When opened up, the leaflet was divided in two. On the left side, four short paragraphs enumerated threats to the morals of Belgium: “You may not realize it, but the dangers are all around us! Even things that seem benign could be traps for the faithless. Did you know, for example, that eating sweets can put you on the road to immorality? Pastries can make you lose your connection to the bitter realities of the world and drive you away from good Belgian ethics.” Below them, the leaflet reassured: “All of your donations are used to educate people on the dangers and sources of immorality.” On the right side of the leaflet, Marc Aubrion had pasted a photograph of a dove in flight. “Why a dove?” René Noël had asked. “What man can argue with a dove?” Aubrion had replied.
“Shall we go inside?” Aubrion nudged Victor, who rankled at the treatment. “It’s nearly time, and Lada is waiting.”
The Pyromaniac
The collaborationists and sympathizers from Mullier’s lists entered in a scatterbrained line. Lada Tarcovich greeted them all. I stood in the great room with Lada’s girls, dressed in Biblical whites and blues. Though I had seen little evidence of God since leaving Toulouse, I offered a whisper of thanks that I did not have to wear the sailor’s uniform again.
“Good afternoon, madame, monsieur.” Tarcovich nodded at the guests. I recognized some of them from the papers: cartoonists, politicians, manufacturers who’d sold themselves to the Reich. “Lovely to see you, Monsieur Matthys.” Tarcovich’s smile was painted on. “Please, make yourself at home. There are refreshments inside. Good to see you, madame—”
We formed something of an assembly line, Tarcovich and me and her girls in their prim dresses. Upon their arrival, the guests received, in turn, a greeting from Tarcovich, one of Aubrion’s brochures from me, and a glass of champagne from one of Lada’s girls. When they had run the gauntlet of our welcome, the guests were free to mingle. Remembering to smile—“obediently, not mischievously,” Aubrion had cautioned—I handed a leaflet to a well-dressed older man. Though I can’t recall his face, I remember his hands: spotted, manicured, the hands of a man who’d eaten too much and worked too little.
“And what’s your name, young man?” asked his wife.
“Gene, madame.”
The man’s thick eyebrows came together. “Are you an orphan, Gene?”
I fought the urge to close my eyes and disappear from this place. “Yes, monsieur.”
“What do you do to keep from straying to sin, lad? With no parents, it must be difficult.”
It was difficult—to be civil. Hands like his did not clutch the guns that came to Toulouse, but they signed the orders, the death warrants. He might as well have killed my parents.
“Yes, monsieur,” I said, thinking back to the leaflet. I tried a disguise, the way Aubrion would, perking up like the good lad I was. “I avoid meats and things made in factories by the Allies, monsieur. And also unsavory company.”
The couple nodded, the woman patting me on the head. “Good lad.”
One of Lada’s girls smirked at me.
* * *
The last time Marc Aubrion was onstage, it was to half-drunkenly heckle the playwright who’d written that Henrik Ibsen parody. Now, leaping to the stage at the fund-raiser, Aubrion asked me to offer a prayer that no one like him was in the audience. With an actor’s grin, Aubrion held up a hand for silence. He was dressed in a suit Lada had procured for him, a navy jacket and a well-meaning hat with a sharp brim. She had also made Aubrion shave at the last minute. I’d barely recognized him on our way to the event.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Aubrion smiled in what he probably hoped was an approximation of piety. It looked, to me, more like narcolepsy. “My name is Marcus Aubrey, chairman of this organization. Thank you for attending the first annual fund-raiser for the Society for the Prevention of Moral Degradation.” Aubrion stopped to allow for polite applause. “Our organization was founded last year by an old widow, a dear, dear woman named Heloise.” Aubrion, who was making this up on the spot and enjoying himself more than he should, bowed his head. The audience murmured, touched by his display of affection for the old woman. “Heloise recognized the need for societies such as this when she lost her husband to a ring of artists. From then on, she vowed to dedicate her life to halting the spread of moral corruption.
