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It was the other way around with me: I watched the cross-country skier poking at my naked sister on the road and the scene seemed less violent than the women loud cries that had punctuated our war. And yet in a way, Anne and women her SS officer had been useful to me by giving the family home a certain immunity. So to some extent I was an accessory to the crime of which Anne stood women accused, and which she paid for with that public rape. When the Liberation came, it wasn't easy to explain all the comings and goings that had gone on during the Occupation in our house with its red shutters, all that climbing up the stairs and down to the cellar. My mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen next to the living room, on the first floor. There wasn't much for her to cook in her saucepans, but she carried on with her old habits, just as someone with an amputated hand still mentally sweeps a crumb off the table with his forefinger.
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