The Woman on the Train (7 page)

‘I’m a character witness for the accused.’ There, at last, I’d said it.

She tilted her head, as if better to understand. ‘What did you say?’

‘It’s a long story but–’

‘You’re a character witness? For
her
– that bitch in there?’

A couple of court clerks passed by, laughing. I watched them as they made their way down the corridor. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I… I don’t understand. Do you
actually
know her?’

‘Well, not really. It was during the war. I, erm…’

‘No, wait; let me get this straight. You are about to go in there and say something nice about the woman who worked for the regime that killed my father? Is that right? Because if it is…’

‘Isabelle.’ I reached out for her but she stepped back.

‘So it’s true – that’s what you’re doing here.’ She looked at me with utter contempt and I felt myself diminish under her hateful gaze.

I was almost tearful as I croaked, ‘I have no choice–’

‘No choice?’ She spat out the words. ‘My parents had no choice; Madame Kahn in there had no choice, but you do. You have a choice.’

D'Espérey appeared. With a quick nod, he said a curt hello to Isabelle. ‘Maestro, we’ve been called back in.’

‘I’m sorry, Isabelle.’ I followed the lawyer back into the courtroom.

*

‘You are well known, Monsieur; a conductor of some repute,’ said d'Espérey, his thumbs hooked into his waistcoat.

‘I like to think so.’

‘Could you speak up?’ said the judge.

‘I’m sorry, Your Honour. I said I’d like to think so.’

He asked me to relate my background story – my age, where I was brought up, my interest in music, my training. I spoke at length, hoping to come across as a decent human being, hoping to delay the inevitable. Then it came to my activities during the war, I confessed I was little more than a messenger but I embellished the importance of what was within those missives, how the information I delivered on a ‘regular basis’ had provided the necessary means of communication in order to launch attacks against the German occupiers. Lucky, I thought, that my man in the village had been executed. I wondered what had happened to the train guard from Africa. I emphasised how I had to use my cunning to pass by the Germans without ever rousing their suspicion. ‘On one occasion,’ I told them, ‘I had to rush to the train toilet in order to escape them. When they knocked on the door, I had no option but to rip up the paper and throw it out of the window. They searched me and found nothing.’ It was a complete lie. Looking up, I saw Isabelle, sitting towards the back of the courtroom, Jacques next to her.

‘Quite the resistance hero then?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far.’ I hoped Isabelle was paying attention at this point.

‘And it was in this capacity as a messenger for the resistance that you met the accused, Hilda Lapointe?’

‘Yes, but only the once, and I didn’t know her name.’

‘Did you know where she worked?’

‘No, not at all.’ I glanced over at Hilda, who sat there, her eyes fixed on me.

‘Could you tell the court about the occasion your paths crossed?’

And so I told the court the story of that day in August 1942, 26 years previously. I started with a preamble about how a messenger, like me, had been arrested and tortured – I needed to emphasise the risk I was running. It felt strange – I was used to telling stories with music but here, for the first time, I was using words and I felt as if I had no control.

‘She could quite easily have turned you in. From what you say, she suspected you, for sure, but she said nothing to the German guards.’

‘Yes, I’ve thought about it many times since.’

‘But she didn’t,’ he said loudly, turning to the jurors. ‘She did not hand him over to the Germans.’ Stroking his chin, Monsieur d'Espérey considered his next question. ‘Did she gain anything from intervening on your behalf?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Do you think it fair to say that without the accused’s intervention that day, your life might have turned out very differently?’

‘Objection!’ shouted the prosecutor. ‘The question is pure speculation.’

‘Quite,’ said the judge. ‘Objection upheld. Monsieur d'Espérey, may I remind you that a court of law deals in facts, not “what-ifs”.’

‘Of course, Your Honour. I do apologise. Speculation it may be, but we know of many, many cases when young men, sometimes boys, were cruelly tortured by the Nazi occupiers and frequently executed, whether they provided information or not. We also know that earlier in the war, those arrested were usually imprisoned for a while and, except for the ringleaders, released. But by the summer of 1942, many more were being executed, often for the slightest transgressions. It is speculation, but my point is that my client knew that without her intervention, this young man, as he was then, would have been under very great danger of torture and possibly execution.’

When asked, I told the court how, after the war, Hilda had come to see me just the once, in 1966, and that was it. In other words, we were not acquaintances in any sense of the word. ‘Yet, in that conversation, I am right in thinking that you acknowledged your debt to the accused?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. No more questions.’

*

Next came the prosecutor. He paced up and down in front of me, hands behind his back, as if collecting his thoughts. ‘You were here this morning, were you not, so you would have heard the testimony of Madame Kahn. All week, we’ve been hearing similar stories – of habitual beatings, cruelty and maltreatment at the hands of Hilda Lapointe. What did you make of it?’

‘I thought… I thought it was appalling.’

‘Hmm, interesting. Yet, you are still prepared to stand in a court of law to act as a character witness for the woman who is accused of such barbaric acts?’

A titter of voices rose from the public galleries. ‘Only because she may have saved my life. I wasn’t to know–’

‘But you do now! You’ve known for months, unless you live a life of a hermit, which we all know you do not. Yet, despite this knowledge, you still agreed. You could have said no at any point. You can still say no right this instance!’

‘They were only accusations.’ Someone booed.

‘Silence!’ said the judge.

‘Only accusations? No, not accusations – facts. Her defence here is not that she didn’t commit these crimes, but that she was under orders. So, leaving aside the second point for a moment, these acts are things that actually happened.’

‘I… I suppose because I felt I owed her.’ People hissed at me. I felt their loathing for me.