“This evening, we will treat you all to a dinner, food of the finest sort, for which you may choose to donate whatever you think this society is worth. If you believe we are worth two francs, then we will accept your two francs with gratitude. If you think we are worth two thousand francs, then we will be humbled and flattered by this gesture.” Putting his hands together as if in prayer, Aubrion finished: “Thank you all, again, for coming.” Aubrion bowed and left the stage, nodding at Tarcovich as she took his place.
“Thank you, Monsieur Aubrey,” she said. “Ladies and gentlemen, while our lad Gene comes around with the donation box—” on cue, I ran to grab the donation box from Victor and Mullier “—I would like to give you the opportunity to ask questions about what this organization has done to keep Belgium safe. I see a hand up in the back—yes, madame?”
“I’d like to ask, if I may.” Aubrion craned his neck to see who was talking: a middle-aged woman with a severe part down the middle of her head that lined up perfectly with the gap between her front teeth. “What has your society done to help get rid of—” the woman paused, blushing “—prostitutes?”
“Prostitutes are indeed a blight,” said Lada Tarcovich. Aubrion covered his face in his hands, choking down laugher. “Currently, our program focuses on their rehabilitation. We have already taken a dozen former prostitutes and gainfully employed them as—” Aubrion watched Tarcovich’s eyes fall on her girls “—domestic servants.”
The guests applauded and murmured their approval. This was a respectable position, but nothing too respectable: just good enough for a former prostitute, a girl led astray by her betters.
As Lada continued to take questions, I started passing around the donation box. I was surprised at how many people donated, and how much. Wads of francs—the old francs, too, none of the new stuff—went into the box without a second thought. “Thank you, madame,” I said. “Your donations are appreciated and will be put to good use.” Sylvain de Jong looked slightly green as he donated what must have been a year of savings. “Thank you, Monsieur de Jong.”
Mullier wandered among the crowd like a ghost. He registered the faces of his victims with slight nods, his lips barely moving to form their names. After a time, I saw Mullier take the list from a pocket to study it.
I caught Professor Victor staring at Mullier. The professor joined him by a planter Tarcovich had stolen from a former customer. I crept closer to listen.
“What do you think?” said Victor.
“We will raise at least forty thousand, is my guess, if we can keep this up.” Mullier looked up at the stage, where Aubrion had rejoined Tarcovich. “We should bring out Lada’s girls. Have them sob, talk of how the program has changed them, the like.”
Victor nodded. “Matthys brought a piece. He’s offered to auction it off, with all proceeds going to the society.”
“Good. What is it? A painting?”
“Oil on canvas.”
Mullier scratched at his beard. “Perfect. We can—”
“Hang on.” Victor was looking behind Mullier, adjusting his spectacles with trembling hands. Mullier turned to follow the professor’s gaze—but he was shorter, and the guests were moving about, so he could not see anything of note. “Did we invite anyone who might have reason to arrive in a uniform?”
At these words, I turned and tasted iron. In my shock, I’d bitten my tongue. My eyes went to Aubrion, and I ran to him, keeping my body between his and the Germans’ guns.
The Smuggler
Like most smugglers, Tarcovich did not care much for surprises, let alone
surprises that came in pairs: the first surprise, in this instance, being the men in Gestapo uniforms who stepped into the room with guns clutched to their chests, and the second being Judge Andree Grandjean, who was only a few steps behind them. Her heart pounding, Tarcovich watched Andree scan the room. Had she led the Nazis to them, was that it? Clearly not, though, for her eyes were too wide, too frightened. Tarcovich reddened, for she never should have doubted.
Across the stage, Marc Aubrion rambled on about a school the society built. Though she’d lost track of the discussion entirely, Tarcovich interrupted him:
“That is true, Monsieur Aubrey.”
At the sound of Lada’s voice, Grandjean looked up to the stage. Tarcovich shook her head questioningly, risking a glance at the Germans. To Lada’s surprise, the Nazis were ignoring her and Aubrion, instead making their way through the guests. Were the Nazis guests, perhaps? Was this one of Aubrion’s tricks? Andree Grandjean gestured, frantically, for Tarcovich to join her offstage. Tarcovich cleared her throat for Aubrion’s attention, intending to excuse herself for a few minutes. The Nazis never gave her that chance.
