The Woman on the Train by Colley Rupert

Author:Colley, Rupert [Colley, Rupert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: rupertcolley.com
Published: 2014-12-19T05:00:00+00:00

Paris, October 1968

Monsieur d'Espérey wasn’t expecting me until the afternoon session. I got myself ready and, in my haste, cut myself shaving. Never had I felt in such a state of anxiety. Even the biggest and grandest of concerts hadn’t reduced me to such a wreck. I deliberated over what to wear and finally opted for all black – as if going to a funeral. For a dash of colour, I added a fake carnation to my lapel then, deciding it inappropriate, removed it. Even Michèle, who never took an interest in my comings and goings, commented on my suit. A meeting with the record label bosses, I told her. She too was off out for the day and we made an elaborate dance of ensuring we didn’t leave together.

Le Palais de Justice, a grand grey-stoned building in central Paris, is a spectacular if intimidating place. I’d heard that Marie Antoinette had been imprisoned here before being executed. I made my way to the chambers, as instructed, and there, sitting on a bench in the corridor, waited for Monsieur d'Espérey and Hilda. Finally, they appeared, following a break, and, for only the fourth time in my life, I met Hilda. She looked drawn and pale, her lips the same colour as her skin, but determined, having the air of someone ready to do battle. I spoke to them politely but couldn’t bring myself to act friendly. I wanted them to know I was doing this under sufferance. She looked smart for the occasion – a matching deep-brown jacket and skirt, a collared shirt with a black necktie. She shook my hand firmly. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said.

‘What’s the matter with your face,’ asked Monsieur d'Espérey.

‘What? Oh, I cut myself shaving. So, how’s it been going?

He glanced at Hilda. ‘Not too well, if I’m honest.’ He removed his wig and, inspecting the inside, said, ‘The prosecution have chosen their witnesses well – they’re all articulate, have good memories, and they each hold a deep-rooted hatred for Hilda here.’

I had to stop myself from saying, “what did you expect?” Instead, I asked, ‘Am I next then?’

‘No, they’re running behind time. They have one more to go. I fear they’ve saved their best for last.’ Giving his wig a shake, he continued, ‘All the more reason why you must play your part, Maestro. You and the others.’

‘Others? I thought–’

‘We managed to dredge up a couple of Hilda’s former pupils.’

‘Pupils?’

‘I used to be a teacher,’ said Hilda, with a wry smile. ‘Music.’

‘You were a music teacher?’

She pulled a face. ‘Before the war. At a Catholic girls’ school. Did I not mention it?’

‘No. No, you never mentioned it. I think I would’ve remembered.’

‘Well, we all have a few surprises, don’t we?’

*

‘Madame Kahn, how old were you at the time of your arrest?’

‘I was fifteen.’

‘Why were you arrested?’

She shrugged as if it was a silly question. ‘Because I’m Jewish.’

‘And when was this?’

‘Fourth December 1943.’ A thin woman with sunken cheeks, Madame Kahn pulled on the beads around her neck.

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