by Richard Wake
“Back,” I said.
“Just you?”
“Just me. They’re furnished, right?”
She eyed me up.
“I have one with a bed, a set of drawers and a couch,” she said.
“That should be fine.”
She unlocked the door. It was even more of a shithole than I anticipated — and my expectations were pretty much subterranean. I must have made a face, to which my soon-to-be-landlady responded with indignation.
“Keep your goddamn face to yourself,” she said. “I’m not asking you any questions. I’m not asking you why a man with a wedding ring needs a furnished apartment. So I’ll get you a mop and a bucket and a clean set of sheets, and you’ll give me a month’s rent in advance, and we’ll get along fine. Won’t we?”
I peeled off the money and she crammed it into her bosom. She pulled a lease out of her pocket, wrote Albert Kampe on it, and barely glanced at my identity card. After I signed, she brought the mop and the bucket and the sheets. I scrubbed until I wasn’t afraid to sit on the toilet anymore. After about two hours, the shithole had been transformed into a gleaming shithole. It would do.
And then I walked. I wasn’t sure of anything, other than that I had not been followed to Saint-Fons. Leaving the apartment, I circled and doubled back enough that I was still pretty sure I was okay. So then I just walked and tried to come up with a plan. I wasn’t paying that much attention to where I was. I wanted to stop by the other flat to see if Leon and the Jews were gone, but I would wait until dark for that. In the meantime, I was just wandering. I ended up near old Lyon, and even though I had overshot it, I decided to backtrack and climb the hill to the Roman ruins, partly to burn off some nervous energy but mostly because the funicular kind of scared me. The idea of being cooped up in any enclosed place, even for just a few minutes, scared me.
So I walked up Montee Saint-Barthelemay, taking my time up the half-mile hill, stopping in doorways occasionally to look back. There was nobody following me, not that I could see, but my paranoia was intense. God, I needed a night’s sleep. By the time I reached the ruins, it was getting near sunset. I sat there in the amphitheater and tried to figure out what to do. I was in the top row, and it was quite a scene, even only half-excavated — the rows of stone seats, the shadows falling on the great stage, and the sun dipping behind the city when I looked back over my right shoulder.
After a few minutes, it was nearly dark. And in the gloaming, I could not see the shooter but I heard the rifle shots. One. Two. The first hit nothing. The second hit the row in front of me. Something hit my hand — it wasn’t a bullet, just a stinging spray of stone chips. I scrambled back over the top row and lay down and hid behind it. The shooting stopped as quickly as it began.
28
I needed to walk east, but I walked west. I needed to hide, but I had nowhere to hide. I needed to calm down, to figure this out, but I had no idea how. And so I trudged in the dark of a darkened city, clueless.
I needed to get to the flat and talk to Leon, which was east of the Roman ruins. That is, if Leon was still there. Either way, I had to find out. But instead of going east, I went west and then south and then, finally, east. I kept checking for a tail as I took the great circle route even though whatever confidence I’d had in my abilities to spot a tail had disappeared in an instant. Two shots, one, two. An instant. Why did I even pretend I had a fucking chance to survive this?
A half-mile or so from the flat, I heard squealing tires and then slamming car doors as I approached an intersection. I pressed myself against the side of the last building and peered around the corner. It was completely dark at that point, and I was in a shadow besides, so I was reasonably confident as I watched. And it was still two hours before the curfew, so I technically wasn’t doing anything wrong.
What unfolded was a scene that I had first witnessed years earlier in Cologne. It was in a different country and more than five years later, but it was the same chilling dynamic. The big black car pulled up — a Daimler back then, a Citroen now — and the black uniforms came out and beat on the apartment door. When it was opened, the uniforms rushed passed whoever opened it and inside. Minutes later, they returned with a half-dressed man, one holding each arm. The poor sap was unsuccessfully trying to squirm away. A woman suddenly appeared and began wailing. The third man in black — a trench coat, not a uniform — raised his hand to the woman and she at least reduced the volume of her crying. After the prisoner was secured in the back seat of the Citroen, the trench coat left the woman on the front steps and got into the front passenger seat. Then, with another squeal, the car rocketed out of the parking spot as quickly as it arrived. And as the woman began wailing louder again, I looked up at the apartment windows nearby. There were faces peering out from behind the curtains, 10 faces, 20 faces, more. It was just like Cologne.