‘You
owed
her? So because you were the beneficiary of this one single act of kindness, you feel you have the right to dismiss all these scores of victims.’ Turning to the jury, he said, ‘I repeat what I said at the beginning of this trial – the number of victims and witnesses number over eighty. Under court instruction, we have asked only a sample to come here this week to give evidence.’ He returned his attention to me. ‘So, despite what we all know to be fact, do you still feel that you
owe
the accused?’

I stood there, opened mouthed, shaking. I could feel Isabelle’s eyes bearing down on me; I thought of her parents, of her murdered father. I saw Madame Kahn, gently shaking her head, living every day of her life with the memory that her family had been gassed, of picking that poor woman up from the icy ground. I felt the whole world looking at me, despising me for what I’d become.

‘Well, Monsieur, we await your answer.’

I looked at Hilda and I hated her. Why had she done it, why had she intervened? I remembered our conversation:
One day I will be a conductor / Oh, you will, will you? You sound very sure of yourself. I wish you the very best of luck.
My life had come full circle, yet here I was consumed with a visceral hatred I’d never experienced before. How could she have done those things? To those poor, abused people.

‘A simple yes or no – do you still feel that you owe the accused?’

I felt myself tremble as quietly, so quietly, I answered, ‘Yes.’

*

I don’t remember leaving the witness stand or how people looked at me. But often, since, I’ve had dreams in which a thousand angry faces leer at me, pointing, hissing, frothing at the mouth, blood seeping from their ears. I see scratch marks against the brown wooden panels of the courtroom. I see the judge donning a black wig. I see Isabelle’s father leading me away to somewhere unknown and dark. I see Monsieur d'Espérey writing the word ‘reputation’ with a quill pen. I see Jesus Christ and I call for him and I reach out for him. He sees me and he turns his back on me.

It took me years to work out the meaning of those scratch marks until, one day, I came across a photograph of the inside of a gas chamber – its walls were covered in those very same scratch marks.

I know I rushed out of the courtroom and staggered down the deserted corridor, lurching from one side to the other, falling against the walls. I went to the lavatory and, locking the cubicle door, lent over the toilet and was sick. What had I done, I asked myself again and again, what had I done?

I didn’t stay to hear Monsieur d'Espérey call in Hilda’s former pupils from her girls’ school, and I certainly didn’t hang around to watch Hilda’s turn in the witness box. I had seen enough; I’d repaid my debt and now I wanted nothing else to do with it. The woman could go to Hell and rot, for all I cared.

I returned home, got drunk, and went to bed.

*

The following day I felt a little better, despite the hangover. But I was dreading having to face Isabelle. Surely, she would see that I had been put into an impossible situation; that, despite what the prosecutor had said, I had had no choice. I was last to arrive, and the whole orchestra were already at their places, tuning their instruments. The combined effect of eighty musical instruments being tuned at the same time made my head throb. Clasping my temples, I yelled at them to stop. A sea of bewildered eyes turned to face me. I searched for Isabelle and couldn’t see her. I went to get myself a cup of tea, and the cacophony started afresh. I made sure I was away long enough to ensure that by the time I returned, they had finished.

‘I can’t see Isabelle,’ I said to no one in particular.

A fellow cellist stood, a middle-aged woman whose work I always valued. ‘Maestro, I’m afraid to say Isabelle’s phoned in to say she’s resigned from the orchestra.’

‘What?’ I yelled. ‘But surely, she’ll do the concert.’

The woman shook her head. ‘With immediate effect,’ she said.

‘She can’t do that – her contract… Did you speak to her?’

‘No, it was the office. Someone just came in to pass the message on.’

I almost pulled a fistful of hair from my scalp. We were two days from the concert and she was leaving me in the lurch? And what about us, me and her? Did this mean we were finished? God, I hoped not; I liked her too much to lose her.

I turned to my first violinist and asked her to take over from me while I went off to make some phone calls.

Settling myself in my office, I tried ringing her. She didn’t answer; I hadn’t expected her to. I rang the record company and, being put through to my agent, told him what had happened. His reaction was much the same as mine. ‘Her contract explicitly states that she can’t do this. We could take her to court over this.’

‘Maybe, but the question is who can we bring in at this stage?’ I said frantically. I suggested the name of France’s leading cellist.

‘Him? You’re mad – he’ll cost a fortune, more than all the others put together.’

‘He’s the only reliable alternative we have at this stage. I’ve worked with him before; he’s the only cellist I can think of who could pull it off. What choice do we have?’

I heard him sigh. ‘You’re right; we have no bloody choice. OK, I’ll get on it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Listen, Maestro, before you go, have you seen today’s papers?’

My heart sank; I knew what was coming next. I heard him rustle the newspaper. ‘The headline reads, “Conductor Condones the Collaborator”.’ He laughed. ‘I love the alliteration. I congratulate you, Maestro.’

‘You do?’

‘If you weren’t famous enough already, then this ensures there won’t be a Frenchman anywhere who doesn’t know your name. This’ll make marvellous publicity.’ 

I returned to the orchestra, and for the rest of the day, we struggled on – hardly the ideal preparation for such a big occasion.

On the way home, I couldn’t help myself and bought a copy of
Le Figaro
. My agent was right – the report on Hilda’s third day in court was damning of both her and myself. Her former pupils were not even mentioned. I may have helped the resistance out, the article said, but in sticking up for the guard, I was no better than a collaborator. Hilda Lapointe will be damned for all eternity, it said, and I will be condemned alongside her.

I found the house empty; Michèle still being out. I tried phoning Isabelle again but still no answer. I made myself a basic meal and settled down for an evening of pointless television. Surely, I thought, Isabelle would come round at some point; she couldn’t remain angry with me forever. I liked her so much; I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing her and taking her into my arms. Isabelle was everything I wanted in a woman – beautiful, funny, intelligent, and a talented musician. God, I missed her.