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eyes at so many men getting excited about a football, although I have told them my sister could be quite a force at the back. I am not sure Maman has ever forgiven you for ruining that dreadful candy-pink dress in aid of such a heroic save. What a shame you don’t still play.
    As for Claudette you can rest at ease my sister dear, for she hasn’t captured thissoldier’s heart just yet. I am not sure I will ever be ready to relinquish the memoryI had of her when she snapped at Mother for dropping the flour and messing up her suede shoes and you called her an idiot and threw her out of the shop. I did not know a girl’s mouth could open that wide. You never were destined to be best friends. Still at least now I know the easiest way to annoy you when I return. AlthoughI’m not sure even I could marry a girl just to have the last laugh.
    Much of our daily life is training but I think we will soon be ready. Obviously I’m not allowed to share a great deal in these letters but be reassured that I fightalongside the best and bravest men of France. They are pretty formidable as a bunch – when we sleep under the same roof the whole place vibrates with snoring. I never had a brother, although you were always keen to play the part, but I imagine this is what a whole family of brothers is like, or a great boys’ school (although none of us is any good at spelling or mathematics – boxing perhaps).
    Promise to look after Mother and keep Father from becoming too glum. You could always make him smile when nothing else could. As for me I shall continue to daydream of Mother’s rillettes de boeuf and the lemon soufflé like air that melts the moment it is in the mouth. I’m practically slobbering over this letter now. I think we’ve all become quite obsessed, continually talking about food and drink. It seems everyone’s mother makes the best meat course in France.
    Don’t be too bored – someone needs to act as caretaker for the lives we will return to soon. Paul

ADELINE
    1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
    She reads to me from the Bible. She has a sweet voice, a quiet lilting accent, and the familiar words wash over me, words that were such a comfort in another life. The extract today is from Exodus; she is retelling the story of Moses, adding little thoughts and prayers of her own as she reads the passages aloud. She knows this chapter so well she could read it fluently without looking at the text, but Sister Marguerite carefully ensures every word is spoken with due reverence.
    ‘Every son that is born to the Hebrews, you shall cast into the Nile, but you shall let every daughter live.’
    I used to find it hard to believe anyone could ever rule in such a way, that a human being could expect people to follow such an absurd order. I don’t think that way any more. I simply wonder why the daughters were allowed to survive. Some men would have wanted to be more thorough.
    ‘… and she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds at the river’s brink.’
    I picture the scene on the muddy bank, the little basket made of bulrushes, a distressed young girl so desperate for her son to survive that she is willing to cast him out into the currents of the river rather than hand him over to the authorities. Surely this desperate act is one only a mother can understand? I never truly loved anything completely and wholly until the day they handed me Paul, wrapped tightly in blankets, his face a violent shade of pink, wailing.
    The labour was long and the birth complicated. They used forceps so silvery and alien I felt faint when I looked at them. I was wrenched open, could smell blood, could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck, head, through my limbs, could hear myself screaming as if I was someone else. But all was forgotten once I realized what I had brought into the world. A release, every muscle relaxed, I could feel the mattress beneath me, see my baby swaddled, knew it was over. The doctor later told Vincent