That’s when it hit me. It wasn’t the Gestapo that had taken the shots at me in the amphitheater. It was the Resistance.
It was suddenly so clear — and it should have been all along. The Gestapo did not do long-distance rifle shots. They did terror. They pulled men away from their crying wives. They cut off your fingers and zapped your balls with electric current. They broke you down, and then they watched you die. A rifle shot from a couple of hundred yards away would be, for them, a dry hump. Where was the satisfaction in that?
No, it was the Resistance. Maybe someone followed me all day, but I really didn’t think so. Maybe I was just unlucky, and somebody spotted me on the street. That was likely it. But whatever the mechanics, it was clear at that point that they didn’t trust me anymore. They thought I was a Gestapo informant, and that I had to go. Fuck Manon, fuck everything I had done for them — I just had to go. One. Two.
29
The only thing I felt good about was leaving Manon and our home. I could not imagine how she would react to what had just happened. Actually, I could. She would be furious. She would get in the face of whoever in the Resistance would listen. She also might get herself shot in the process. The truth was, the closer I was to her, the greater the danger. Maybe this way they would believe that whatever they thought about me, Manon was still loyal to the cause.
The truth also was that Leon had to understand how much more dangerous his already-insanely dangerous enterprise had become. It was the only reason I was going back to the flat — and, for better or worse, Leon was still there with Myrna and the two kids.
“Marcel said he would have the identity cards in the morning,” Leon said. “We have tickets on the noon train. It should be all good.”
“Look, I have some things to tell you and not a lot of time.” I stopped and looked at Myrna. “Just me and him, okay?”
She nodded darkly and returned to the kitchen where the children were eating.
When she was out of earshot, I told Leon everything that happened in the prior 48 hours, from the sabotage in Bron to the rifle shots in the amphitheater. He mostly listened until I got to the part about Vogl.
“Holy fuck — that guy?” Leon said.
“One and the same.”
“Holy fuck. Holy fuck. My God, what are the odds?”
“It’s no accident,” I said. “We both know that.”
“You think he can get himself transferred to wherever he wants?”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said. “But he found me in Zurich, and now he’s found me here, and I’m starting to think that, yes, maybe he got himself transferred here somehow to settle up accounts.”
When I got done everything — including describing the little Gestapo dance I had witnessed a few blocks away — we both just sat there for a minute. His years as a journalist gave Leon an ability to cut through the bullshit that few people possessed.
“It was definitely the Resistance that shot at you,” he said.
“Yeah, that’s what I think.”
“Definitely. The Gestapo part of it still has me puzzled, though. Are you sure you aren’t giving yourself away somehow? That’s the only rea
son I can figure why they would keep letting you go.”
I had been over it in my head countless times, and now I went over it again — but out loud for Leon’s benefit. There were a small group of Resistance council leaders who knew our last two sabotage targets. I guess it was possible that one of them was working for the Gestapo. But the problem was, the only people who knew the escape plans for the two operations were Little Max and me.
“So let’s say Little Max broke under the pressure,” I said.
“Little Max?” Leon said. I explained about the two Max’s at the telephone exchange building job.
“So let’s say he was tortured and told the Gestapo,” I said. “Or let’s say he has been a traitor all along — although there’s no fucking way that’s true. But let’s say it is. What’s the point? They still let us blow up the targets. And they still keep letting me go even though I know that I’m not the traitor and they know that I’m not the traitor. And they still let me see Vogl, and they let Vogl see me. And besides, where’s Max?”
“Little Max?” Leon said.