The Dybbuk
Manning entered Wolff’s office without knocking. “Gruppenführer,” he panted, “Himmler has instructed me to ask whether you sent someone to that fund-raiser, the one for the moral society in—”
“I sent out three good men, with backup at the ready. All Gestapo, of course.” Wolff spread his hands. His office was never in disarray—he was an officer of the Reich—but an open window had scattered papers across his desk and floor. The Gruppenführer felt self-conscious about the mess. He had been in the process of typing up a memo: Operation proceeding on schedule. No danger of turncoats, as far as I can see. “Why do you ask?”
“Three? Oh, God.”
Wolff sat back, surprised. “Herr Manning, I must reprimand you for your language.”
“There is a warrant for the arrest of someone who is there.”
“At the fund-raiser? Why does that concern us?”
“This person is associated with the La Libre Belgique project.”
“Shit.” Wolff rose from his chair, took a step toward the door—but there was nowhere to go, no one to contact. Once the German machine put an order in motion, it became an act of God. Only a devil or a miracle could stop it, and the Germans had seen to it that they were the only devils in Europe, the only miracle-workers. Wolff made a fist, furious at himself for losing control, at Aubrion for being careless, at Himmler, at Spiegelman, at everyone. Manning’s predator-eyes saw everything.
“I apologize,” said Wolff, trying to slow his breathing. “Of course, there is nothing we can do. We must allow this to play out. If we step in, we risk compromising the secrecy of the project. The FI command would take notice.”
“But I worry—”
“There is no point, Manning,” Wolff snapped. “Himmler will understand that, too.”
Manning nodded. “I suppose, Gruppenführer.”
Wolff sighed, forcing himself to uncurl his fist. “What is the warrant for?”
“Civil disobedience. A year-old offense.”
“No way out, then.” Wolff rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Absolutely not, Gruppenführer. It’ll be a camp, or execution.”
Manning looked Wolff in the eye, though his expression was as unreadable as it had been earlier. Perhaps he blamed Wolff for this person’s fate. To hell with him, Wolff decided, and to Himmler, and to the rest of them; their whims and desires were none of his concern. He did not live to please them, but for his rank and country.
“Who is the warrant for?” asked Wolff, softly. He licked his lips. “Not Marc Aubrion?”
“Oh, no, Gruppenführer.”
“Good. The others are expendable.”
YESTERDAY
The Scrivener
THE OLD WOMAN SAT, breathing the ancient quiet of the room. Eliza barely moved. Dust motes floated in the air between them. The lightbulb in the ceiling swayed on its string, turning the dust into galaxies.
“Tell me,” whispered Eliza. “Who was it? Who was the warrant for?”
Helene rubbed her eyes. Here was the danger of remembering. Remembering was glorious, for it granted Helene permission to see her friends once more—but remembering was also treacherous, for she had to let them die again. She felt her muscles tense as though preparing to receive a blow. It was Helene’s duty to remember, and by God, she was a soldier of the resistance, and she would do her duty. She owed it to Marc Aubrion and Lada Tarcovich and all the rest. They had written their story—had helped Helene write her own story; it was her duty to tell it.
“This is what happened,” said the old woman.
8 DAYS TO PRINT
NIGHT
The Pyromaniac
I REMEMBER SHOUTING, though I couldn’t tell you what I said. My feelings left me before I had words to contain them; only the feelings remain. The men, all three of them, were on Theo Mullier in a heartbeat. Two pinned him to a wall while the third snapped handcuffs around his wrists. All the while, Mullier stayed quiet, his mouth pressed into a grim dash beneath his beard. Victor stood watching, aghast. Around me, the guests yelled their shock and fear.
“In the name of the Führer, Theo Mullier, you are under arrest for civil disobedience.” The man shouted as he tightened Mullier’s handcuffs. I knew a little German from my days on the streets, enough to understand. “You will come quietly or be executed.”
