The Woman on the Train (5 page)

‘Yeah. A right bitch, by the sounds of it, working for the Nazis – doing their dirty work.’ She picked up her coffee bowl. ‘I hope she pays for it.’

‘Careful, Isabelle, we have no right to pre-judge.’

Slowly, she placed the bowl on the table. ‘I can,’ she said in a flat voice. Her eyes changed, their brightness dissolving into something altogether darker.

‘What do you mean?’

She held her breath and cast her eyes down at the tablecloth. ‘My father was sent to Drancy. He was on one of the last transports out of there to Auschwitz.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

‘I’m Jewish.’

‘I see. I didn’t know.’

She pulled a face. ‘So what? Does it change anything?’

‘No, of course not.’

We sat in silence for a while. I wanted to ask whether her father had survived. Instead, I watched her as she made a circle of salt with her fingertip. ‘I’m twenty-three; born at the end of 1944. I never met my father.’

‘I’m–’

‘My parents were hiding out in a village up in the hills above Lyon. They were staying with good people, a whole community of farmers who wanted to protect the Jews. But it was getting more difficult. Twice, the Germans had come on searches, offering rewards to those prepared to denounce the Jews. My parents got away with it but they knew it’d be only a matter of time. And then Maman fell pregnant with me. This would have been in the last few months of the occupation, spring forty-four. They decided they had to do something before she became too, I don’t know, incapacitated. They tried to get to over the border to Switzerland. Lots of people had already gone that way. But someone denounced them, and they were arrested and sent to Drancy, where they were separated. They were kept in inhumane conditions, and beaten for no reason. The article says the camp was run by the Nazis. The French ran it at first until the Germans took over but they don’t mention that. Too ashamed, I suppose. Maman never saw Papa again. He was put on a train to Auschwitz, that much she knew. She was kept in Drancy. She always thought she’d lose me; they were all so undernourished. But she survived, and I too, as you can see, survived. I was born terribly premature. Explains, I guess, why I’ve always been so skinny.’

‘You’re perfect, Isabelle.’

She smiled and reached for my hand across the table.

‘You’re too kind, Maestro. So you see, no one who worked at Drancy can be innocent.’ She rose from the table and fetched the newspaper. Flicking through the pages, she found the article. ‘Here it is. Her name’s Hilda Lapointe. Look at her, she looks like a right monster, don’t you think?’

She passed the paper over the table. My mouth went dry on seeing her police mug shot. I was shocked by the intense coldness of her eyes, her thin lips, the solid outline of her jaw. Isabelle was right – she did look like a monster.

I read the opening paragraph:

She has escaped justice for over two decades, but next month, at
Le Palais de Justice
, 68-year-old Hilda Lapointe, a former guard at the wartime internment camp in the Parisian suburb of Drancy, will finally come face-to-face with her accusers. Nicknamed ‘The Lady with the Truncheon’ by her victims, she was infamous for wielding her club against the Jewish inmates at this Nazi-run camp.

Unable to read any more, I folded the paper and placed it neatly on the table.

‘Are you OK, Maestro? You look worried about something.’

‘No, I’m fine. Just fine,’ I said quietly.

*

The article in
Le Monde
had deeply shocked me. I had no idea Hilda’s case would attract any attention at all, let alone the attention of a national newspaper. When Monsieur d'Espérey had asked me to speak on Hilda’s behalf, I had no perception whatsoever that people and the media might be interested. I rang the lawyer straightaway.

‘What did you expect, Maestro? Of course something like this would cause interest.’

‘But it was the war, for God’s sake, twenty-three years ago. Haven’t people moved on?’

He laughed but not in a way that implied he’d found anything funny. ‘Twenty-three years is not so very long, Maestro. You, Monsieur, conduct music hundreds of years old so surely you must appreciate that.’

‘I just didn’t think… I didn’t realise… Oh, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, my point is, I don’t think I can help you any more.’

‘Meaning…?’

