Free Ignorance by Michèle Roberts

said: don’t go back upstairs just yet.
    We pinned the heavy edges together. Maman had said: if we have shutters surely we don’t need blackout curtains too? Papa had got agitated: not a single chink of light must show! The thick material smelled of dust. It hid us. We didn’t turn on the light. We stood close together. Certain conversations were better had in darkness. A kind of test of love. When I couldn’t see Maurice, but just feel his face held between my hands, I overflowed with trust for him. Darkness bound two people together. In the shadows, not seeing his face, you could concentrate more on what the other person said, just from the solemn note in his voice, and also he could tell you more of the truth. He didn’t tell me all of it: I didn’t expect that. I knew he protected me from knowing too much about the risks he was running, just as I was protecting my mother from knowing she had some Jews hiding in her shed.
    The scrape of a match. Spurt of sulphur smell. Flare of blue-yellow lighting up Maurice’s fingers as he lit cigarettes then handed me one. A red spot of light sprang out behind his cupped hands. I drew on my cigarette too hard and the nicotine hit the back of my throat and made me cough. He put his hand on my arm, hushing me, then talked in a low voice. My brave girl. I wanted to scream at him: I am not brave. I breathed in nicotine and breathed my words into silence and breathed them out as smoke. He said: I can’t just stand by and do nothing.
    I said: everyone knows how clever you are, how good your contacts are, no wonder they ask you for advice. But all the same you must get rid of these people quickly.
    Not just advice, Maurice said: I’m running a taxi service here.
    He stroked my bare forearm. He put his cheek next to mine. He said: I’ve started using your shed as a transit point because people know I often come and see you. No one will think twice about seeing my car outside your yard.
    I shook more than ever. The Germans would punish us if they found out. We’d be shot. How can you imagine dying? You can’t. But I was terrified of the pain before the blackness came. I couldn’t allow my mind to get close to that.
    Don’t worry, Maurice said: they’re leaving tomorrow afternoon, well before dark. Just one more night in your shed and that’s it.
    I asked: where are Monsieur Fauchon and the two older children?
    Maurice said: there’s been a bit of a hold-up with getting their new papers. Shouldn’t be long now.
    I didn’t go back to the shed to check on the Jews. My mother might have become suspicious. I didn’t dare take the Jews any more food. If they’d been sensible they’d have made the soup last. There was nothing more I could do for them. They’d looked quite well fed. They wouldn’t starve. I went to bed early, to get away from my mother’s glance.
    Next morning, Saturday, my father decided to go to the men’s fellowship meeting at church. Maman said: don’t stay too long in the café afterwards. He snorted, brushed past her and out of the door. Maman said to me: haven’t you got any work to do?
    I could not settle to sweeping and dusting. Finally I took the basket of darning and sat in the shop with it, picking up one of my father’s socks, lacking a heel, stabbing my needle in and out of the blue woollen weave. My mother, doing her books at the counter, shot me frowning looks from time to time but said nothing. Papa didn’t reappear at midday. My mother struck her hands together in exasperation, and served our soup. Afterwards she sent Marc out to bring my father home, then sat down by the stove to take a nap. When I heard Maurice’s car come along the street, go past the shop and turn the corner, I went down.
    He parked behind the shop, on the far side of the yard, behind the gate there that led into the little back street. I threw on my coat and beret and ran