The showroom was a two-story high space with white plaster walls and a black marble floor. Although he didn’t design it, Lucien still admired its elegant interior. The room began to fill up, mostly with well-dressed women, a few accompanied by men. They sat in black metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle around a beautiful curving stair with black marble treads and white plaster sidewalls topped by a continuous chrome railing. Lucien noticed some Wehrmacht officers in attendance. After two years of the Occupation, the French now mixed together with Germans in public events like this without shame. Lucien knew the officers weren’t interested in the dresses but what was inside them.
Sure enough, as one o’clock came near, Suzy Solidor and Simone Signoret made their appearance. A buzz of noise rose from the audience like bees around a hive. Everyone craned their necks to see them. Both women were beautifully outfitted in Adele’s creations, Solidor in a pretty dark blue outfit with a crimson hat and Signoret in a black suit and matching hat. They waved to everyone and stopped to talk to people they knew. The women took seats that had been reserved for them in the front row. Others joined Lucien in standing at the back since the room was now filled to capacity.
The war had just about extinguished haute couture in Paris, and many fashion houses had closed down. It was to Adele’s credit that she kept hers going. The industry’s skilled workers who made the clothes, many of them Jews, had escaped south to Vichy or were rounded up and deported. The Germans, who recognized France’s leadership in fashion, wanted the fashion industry transferred to Berlin, but later rescinded the order because of its sheer impracticality. They realized Germany had no fashion talent even remotely on a par with France’s.
Like food, fabrics were rationed. Wool and leather, along with expensive fabrics like silk, lace, and velvet, became impossible to get. (Because of the restrictions on the amount of cloth that could be used—such as no more than one meter for a blouse—the fashions that Adele and everyone else showed were now simpler and lighter.) Any couture fashions that had remained in Paris at the beginning of the Occupation, Adele told Lucien, had been snapped up by German officers and sent back home to their wives and girlfriends. Despite the shortages and deprivations of the Occupation, Adele said Parisian women had vowed to remain chic and elegant. It was a matter of French pride for girls to look good in front of the enemy, to show them that they couldn’t take away their beauty.
Parisian women exercised great creativity because of the shortages. When hairdressers ran out of salon products and could no longer perm hair, women covered their heads with hats and turbans designed from scraps of cloth. Since flowers and feathers were available, they became the main decoration on hats, often to a very gaudy effect, Lucien thought. The greatest coup he had seen was how the women made the heavy, thick wooden clogs into a fashion statement. Not only did they stretch what they were given, but many women also defied the German ban on wearing the colors of the French flag by wearing blue, white, and red buttons and belts.
Jazzy music from a phonograph wafted down from the top of the curving stair, signaling the show was about to begin. People settled in their seats and stopped talking. Then to Lucien’s great pleasure, Bette slowly walked down the stair. She was stunning in black high heels and a white dress with black lapels, capped by a black scarf.
She stopped on the next to last step and smiled to the audience. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the House of Bonneau. Today we’re presenting some very chic designs that you will love. They’ll show that, despite the times, French beauty and French haute couture still thrive.”
Bette raised her arm up toward the top of the stair, and the first model descended. A pretty girl with shoulder-length blond hair, she wore a full black skirt and white blouse with a wide floppy black hat. The audience burst into wild applause. At the bottom of the stair, she walked the semicircle of the first row, pausing in front of Solidor and Signoret, then went behind the stair to a rear door. Bette had moved off to the far right side of the room to watch the parade of models. Down the stairs came more models. Most of them wore blouses and skirts with square shouldered jackets along with floppy hats. A few modeled strapless evening gowns with elbow-length gloves and bright colored sashes around the waist. The other dresses were mostly short-sleeved and knee-length, with scarves and matching cloth handbags. Lucien admired one hat that showcased Adele’s creativity—floppy and fun, it was made completely of braided paper.
The models were all attractive and slim, but Lucien couldn’t take his eyes off Bette. When he caught her attention, she nodded and beamed a big smile at him. He was quite flattered, as some of the German officers cast a quick envious glance in his direction.
Lucien noticed that the material looked like real silks, lace, and leather. He thought Adele had told him all that stuff had been exported to Germany. He paid close attention to one model’s clothes because he needed to tell Adele enthusiastically how much he liked that particular outfit. Once after a show, he had told her he loved her designs and she had asked him which one, but when he couldn’t pinpoint an exact one, she got very mad.
After the last model came down, Adele slowly and regally descended the stairs to great applause and cheering. Lucien could see how much she loved the adulation. After waving and throwing kisses, she immediately went over to Solidor and Signoret to give them hugs. Everyone circled round them to congratulate Adele and get a closer look at the movie stars. Bottles of champagne were broken out and people imbibed with gusto. Leave it to Adele to scrounge up the real stuff.
Lucien made his way through the mob of people and found Bette.
“Monsieur Bernard, I’m so glad you came.”
“I’m flattered you remember me.”
“I always remember a handsome—and creative—man,” she said, shaking his hand.
“Congratulations on your show, it was magnificent. All those wonderful designs.”
