Published September 27, 2012
France, 1916
"My heart broke. I pleaded silently with my sister. Take her away from here. Don't let her see. Hélène prized her fingers from me. She was sobbing now. "Please don't take my sister," she said to the soldiers, as she pulled Édith away. "She does not know her mind. Please don't take my sister she doesn't deserve this." The mayor put his arm around her shoulders, his expression confused...
"I will be all right, Édith. Be strong." I called to her, above the noise. Then someone spat at me, and I saw it, a thin, vile trail, upon my sleeve. The crowd jeered. Panic filled me. "Hélène?" I called. "Hélène?" German hands propelled me roughly into the back of the truck. ...slowly dropped my head into my hands, murmuring,"Édouard, Édouard, Édouard," to myself. And: "I'm sorry." I'm not sure who I was apologizing to." -p. 121-122, Moyes |
London, 2006
"He is looking directly at her. She can feel him waiting for her to acknowledge him, some sign. She grips her knees under the desk, digging her fingernails into the skin to give her something to focus on.
"Nobody wants to take something that legitimately belongs to someone else. And that is not what we're about. But the fact exists that, way back during wartime, a wrong was done. A painting, The Girl You Left Behind, by Édouard Léfèvre, owned and loved by his wife was taken and passed into German possession." "...she unrolls the portrait of Sophie Léfèvre that smiling, complicit face...How could a woman who adored her husband like that betray him, not just with another man but with an enemy?" -p. 187 & 260, Moyes |