She shook her head, turning away from him.

He walked to the metro at the Etoile to return to his office, feeling a slight irritation. He had gone through the drama of finding her shaven-headed on his return; he had come to an understanding of what had happened; he had apologised. What more was there to do? He could not comprehend why their reconciliation could not be real, immediate. Her behaviour was unreasonable, unlike the old Ariane. And as for the children: he had not known Suzie before the war, so it was impossible to judge whether she had always been a little simple, or whether it was the effect of her experiences. All he could say was that she was now simply odd, as if she were refusing to grow up. Sabine, too, could not be said to be behaving like a normal child. They were, all of them, traumatised creatures.

He mentally listed what they had been through: Suzie had been separated from her parents for almost three years now, and had lived with strangers under a false name. Sabine, too, had thought she had lost her father. But both of them had been safe and well cared for, had never lacked materially. Ariane had undertaken great risks for others, communists, Jews, forced labourers, at considerable danger to herself, but she had survived. None of this was unusual in these times. Many other people had endured worse. He simply could not see what the fuss was about.

Chapter Fourteen

Theo and Ariane had lived together for only four months in 1939. Their apartment was the home of an aborted marriage, Theo thought, as he stood in the centre of the salon in darkness. The concierge was shuffling about opening the shutters, leaning on the grille to pin them back to the wall.

It was bitterly cold. He could see his breath, his words steaming gently in front of him. Coal was impossible to obtain. Most people cooked on wood-burning stoves, although wood was not easily available either. Madame Brugiotti was wearing all her clothes: ankle socks, a sagging black dress, a cardigan, a coat, a shawl. She flapped through the rooms, pulling her wrappings around her full bosom.

‘Are you thinking of moving in?’

‘I’m not sure.’ He looked round helplessly.

‘It won’t be easy, that’s certain. People who’ve been here all through the war, they’ve got their System D all worked out. They know how to cope. But to begin now, when it’s as bad as it’s ever been …’

‘It’ll have to be cleaned,’ he said to Madame Brugiotti. ‘Can you organise that for me?’

He had concluded that only by making a start on the flat himself could he persuade her to come back to him. Now, faced with the difficulties of setting up home in the chaos of liberated Paris, he saw the flat more as an intermediary between them than as a place to live.

It was an achievement to gain Ariane’s agreement to meet him there one Sunday morning. She shivered as he unlocked the door, and moved with palpable reluctance into the hall. In the salon were signs that Madame Brugiotti had begun work: the floor had been swept, the windows and panelling washed.