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her name, lived in the south for a while. She was small fry – it wasn’t difficult. However, she was discovered, just recently, quite by chance.’
    ‘But… I thought you said she was not guilty.’
    ‘She’s not denying that she worked there but she denies the charges levelled against her – that she meted out unfair and brutal punishment on inmates.’
    ‘I see. Monsieur d'Espérey, I won’t be able to attend on June second; I have–’
    ‘That doesn’t matter. As long as you are available to give your testimony. That’s when it matters.’
    ‘OK, I’ll be there. Can I visit Hilda?’
    ‘Of course. She’s been remanded on bail. I don’t want to give out her home address, so leave it with me. I’ll arrange something.’
    *
    Monsieur d'Espérey was a man true to his word. A week later I found myself sitting opposite Hilda in a small, rundown café within sight of the Sacré-Cœur. Despite its advantageous location, the place was nearly deserted as we sipped our coffees. With untreated brick walls, uncomfortable chairs, wilting plants and sullen staff, the lawyer couldn’t have found us a more dingy place had he tried. ‘Come here often?’ I joked.
    Hilda didn’t laugh. She looked like a woman under strain. Gone was the blustery woman who had come to my dressing room two years before; here was a thinner, older-looking woman in a drab, blue-grey cardigan, her hair scraped back, her eyes dulled.
    ‘I went to see your lawyer. He told me the story, well, the outline of it. What happened, Mademoiselle?’
    She gazed beyond me to the world outside.
    ‘So, that’s how you got me through that day – you were one of them.’
    She nodded, still unable to look at me.
    ‘You were one of them,’ I repeated for effect.
    This time, she reacted, looking straight at me. ‘Yes, I was one of them, as you say,’ she snapped, leaning forward. ‘But I saved you, didn’t I? That’s the point. I’m painted as this terrible person, as evil personified. And yes, I did some things I’m not proud of. But life isn’t always black and white, is it? This is why you must help me now, Maestro. You have to help me.’
    ‘I don’t know if it’ll make any difference but yes, I told your lawyer, I will speak on your behalf. But you must tell me… something that has puzzled me these last 26 years – why did you help me? I was nothing to you, so why?’
    The owner of the café appeared before us, asking whether we wanted a refill of coffee. We both gladly accepted. We waited while he poured fresh, steaming coffee into our mugs and brought us a little jug of hot milk. We thanked him and as he returned to his counter, the café door opened and a young couple holding hands came in, hovered at the door, and backed out. I saw the searing look of disappointment on the owner’s face.
    ‘Very well then,’ she said eventually. ‘I will tell you, then you can judge whether I am as bad as they make out. That day I met you on the train, I was on leave. About the only leave I got while I worked at that place.’
    ‘Drancy?’
    She nodded. With her eyes still focused elsewhere, she told me her story. ‘I was on my way to visit an old friend of mine in Saint-Romain. You came into that carriage and started reading that sheet music of yours. You were humming the tune aloud – I don’t even think you were aware of it. I was impressed. I thought it’s so rare to see a youngster practicing such noble pursuits. I thought how proud your parents must be of you. And then, of course, the Germans came in wanting to see our papers. I saw straightaway that you had something to hide – it was written all over your face. Normally, I wouldn’t have intervened. I was a collaborator; I freely admit that. It was wrong of me, I know, but at the time I felt I was doing the right thing. You, on the other hand, were clearly working for the resistance.’
    ‘I was only delivering a message.’
    ‘Nonetheless. You were still very young – you