The Girl You Left Behind

from behind the counter and wiped
     my hands on my apron.
    Germans did not visit our bar, except for
     requisitioning. They used the Bar Blanc, at the top of the town, which was larger and
     possibly friendlier. We had always made it very clear that we were not a convivial space
     for the occupying force. I wondered what they were going to take from us now. If we had
     any fewer cups and plates we would have to ask customers to share.
    ‘Madame Lefèvre.’
    I nodded at him. I could feel my
     customers’ eyes on me.
    ‘It has been decided you will provide
     meals for some ofour officers. There is not enough room in the Bar
     Blanc for our incoming men to eat comfortably.’
    I could see him clearly for the first time
     now. He was older than I had thought, in his late forties perhaps, although with
     fighting men it was hard to tell. They all looked older than they were.
    ‘I’m afraid that will be
     impossible, Herr Kommandant,’ I said. ‘We have not served meals at this
     hotel for more than eighteen months. We have barely enough provisions to feed our small
     family. We cannot possibly provide meals to the standard that your men will
     require.’
    ‘I am well aware of that. There will
     be sufficient supplies delivered from early next week. I will expect you to turn out
     meals suitable for officers. I understand this hotel was once a fine establishment.
     I’m sure it lies within your capabilities.’
    I heard my sister’s intake of breath
     behind me, and I knew she felt as I did. The visceral dread of having Germans in our
     little hotel was tempered by the thought that for months had overridden all others:
food
. There would be leftovers, bones with which to make stock. There would
     be cooking smells, stolen mouthfuls, extra rations, slices of meat and cheese to be
     secretly pared off.
    But still. ‘I am not sure our bar will
     be suitable for you, Herr Kommandant. We are stripped of comforts here.’
    ‘I will be the judge of where my men
     will be comfortable. I would like to see your rooms also. I may billet some of my men up
     here.’
    I heard old René mutter,
     ‘
Sacre bleu!
’
    ‘You are welcome to see the rooms,
     Herr Kommandant. But you will find that your predecessors have left uswith little. The beds, the blankets, the curtains, even the copper piping that fed the
     basins, they are already in German possession.’
    I knew I risked angering him: I had made
     clear in a packed bar that the
Kommandant
was ignorant of the actions of his
     own men, that his intelligence, as far as it stretched to our town, was faulty. But it
     was vital that my own townspeople saw me as obstinate and mulish. To have Germans in our
     bar would make Hélène and me the target of gossip, of malicious rumour. It was
     important that we were seen to do all we could to deter them.
    ‘Again, Madame, I will be the judge of
     whether your rooms are suitable. Please show me.’ He motioned to his men to remain
     in the bar. It would be completely silent until after they had left.
    I straightened my shoulders and walked
     slowly out into the hallway, reaching for the keys as I did so. I felt the eyes of the
     whole room on me as I left, my skirts swishing around my legs, the heavy steps of the
     German behind me. I unlocked the door to the main corridor (I kept everything locked: it
     was not unknown for French thieves to steal what had not already been requisitioned by
     the Germans).
    This part of the building smelt musty and
     damp; it was months since I had been here. We walked up the stairs in silence. I was
     grateful that he remained several steps behind me. I paused at the top, waiting for him
     to step into the corridor, then unlocked the first room.
    There had been a time when merely to see our
     hotel like this had reduced me to tears. The Red Room had once been the pride of Le Coq
     Rouge; the bedroom where mysister and I had spent our wedding
     nights, the room where the mayor would put up visiting dignitaries. It had housed a vast
     four-poster bed, draped in blood-red tapestries, and its generous window overlooked our
     formal gardens. The carpet was from Italy, the furniture from a château in Gascogne, the
     coverlet a deep red silk from China. It had held a gilt chandelier and a huge marble
     fireplace, where the fire was lit each morning by a chambermaid and kept alight until
     night.
    I opened the door, standing back so that the
     German might enter. The room was empty, but for a chair