Free Her Father's Daughter by Marie Sizun Page A

her grandmother’s being unbearable.
    â€˜What about me, when am I going home?’ asks the child.
    â€˜Later,’ says the grandmother. ‘Your parents have had their talk anyway.’
    â€˜About what?’
    â€˜About things that are none of your business,’ says the grandmother.
    The father had promised he’d take the child to see the soldiers on the day of the liberation. The liberation’s here now. He wasn’t telling the truth. The grandmother’s liberation, this particular liberation here, is of little interest to the child. And anyway, you can hardly see anything from her windows. The child is filled with sadness.
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    There is one extraordinary thing, though, one moment: that incredible huge peal of bells which seemed to come from all the churches at once. The grandmother had opened the windows, all the windows and all the shutters, windows and shutters opened at last to the summer and those tumultuous bells, and the old woman cried and pulled a funny face. It’s over, she said, the war’s over. We’re free. And she took the child in her arms, she kissed her. Which really surprised the child: her grandmother never cried, never kissed her. Mind you, her hands were still just as cold.
    And she was the one who, the next day, or a bit later, it’s no longer clear, told the child she would take her back to her parents. The father probably hadn’t been able to come. Or perhaps he’d forgotten.

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    The day the child comes back is a Sunday. Everyone will be at home, she thinks; we’ll all have lunch together. It’ll be just like before. The child drags her grandmother by the hand to get there more quickly and talks nineteen to the dozen. My word, will you ever stop! says the grandmother, but she’s not really angry. The child laughs. In fact everyone looks happy, out in the street, in the Métro. You can tell the Krauts have left, the old woman says. And it’s about time we had something to be happy about. She sighs, the grandmother does, talking to herself, muttering between her teeth about things the child doesn’t understand, doesn’t listen to. The child is entirely absorbed in her delight at being back in the city, and she can’t stop looking around, listening, seeing how pretty everything looks: there seem to be parties going on everywhere, with flags in all directions, people laughing, music on every street corner, lots of people on café terraces. The child keeps thinking they’ll be there soon, she’ll see her parents again. She can’t believe her luck.
    On the way her grandmother gives the child advice that she more or less hears: she must be a good girl, she must leave her parents alone, not talk nonsense – you know very well what I mean. Her father’s tired, and her mother too, she mustn’t pester them, etc. All through the partying streets, the old woman’s nagging voice doesn’t really reach the child’s ears as her heart thumps impatiently at the thought of going home.
    But when they get there, when the grandmother rings the bell the first time, no one comes to the door. They listen. Everything’s quiet. Perhaps they’ve gone out, says the grandmother. She rings again. More waiting. The child’s frightened, she’s not really sure why, but she’s frightened. At last they hear footsteps. And it’s her father who opens the door. The father looking all strange, or rather similar to how he’d been when the child first met him, even more upright, by the looks of him, more severe, more distant.
    He says hello to the grandmother, but takes the child in his arms, without a word. He carries her to the dining room, strokes her hair, looks at her, looks at her as if he’s discovering her.
    The child barely has time to believe it’s happening before he puts her down, takes his jacket from the back of a chair and goes out, leaves, closing the door