‘I mean…’ He knew damn well what I meant – he merely wanted to make it difficult for me. ‘Mademoiselle Lapointe, I can’t…. Damn it, man, I’ve got my reputation to think of.’

Immediately, I regretted using the phrase and he picked up on it. ‘Your reputation, Maestro?’

‘The woman worked in France’s most notorious concentration camp, you said yourself that she was guilty of… war crimes, didn’t you say? I’m well known, you know that, I can’t be seen condoning the actions of some sadistic camp guard.’

‘Our case lies on the fact she was coerced to act the way she did, both by her masters and the environment, that she was an unwilling accomplice. Look, she is a woman who’s always kept herself to herself. She has no friends, no family. She is alone in the world, alone and very much afraid. If you can stand up for her and say, look, she may have been bad but she wasn’t all bad, it will help us prove that, at core, she was a good woman led astray by circumstances. We can’t do it without you, Maestro.’

‘What about her friend, the one she lived with in Saint-Romain after the war.’

‘Yes, I know. Alas, she died.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes, exactly. She has you and no one else. You know, she’s hinted at… at doing away with herself. Those were her words.’

‘Really?’ Well, I thought, that would solve everything. ‘Do you think she would?’

‘No. She was a bully, and we all know bullies are, essentially, cowards.’

I didn’t know what to say. Picking up on my silence, the lawyer continued. ‘Naturally, it’s your choice but this reputation you mention, and I do understand, was built on the fact you survived the war. And I’m sure you’d agree with me that your survival was in no small part secured by the woman who now depends on you. But, as I say, it’s all your own choice, Maestro.’

*

My conversation with Hilda’s lawyer had left me in a constant state of anxiety. People had been sent to their deaths from Drancy; people had died there. I thought of Isabelle’s parents. Who knows, perhaps the paths of Hilda and Isabelle’s parents had crossed. What was Hilda’s role at Drancy; to what extent was she guilty of terrible things? Perhaps she was no more than a scapegoat, like she’d said.

We worked hard on rehearsing the Berlioz and a couple of supplementary pieces but, for the first time in my life, I had difficulty applying myself. I even had difficulty getting up in the morning. I missed my wife. We had always led separate lives but now, after her announcement, I felt as if I was sharing a house with a stranger. Morocco seemed like a long time ago. Meanwhile, every day at work, I had to see Isabelle, a member of my team, awaiting my instruction. I felt self-conscious in front of her – and went out of my way to not over praise or criticise her, convinced that others would see through our body language. Yet, I certainly did not regret having her as my mistress – not now. After that first day, I returned and slept the night a second time soon afterwards. I found Isabelle a delight to be with; I loved her company. She was witty and intelligent, and could hold her own in any discussion. And she was still a valued member of my orchestra.

The fact that we were both being unfaithful caused her, I think, no concern – until one Sunday afternoon. We were lounging on her settee, warm with the afterglow of sex, reading the papers, listening to the radio, the sort of things I had always envisioned doing with Michèle – just
being
together, silently enjoying each other’s company, when her doorbell rang. She sprang up from the settee, swearing. ‘It’s Jacques,’ she shrieked.

‘How do you know?’

‘He has a special ring. Christ, put your shoes on. Shit, what do we do?’

‘You’re not going to make me stand on the balcony, are you?’

‘You’ve come over because of work,’ she said, knowing I never went anywhere without a work file in my briefcase. ‘Turn the radio off,’ she said as, quickly, she tidied up the magazines and newspapers. She leapt over to the intercom, still buttoning up her blouse and straightening her hair, and pressed the button to allow her boyfriend up.

By the time he caught the lift up to the fourth floor, Isabelle and I were sitting at the table, with paper and sheet music scattered round, looking the part. She welcomed him in with a lingering hug and a sloppy kiss while I averted my eyes and tried to sit on my jealousy. We shook hands as she re-introduced us. He grimaced in an attempt at a smile and I knew he suspected that something was amiss. I had to make my excuses and leave as soon as I could.