“Either Max. They’re both missing.” And then I explained about the pants with the hem that had given up on one leg. I was able to tell him the story without breaking down in tears, although it was close. And then we were just quiet again.
“I don’t know,” Leon said, finally. “I just don’t know. It’s like they’re just playing with your head.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“And it’s obviously working.”
“I feel like crying. I feel like crying all the time — and I’m just so goddamn tired. But look — you have to listen.”
I began to sketch out for Leon how my problems had now become his problems. To me, the smaller issue was the Resistance. Marcel knew about me and my involvement with moving the Jews, and if he decided to tell the council, they could potentially use Leon to get to me.
“But I really think that’s a minor worry,” I said, and he agreed.
The much bigger issue was the Gestapo. The problem was my Allain Killy identity. It was under that name that the flat was rented. And because of that, it was under that name and address that the Allain Killy ration cards had been obtained. The way you signed up for rationing was to go to the neighborhood municipal building, and fill out the paperwork, and show your identity card. Because everybody needed ration cards, that register in each neighborhood was the most complete and accurate listing of who lived where in Lyon. They could find the address of the flat in a half-day, after six or seven phone calls.
“So whenever they decide that they’ve had enough fun,” I said, “the first place the Gestapo will go is our house. Manon will tell them that I have left her, and they’ll search and see that my clothes closet is empty and there is no sign of me there anymore. Hopefully, they’ll leave her alone. But then they’ll make their six or seven phone calls—”
“And they’ll be here by lunch,” Leon said.
“Exactly. If you’re lucky, you and your latest new family won’t be here. Speaking of that,” I said, and arched an eyebrow.
“I told you, just the couch.”
“Her idea or yours?”
“Mine,” he said. “Truly. And if you would stop worrying about my sex life for—”
“Worrying about your sex life used to be one of my greatest pleasures,” I said. “Christ, where has that life gone? Are we ever going to get it back?”
We had some decisions to make. Really, Leon did. I told him that I would be willing to continue funding the identity cards with Marcel.
“You really trust him that much?” Leon said.
“It’s a gut feeling — but yeah, I do trust him. At least I think I do. Whatever — I’m willing to keep taking that risk, until I can’t. But what about you? You have to take the risk with Marcel, too — unless you want to arrange a hiding place where you would leave the photos and information for the next group and I could pick it up.”
“It can’t be here, though,” he said.
“No, not here. Maybe if I gave you the address of my new flat—”
“No,” Leon said. “I don’t trust myself. I could get followed. Or if I got caught here, I could give up the address if they beat it out of me. I don’t trust myself.”
“I’d trust you with my life, but you might be right,” I said. “But I don’t have another hiding place handy. And you and Manon are the only two people in Lyon who I trust right now, and we’re not going near her. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” he said. “So if you’re willing to risk it with Marcel, so am I.”
“But what about the flat? The Gestapo is going to come at some point. We both know it.”
“Not if they catch you first,” he said, smiling.
“And on that cheery fucking note—”
“Look,” Leon said. “This is a new risk, but it isn’t a crazy risk. Yes, they’ll come at some point. But if I keep this thing going, how many days a month will I be here? Five or six, tops. That leaves 25 days when they might come and find the place empty — in which case, they would probably go on their way and keep looking elsewhere. So, what, 5-to-1 odds? Shit, that’s nothing. I’m 5-to-1 to have a heart attack while I’m sitting on the toilet these days.”
We talked about a couple of other things, including the fact that I wasn’t going to be able to keep restocking the cupboard. As for paying the rent, I was going to leave an envelope for Isabelle with two months’ worth on the way out. In the kitchen, the dishes had been cleared and Myrna was playing Slap Jack with the kids, and they were howling in mock pain with each blow that was delivered. It almost seemed normal.
“Look, I have to run and beat the curfew,” I said. “I don’t know when I’m going to see you again.”
