The Girl You Left Behind

my
     family’s fate upon me. I ran into Father’s study and scrabbled in the
     drawers of the great desk, hurling its contents – old pens, scraps of paper, pieces from
     broken clocks and ancient bills – on to the floor, thanking God when I finally found
     what I was searching for. Then I ran downstairs, opened the cellar door and skipped down
     the cold stone stairs, so sure-footed now in the dark that I barely needed the
     fluttering glow of the candle. I lifted the heavy latch to the back cellar, which had
     once been stacked to the roof with beer kegs and good wine, slid one of the empty
     barrels aside and opened the door of the old cast-iron bread oven.
    The piglet, still only half grown, blinked
     sleepily. It lifted itself to its feet, peered out at me from its bed of straw and
     grunted. Surely I’ve told you about the pig? We liberated it during the
     requisition of Monsieur Girard’s farm. Like a gift from God, it had strayed in the
     chaos, meandering away from the piglets being loaded into the back of a German truck and
     was swiftly swallowed by the thick skirts of Grandma Poilâne. We’ve been fattening
     it on acorns and scraps for weeks, in the hope of raising it to a size great enough for
     us all to have some meat. The thought of that crisp skin, that moist pork, has kept the
     inhabitants of Le Coq Rouge going for the past month.
    Outside I heard my brother yelp again, then
     my sister’s voice, rapid and urgent, cut short by the harsh tones of a German
     officer. The pig looked at me with intelligent, understanding eyes, as if it already
     knew its fate.
    ‘I’m so sorry,
mon
     petit
,’ I whispered, ‘but this really is the only way.’ And I
     brought down my hand.
    I was outside in a matter of moments. I had
     woken Mimi, telling her only that she must come but to stay silent – the child has seen
     so much these last months that she obeys without question. She glanced up at me holding
     her baby brother, slid out of bed and placed a hand in mine.
    The air was sharp with the approach of
     winter, the smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air from our brief fire earlier in the
     evening. I saw the
Kommandant
through the stone archway of the back door and
     hesitated. It was not Herr Becker, whom we knew and despised. This was a slimmer man,
     clean-shaven, impassive. Even in the dark I could see intelligence, not brutish
     ignorance, in his face, which made me afraid.
    This new
Kommandant
was gazing
     speculatively up at our windows, perhaps considering whether this building might provide
     a more suitable billet than the Fourrier farm, where senior German officers slept. I
     suspect he knew that our elevated aspect would give him a vantage-point across the town.
     There were stables for horses and ten bedrooms, from the days when our home was the
     town’s thriving hotel.
    Hélène was on the cobbles,
     shielding Aurélien with her arms.
    One of his men had raised his rifle, but the
Kommandant
lifted his hand. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered them.
     Hélène scrambled backwards, away from him. I glimpsed her face, taut with
     fear.
    I felt Mimi’s hand tighten round mine
     as she saw her mother, and I gave hers a squeeze, even though my heart was in my mouth.
     And I strode out. ‘What, in God’s name, is going on?’ My voice rang
     out in the yard.
    The
Kommandant
glanced towards me,
     surprised by my tone: a young woman walking through the arched entrance to the farmyard,
     a thumb-sucking child at her skirts, another swaddled and clutched to her chest. My
     night bonnet sat slightly askew, my white cotton nightgown so worn now that it barely
     registered as fabric against my skin. I prayed that he could not hear the almost audible
     thumping of my heart.
    I addressed him directly: ‘And for
     what supposed misdemeanour have your men come to punish us now?’
    I guessed he had not heard a woman speak to
     him in this way since his last leave home. The silence that fell upon the courtyard was
     steeped in shock. My brother and sister, on the ground, twisted round, the better to see
     me,only too aware of where such insubordination might leave us
     all.
    ‘You are?’
    ‘Madame Lefèvre.’
    I could see he was checking for the presence
     of my wedding ring. He needn’t have bothered: like most women in our area, I had
     long since sold it for food.
    ‘Madame. We have information that you
     are harbouring illegal livestock.’ His French was passable, suggesting previous