despite herself.
     ‘I’m not sure she remembers how pork tastes.’
    ‘It won’t take much to remind
     her,’ I said. ‘Just like it won’t take much to remind you of
     Jean-Michel. One of these days he will walk through the doors, and you will throw your
     arms around him, and the smell of him, the feel of him holding you around your waist,
     will be as familiar to you as your own body.’
    I could almost hear her thoughts travelling
     back upwards then. I had pulled her back. Little victories.
    ‘Sophie,’ she said, after a
     while. ‘Do you miss sex?’
    ‘Every single day,’ I said.
     ‘Twice as often as I think about that pig.’ There was a brief silence, and
     we broke into giggles. Then, I don’t know why, we were laughing so hard we had to
     clamp our hands over our faces to stop ourselves waking the children.
    I knew the
Kommandant
would
     return. In the event it was four days before he did so. It was raining hard, a deluge,
     so that our few customers sat over empty cups gazing unseeing through the steamed
     windows. In the snug, old René and Monsieur Pellier played dominoes; Monsieur
     Pellier’s dog – he had to pay the Germans a tariff for the privilege of owning it
     – between their feet. Many people sat here daily so that they did not have to be alone
     with their fear.
    I was just admiring Madame Arnault’s
     hair, newly pinned by my sister, when the glass doors opened and he stepped into the
     bar, flanked by two officers. The room, which had been a warm fug of chatty
     companionability, fell abruptly silent. I stepped out