Hunting Ground by J. Robert Janes

boy, young Louis, the one who lost his foot in the train accident, he’s good with the hammer and saw, you understand. If Monsieur Jules would like the eaves fixed, Louis and me, we could …’
    Grâce à Dieu ,Tante Marie had gone indoors with Jean-Guy. I hoisted Marie into my arms. ‘There’s no money, Georges. Jules has asked me to tell you this.’
    Again, the old man clucked his tongue, but this time he ground the back of his false teeth. ‘No money.’ Sadly, he shook his head. ‘And what are you going to do about it?’
    ‘Me? What can I do?’
    ‘Stop squandering it in Fontainebleau.’
    Muttering to himself, he led me into the house. ‘You’ll take a glass of marc, I suppose?’ Wine would not be strong enough.
    ‘Of course. Please … Georges, if there’s some way, I’ll repay you for all you’ve done.’
    ‘Why? What are we to you? It’s the times, madame.’
    By some sort of osmosis, Tante Marie sensed not only that there was no more money but that they wouldn’t be paid what they were owed and that the land their cottage was on and the cottage, too, could well be in jeopardy.
    She was taller than her husband and thinner, her plain, flowered housedress clinging to an angular sparseness. Once blonde and blue-eyed, and quite pretty some said, she was now iron-grey, hard-eyed, and tired most of the time, or so she would complain if given the least opportunity. ‘Jules hasn’t said this. It’s you who have done it.’
    I shook my head but clung to Marie. ‘It’s simply that he doesn’t make enough money.’
    Tante Marie was swift. ‘The taxes?’
    They had already heard, of course, but I told them anyway. One couldn’t keep secrets, not from these people, not for long. They’d have factored in the income taxes, too, that Jules had probably not yet paid. Merde, even I hadn’t thought of those until now. What were we to do?
    ‘Your sister?’ asked the woman, pinning me down so that the marc, that rough wash of the barrel, dribbled over the chipped crystal Jules’s mother had thrown out ages ago. ‘Any fool could have seen that coming. Why didn’t you?’
    I shrugged and clung to Marie.
    ‘Has he been gambling?’ accused the woman. ‘Have the two of them run off to Monte Carlo again?’
    Again! I pleaded with them to tell me what they knew, though of course they wouldn’t, but Monte Carlo, the casino this past summer, that loan Jules had taken out at the bank, the taxes, too? ‘I’ll see that you’re paid your back wages. That’s the least I can do, but if you should care to come for a glass of wine or bowl of soup, you’re most welcome.’
    The open road beckoned, and I tried to tell myself that the day was still beautiful, the air still clear and cool.
    ‘ Maman , look!’
    That dark forest-green Packard was parked in front of the house again, but of its owner there was no sign.
    There’s a damp handkerchief crumpled in my fist. Dr. Laurier has stopped the car at the side of the road, but I’ve no recollection of her having done so. The dawn has broken. ‘Forgive me. It’s stupid of me to cry. Tommy …’
    ‘He was your lover, Lily. You have every right.’
    ‘He was my comrade-in-arms, damn you. I could have stopped it all, don’t you see? Me, I was to blame for everything.’
    After a moment, I hear her say, ‘We can get something to eat in a little while. You’ve a phenomenal memory. Your ability to live in the past is truly remarkable. You make me feel as if I’m right there with you.’
    ‘I’ve had to use my memory. It’s fed me since the autumn of 1943, since when I was taken.’
    ‘By Dupuis.’
    ‘By him and some others, but mostly by the Obersturmführer Schiller of the SS, the lieutenant.’
    ‘Tell me about Tommy. I’d like to know more about him.’
    I hear the car start up. I let my mind drift. I try to tell myself that Schiller’s no longer a problem, that he’s bound to have been killed or put in prison, that I’m finally going home and soon