they were leaving. I
walked through to the bar.
‘You may close up now,’ the
Kommandant
said. I tried not to bristle visibly. ‘My men wish to
convey to you their gratitude for an excellent meal.’
I glanced at them. I gave a slight nod. I
did not wish to be seen as grateful for the compliments of Germans.
He did not seem to expect a response. He
placed his cap on his head, and I reached into my pocket and handed him the chits from
the food. He glanced at them and thrust them back at me, a little irritably. ‘I do
not handlesuch things. Give them to the men who deliver the food
tomorrow.’
‘
Désolée
,’ I
said, but I had known this full well. Some mischievous part of me had wished to reduce
him, if only briefly, to the status of support corps.
I stood there as they gathered their coats
and hats, some of them replacing chairs, with a vestige of gentlemanly behaviour, others
careless, as if it were their right to treat any place as if it were their home. So this
was it, I thought. We were to spend the rest of the war cooking for Germans.
I wondered briefly if we should have cooked
badly, taken less trouble. But Maman had always impressed on us that to cook poorly was
a kind of sin in itself. And however immoral we had been, however traitorous, I knew
that we would all remember the night of the roasted chicken. The thought that there
might be more made me feel a little giddy.
It was then that I realized he was looking
at the painting.
I was gripped by a sudden fear, remembering
my sister’s words. The painting did look subversive, its colours too bright in the
faded little bar, the glowing girl wilful in her confidence. She looked, I saw now,
almost as if she were mocking them.
He kept staring at it. Behind him, his men
had begun to leave, their voices loud and harsh, bouncing across the empty square. I
shivered a little every time the door opened.
‘It looks so like you.’
I was shocked that he could see it. I
didn’t want toagree. It implied a kind of intimacy, that he
could see me in the girl. I swallowed. My knuckles were white where my hands pressed
together.
‘Yes. Well, it was a long time
ago.’
‘It’s a little
like … Matisse.’
I was so surprised by this that I spoke
before I thought. ‘Édouard studied under him, at the Académie Matisse in
Paris.’
‘I know of it. Have you come across an
artist called Hans Purrmann?’ I must have started – I saw his gaze flick towards
me. ‘I am a great admirer of his work.’
Hans Purrmann. The Académie
Matisse
. To hear these words from the mouth of a German
Kommandant
made me feel almost dizzy.
I wanted him gone then. I didn’t want
him to mention those names. Those memories were mine, little gifts that I could bring
out to comfort myself on the days when I felt overwhelmed by life as it was; I did not
want my happiest days polluted by the casual observations of a German.
‘Herr Kommandant, I must clear up. If
you will excuse me.’ I began stacking plates, collecting the glasses. But he
didn’t move. I felt his eyes rest on the painting as if they rested on me.
‘It is a long time since I had any
discussion about art.’ He spoke as if to the painting. Finally he placed his hands
behind his back, and turned away from it to me. ‘We will see you
tomorrow.’
I couldn’t look at him as he passed.
‘Herr Kommandant,’ I said, my hands full.
‘Good night, Madame.’
When I finally made it upstairs,
Hélène was asleep face down on top of our coverlet, still wearing the clothes
she had cooked in. I loosened her corset, took off her shoes and pulled the covers over
her. Then I climbed into bed, my thoughts humming and spinning towards the dawn.
4
Paris, 1912
‘Mademoiselle!’
I glanced up from the display of gloves, and
closed the glass case over them, the sound swallowed by the huge atrium that made up La
Femme Marché’s
walked through to the bar.
‘You may close up now,’ the
Kommandant
said. I tried not to bristle visibly. ‘My men wish to
convey to you their gratitude for an excellent meal.’
I glanced at them. I gave a slight nod. I
did not wish to be seen as grateful for the compliments of Germans.
He did not seem to expect a response. He
placed his cap on his head, and I reached into my pocket and handed him the chits from
the food. He glanced at them and thrust them back at me, a little irritably. ‘I do
not handlesuch things. Give them to the men who deliver the food
tomorrow.’
‘
Désolée
,’ I
said, but I had known this full well. Some mischievous part of me had wished to reduce
him, if only briefly, to the status of support corps.
I stood there as they gathered their coats
and hats, some of them replacing chairs, with a vestige of gentlemanly behaviour, others
careless, as if it were their right to treat any place as if it were their home. So this
was it, I thought. We were to spend the rest of the war cooking for Germans.
I wondered briefly if we should have cooked
badly, taken less trouble. But Maman had always impressed on us that to cook poorly was
a kind of sin in itself. And however immoral we had been, however traitorous, I knew
that we would all remember the night of the roasted chicken. The thought that there
might be more made me feel a little giddy.
It was then that I realized he was looking
at the painting.
I was gripped by a sudden fear, remembering
my sister’s words. The painting did look subversive, its colours too bright in the
faded little bar, the glowing girl wilful in her confidence. She looked, I saw now,
almost as if she were mocking them.
He kept staring at it. Behind him, his men
had begun to leave, their voices loud and harsh, bouncing across the empty square. I
shivered a little every time the door opened.
‘It looks so like you.’
I was shocked that he could see it. I
didn’t want toagree. It implied a kind of intimacy, that he
could see me in the girl. I swallowed. My knuckles were white where my hands pressed
together.
‘Yes. Well, it was a long time
ago.’
‘It’s a little
like … Matisse.’
I was so surprised by this that I spoke
before I thought. ‘Édouard studied under him, at the Académie Matisse in
Paris.’
‘I know of it. Have you come across an
artist called Hans Purrmann?’ I must have started – I saw his gaze flick towards
me. ‘I am a great admirer of his work.’
Hans Purrmann. The Académie
Matisse
. To hear these words from the mouth of a German
Kommandant
made me feel almost dizzy.
I wanted him gone then. I didn’t want
him to mention those names. Those memories were mine, little gifts that I could bring
out to comfort myself on the days when I felt overwhelmed by life as it was; I did not
want my happiest days polluted by the casual observations of a German.
‘Herr Kommandant, I must clear up. If
you will excuse me.’ I began stacking plates, collecting the glasses. But he
didn’t move. I felt his eyes rest on the painting as if they rested on me.
‘It is a long time since I had any
discussion about art.’ He spoke as if to the painting. Finally he placed his hands
behind his back, and turned away from it to me. ‘We will see you
tomorrow.’
I couldn’t look at him as he passed.
‘Herr Kommandant,’ I said, my hands full.
‘Good night, Madame.’
When I finally made it upstairs,
Hélène was asleep face down on top of our coverlet, still wearing the clothes
she had cooked in. I loosened her corset, took off her shoes and pulled the covers over
her. Then I climbed into bed, my thoughts humming and spinning towards the dawn.
4
Paris, 1912
‘Mademoiselle!’
I glanced up from the display of gloves, and
closed the glass case over them, the sound swallowed by the huge atrium that made up La
Femme Marché’s
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