Suzie still felt sick with horror when she thought about it. From the time of her arrival she had found the animal side of country life terrifying. Even the poultry disturbed her; she recoiled from their chattering rush and beating feathers. She never became accustomed to the dogs and, since she lacked authority, they were all the more boisterous in her company. Whilst Sabine would unleash the big ones and throw sticks for them, Suzie flinched even from the terriers’ emphatic rage, barking at anything they considered unusual.

Only Lou Moussou, visited every day, talked to, fed, eventually became familiar enough not to horrify her. He moved slowly, predictably, within the confines of his sty. His pink skin with its sparse stiff bristles gave him a human appearance, which was only increased by the knowingness of his tiny eyes. She and Sabine would carry his swill from the boiler by the bread oven, sharing the weight of the bucket between them, to tip it into his trough and watch him eat it. She could interpret his approving grunts and was sure she could tell which ingredients he most appreciated.

Her feelings for him were complex, for although he was admired and revered by Sabine and the Menesplier family, and was more domesticated, more of a personality, than any other of the farm animals, she was well aware of the taboos associated with him by her own people. Maman and Papa were secular. They had rarely attended synagogue and did not keep kosher at home, even in the days when it was possible to regulate food in such a way. Yet they never voluntarily ate charcuterie, did not touch choucroute with sausages, avoided porc aux pruneaux on the menu. She had never been told not to eat pork; they just didn’t do it. And in the ancient rejection of this human-like, intelligent, amiable beast she saw, oddly, a parallel to her own hidden, rejected Jewishness. Maman and Papa regarded the pig as unclean because they had never had a chance to know and understand her beloved Lou Moussou.

One January day, as Micheline poured out their hot milk at breakfast, she had said, ‘You won’t have any schoolwork today because the Mr Jouanels are coming.’

‘Oh, wonderful.’ Sabine was pounding some stale bread into her milk, into which mixture they were allowed a teaspoonful of honey. It was as if it had unexpectedly been announced that it was Christmas or the Americans had arrived.

‘Who are the Jouanels?’

‘It’s the end of Lou Moussou. Crrk.’ Sabine swept her spoon across her throat.

‘Everyone has to help,’ Micheline explained. ‘That’s why you’re not studying today, so don’t run away.’

‘We don’t want to run away. We want to be here. There’ll be a special lunch, Micheline?’

‘There’ll be boudin, as usual, and you’ll have to help with it. I’ll be busy. Suzie, what’s the matter, child? Why’s she crying?’

The idea of the death of Lou Moussou was bad enough. She thought of his sharp, trusting eyes, his delighted grunts of anticipation when he heard the clanking of the bucket. The betrayal was so terrible, she could not imagine how they could bring themselves to do it. Sabine’s excitement was of a piece with her nature. She knew her well enough now to expect her to delight in the suffering of her pet. But how could Micheline so carefully nourish someone only to lead him to his death?