And then we hugged, and we both cried. After I scooped up whatever clothes were in the closet, I think I cried half the way back to the new flat. I was walking as quickly as I could without seeming too conspicuous — although, honestly, people hurrying home to beat the curfew were a common sight and not conspicuous at all. Anyway, I made it by about 10 minutes. And then I slept for about 12 hours. It was just before I faded out that I remembered that I hadn’t eaten anything all day except for the bit of stale baguette when I was hiding in the traboule.
30
I woke up with a hangover. It wasn’t an alcohol hangover because I hadn’t been drinking. It was either a slept-too-long hangover or a didn’t-sleep-enough hangover, not that it mattered. I needed to get up and make some decisions. First, though, I needed to eat something.
It was technically illegal to barter your ration coupons for money or goods or anything, but everybody did it. Few were willing to trade away their staples, their meager allowances of meat or fat or bread, but most everything else was negotiable, especially two things: wine and cigarettes.
I didn’t smoke, which gave me an enormous advantage. The ration was two packs of cigarettes every 10 days, but only for men. The ration for wine was one bottle every 10 days, for men and women. Because the cigarettes weren’t nearly enough for those with the addiction — four smokes per day barely kept their hands busy for an hour, and that was if they didn’t share with their wives — those people were an easy target. The typical arrangement was for a drunk to trade his cigarette coupon for a wine coupon. Nobody was happy with the situation, but it was how you got by.
I typically traded my cigarettes for wine, too, although I liked to think I wasn’t a drunk. But this time, I needed food. I had the cigarette coupon and I had cash. The biggest black market was way up by the Hotel de Ville. It moved around a bit, away from the shadow of the enormous fountain featuring the enormous woman with the enormous breasts, and the Gestapo sometimes raided the area. But I didn’t want to go up there.
There were smaller black markets in every neighborhood, near the municipal buildings where you signed up for the ration cards and picked them up every month. I had seen the Saint-Fons building the previous day on my walk, and when I got there, the furtive knots
of desperate men, talking and then walking into an alley to make the coupon exchange, were plentiful. The Gestapo could have scooped up a handful at any time if they so desired. It was just one more indication that the farther away you got from the center of the city, the less likely you were to find trouble.
I joined the first group of men I encountered and said I needed food for a cigarette coupon, but nobody was interested. You had to be a special kind of addicted to the smokes to make that kind of deal, given that they said the ration cards would give you 1,300 calories a day, but most people thought it was more like 1,000, and everybody’s clothes were hanging off them. But I found a guy and we struck a bargain which we consummated in the alley: my cigarette coupon in exchange for a cabbage, a few grams of meat — likely two pieces of bacon — a baguette, and a bit of coffee.
Back in the flat, I fried up half of the cabbage and one of the pieces of bacon. It was tastier than I had expected. That, along with half of the baguette and a cup of the ersatz coffee — barley and chicory and sawdust, for all I knew — were a feast, and I still had the other half for dinner. After cleaning up, I picked a bit of bacon out of my teeth and almost felt human. Then, with a second cup of the fake coffee, I went about the business of deciding my next move.
It came down to four questions. I laughed because the first three were the exact same questions from the last time, back in 1938:
1) Could I kill him?
2) Did I have the guts?
3) Could I possibly get away with it?
4) Would it be enough to convince the Resistance of my loyalty?
Back in 1938, the first three were the questions I asked myself repeatedly as I decided whether to try to kill Werner Vogl. Back then, the fourth question concerned my Uncle Otto, and whether I would be able to understand why Vogl had him killed. This time the fourth question was different, and it was more important. Because I needed positive answers to both No. 3 and No. 4 if I were to have any chance of resuming a normal life, not that anything was normal in Lyon in 1943. There was no way I could survive an existence where both Vogl and the Resistance were after me. Really, I couldn’t survive either of them being after me for very long, not all alone. As long as I was in danger from either of them, I couldn’t be with Manon or the baby. And that wasn’t a life I wanted to live. That just wasn’t an option.