Free The Woman on the Train by Rupert Colley Page A

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