It was only as I was putting on my coat I realised I’d left my tie in Isabelle’s bedroom. I could not think of a single plausible reason why I should need to go into there, and unless Jacques went to use Isabelle’s toilet, I wouldn’t be able to speak to her alone. I had no choice – I would simply have to leave and hope to God that if they did decide to go to bed, that it would be Isabelle and not Jacques who found my tie of many colours. The thought of Isabelle taking Jacques to her still-warm bed left me feeling quite nauseous.

I caught the Métro home. Catching the Métro had become part of my daily routine now, allowing me to connect to real people. I had come to realise that I was too closeted from the world – from home to the theatre, and from the theatre back to home, in a luxury car with its own driver. The journey allowed me too much time to think, to dwell on problems that offered nothing by the way of solution. In the confines of the car, I felt suffocated by thoughts of Hilda, of knowing what had happened to Isabelle’s parents. The Métro with its anonymity and all its passengers allowed me an escape which even music could no longer provide.

*

Seeing Isabelle at rehearsals was wonderfully tortuous – my heart would surge upon seeing her and as much as I wanted to sneakily take her to one side and kiss her, I knew I couldn’t. I could tell the other men in the orchestra found her attractive as well but, I thought gleefully to myself, she’s mine!

We were having a break, and I stepped out onto the patio for some fresh air. Autumn was well on its way, one could feel it in the air. Groups of my musicians congregated. It’s always amused me how musicians stick to their own – the woodwind players in this corner, the percussion in that. Isabelle was out there with some of her string players, laughing, twiddling with a bow in her hair. She looked beautiful in a knee-length dress with a lace hem, her thin legs and her freckled arms dangling with bracelets. I was desperate for her to come talk to me. Instead, I watched her with her colleagues, laughing, young, so full of life. I ached with desire yet, at that moment, observing her, I knew it would never last.

People nodded at me but I remained, as always, alone. No one, unless they want something, wants to speak to the boss. Power places one on a lonely pedestal.

I turned my back to view the city below, gripping the balcony, and realised how much I missed my wife. Isabelle was beautiful but I knew, given the choice, I wanted Michèle back. Looking up at the clouds, I realised I had tears rolling down my cheeks.

*

Hilda’s trial was due to start on the Monday and was expected to last most of the week. I had been scheduled to appear on the Wednesday. The recorded concert was due to take place the following Saturday. I asked Michèle whether she’d like to attend the concert. No, she said, she had other plans. I tried not to show my disappointment – it’d been years since she’d come watch me perform. Her lack of interest had always hurt, but never as much as now. But, oddly enough, she suggested I go see a dentist ahead of the performance, saying that my teeth needed a professional clean. But I’ll have my back to the audience, I said. No one will see my teeth, apart from the orchestra, and they’ve seen them many times before. She insisted; she knew of a dentist who could whiten them up for me.

We should have been rehearsing every day in the lead up to such a momentous performance but, in order to attend court, I had given the orchestra the whole of Wednesday off. I didn’t tell them why, and I certainly didn’t tell Isabelle. It felt like a dirty secret. I knew I had to tell her at some point – after all, she’d find out soon enough, what with the media waiting on the sidelines, sharpening their knives.

Monday came and went. I knew Tuesday’s papers would carry a report from the first day of the case but I chose not to buy a copy. I felt worried enough as it was without having my confidence, or lack of it, undermined any further. The rehearsals were a painful affair, my concentration now shot at, not by Isabelle’s presence, but by this black cloud that followed my every step.

On Tuesday evening, after work, Isabelle and I retired to
Le Bar Rocco
. It was still early, the music quiet and the place largely deserted. We sat in the same booth as before and ate a mediocre meal and drank passable wine. She seemed subdued, as subdued as I felt. We barely talked, although I did ask her whether she thought my teeth needed whitening. Eventually, as we were finishing our desserts, she said quietly, ‘He found your tie, you know.’