Mullier elected to do the former. He remained quiet as the men in their uniforms, with their guns and sharp eyes, walked him out the door. The guests parted to let them through. I saw them marveling at Theo Mullier, gasping and muttering and wondering what horrible thing he’d done. Still, Mullier kept his mouth closed, his eyes open and straight ahead forever. It would not do to sabotage his own capture.
I watched Victor bound up to the stage, grabbing Aubrion by the elbow. “We did not discuss this part of the plan,” said the professor, hissing through his teeth. “When were you planning to tell me? An hour from now? A day from now?”
Aubrion’s eyes were haunted. “This is not part of the plan, Martin,” he said.
The Smuggler
Lada jumped down from the stage and into the crowd to grab Andree Grandjean’s hand. She pulled her into an adjoining room, shutting the door behind them.
“When did you find out?” Lada demanded.
“Just thirty minutes ago.” Grandjean’s rough tunic and trousers were rumpled, stained with sweat. “I saw the warrant. A colleague had it on his desk. I came here straightaway to warn you.” Grandjean’s eyes searched Tarcovich’s face, begging for mercy or forgiveness or something neither of them could articulate. “Lada, I’m sorry I—”
Tarcovich put a finger on her lips, and—she couldn’t stand it anymore, couldn’t—Tarcovich pulled Grandjean into her arms. The two of them stood motionless, as though the embrace had stopped their hearts. Then they wept together. It was a good, honest sort of sobbing, and Tarcovich felt content, for she fit there, right there, and she knew she couldn’t leave Grandjean again.
After some time, Lada broke away. “It’s a good thing we had a row,” she said, “or you never would have gone back to the courthouse or seen the warrant.”
“What does it matter? I was too late anyway.”
“But you might not have been. In another life, you weren’t.”
Andree smiled, lifting a gentle hand to Lada’s face. “You’re a fool.”
The Gastromancer
David Spiegelman tasted fear in the night’s sweat. Fear was the order of things, in those days, especially in the dark, but this evening felt worse than most. Spiegelman put his head down to avoid the eyes of the children congregating on the sidewalks, their hands over small grease fires—and yet there was no avoiding it: the terror bloomed on their faces until the nigh
t was fragrant with it. Spiegelman’s hands shook in his pockets.
Though he was long past due at the Nazi headquarters, Spiegelman could not quite work up the will to go back. And so he walked the length of the town, circling the patrol units that walked the night. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and itched, as did his feet and palms. Spiegelman tried to recall whether there was a raid scheduled for that night; the Germans always informed Spiegelman when they planned to round up the strays and Jews and queers (“a courtesy,” Wolff had called it, “to a friend of the Reich”). But he hadn’t heard anything about arrests, not in a while. When the night patrols began shouting for people to go indoors, Spiegelman walked back to the Nazi headquarters. Fear lingered on his tongue.
He arrived as a car was pulling up. It was a Mercedes, a Gestapo car. Two men jumped out, yelling for Spiegelman to stay back, hauling someone out of the car. The prisoner stumbled, his right leg buckling under him. Spiegelman heard the shorter man order the prisoner to stand upright.
His body went numb. It was like those stories Spiegelman used to read as a child, those fairy tales that started innocently but ended with the protagonist’s death, but he couldn’t keep reading, even though he wanted to, and Spiegelman clutched his stomach as though he might be ill. The Germans had caught Theo Mullier; he could not be anyone else. The soldiers and their prisoner disappeared into the building.
Spiegelman collapsed against a shop wall on the sidewalk across the street. His thoughts went from door to door, knocking. Two things became eminently clear: he needed to see Aubrion, and he needed to see Wolff. Though the horror of this thing was obvious, the advantages were equally so. Here was a path that led Spiegelman back to the FI and out of the Nazis’ arms; here was a question and an answer. The FI would try to mount a rescue, Aubrion would insist on it, and Spiegelman would be the one to assist, Spiegelman alone could help them. They could not deny him that. David Spiegelman had found work for his pen again.
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