“It was hard as hell to put something together that good these days, let me tell you.”
“Lucien. Lucien,” trilled a voice from afar.
“Ah, I believe the boss is calling you. It was so nice to see you again.”
Bette disappeared into the crowd, and Lucien walked over to Adele, who was still surrounded by admirers.
“Now, my brilliant architect, which of my designs did you like best?”
“Definitely was the navy blue skirt with the matching jacket and that wonderful braided paper hat.”
17
“Who is it?”
“It’s Aubier. I’ve got your food.”
Cambon, whose stomach had been growling from hunger for the last two days, was about to unlock the door when he realized it was Thursday. Aubier always came on Fridays. Every Friday evening at 8:00 p.m. for the last six months, the entire time Cambon had been hiding in the apartment on the rue Blomet.
“It’s not Friday; what the hell are you doing here?”
“I can’t make it on Friday. Open up,” whispered Aubier through the thick wood-paneled door. “Do you want your food or not?”
Cambon didn’t move. He was thinking how unusual it was for Aubier to change his schedule. But his stomach persuaded him to open the door. Maybe Aubier would have a tin of sardines or a hunk of salami. Sitting alone in the apartment all these months, Cambon thought of little else but food. Once one of France’s biggest clothing manufacturers, with palatial houses in the city and country, he could have any kind of food he desired—steak from America, olives from Greece, even walrus from the Arctic Circle if he’d wanted. Now, here he was starving to death, viewing a few morsels of moldy bread as a banquet.
“Hold on,” he whispered. He was already planning his meal for the evening while he quietly unlocked the door. A bottle of wine would be wonderful. He’d had his last one four months ago. He opened the door a crack to see the tan leathery face of Aubier, his former servant from his home on the rue Copernic. Aubier flashed him a big smile of yellowed teeth and pulled an apple from a paper bag. Cambon’s eyes
lit up at that beautiful sight—it was easier to find gold on the streets of Paris than fruit. He opened the door just enough to let Aubier pass through. But the old servant came crashing into the foyer onto his face, pushed from behind by three plainclothes Gestapo officers in brown leather overcoats. Cambon shoved a console table in their path and ran into the rear bedroom, straight to an ornate four-poster bed. He pulled a revolver from beneath the mattress and then sat on the bed. As the first Gestapo man came through the bedroom door, Cambon calmly aimed and fired off a round, hitting the man in the left thigh. The officer dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The officer directly behind him pulled back and ducked behind the wall next to the door. With his revolver in hand, he came out from behind the wall, blasting away, putting four bullets in Cambon, who was still sitting on the bed, making no effort to duck. He fell back, looking as if he’d just lain down for a nap.
***
A few minutes later, Captain Bruckner walked into the room with his hands clasped behind his back and silently surveyed the situation.
“Fuckin’ Jew bastard!” screamed the officer writhing in pain on the floor. “Did you see what he did to me? Did you kill the sonovabitch?”
Bruckner walked over to the bed and felt the pulse in Cambon’s neck. “One dead Jew. How do you like that? He didn’t want to be taken alive.”
“I don’t blame him after hearing what happens to these kikes once they go east,” said the third officer, who was bending over his wounded comrade. “You know, that’s the first time one of these kikes put up a fight. He went down fighting. I respect this Jew bastard.”
“I sure as hell don’t,” yelled the wounded man, and the other two laughed at him. They helped him to his feet and dragged him to the door where Aubier was standing.
The wounded man glared at the Frenchman, who looked down at the floor.
“You’ve done your job, you can go,” said Bruckner.
Aubier, clutching the bag of food to his chest, quickly made his way past Bruckner and out the door. Bruckner was always amazed at how easily the French would betray each other. Like Aubier, most did it in exchange for food or a favor, but many did it out of hatred or pure spite. His office would get dozens of letters a day, all of them beginning with some form of the sentence “I have the honor to draw your attention to a person living at…” The letter (usually unsigned) would finger a Jew with wealth: “He has an apartment full of fine objects.” Many would ask the Germans to protect Christian families “from the actions of scheming Jews” or to help return a French husband “from the temptations of a Jewess.”
And it wasn’t always a Jew that was turned in. The French, who were always hungry because of the rationing, despised their fellow countrymen who ate well, so they too would be accused of plotting against the Reich. Was it a flaw in their national character or what? Of course, it served the Gestapo’s purpose perfectly, and they encouraged it, but these people had absolutely no pride. The French even had a stock phrase for denunciation: “I’ll go and tell the Germans about it.” He hadn’t expected them to act like this. It filled Bruckner with disgust because he had enormous respect for French culture and history. He wondered whether his own people would be as shameless as the French if they were under Occupation. They didn’t understand that these denunciations deepened the contempt the Germans had for them and made it much easier to use brute force on the French.
“Duisberg, bring up the French police and have them round up the neighbors on this floor,” said Bruckner. “If they aren’t in, get some from the floor below. Bring them downstairs to me. We won’t need the children. Becker here can handle Bloem.”
Duisberg shouted down into the stairwell, and four police officers came running up the steps. They pounded on each of the wooden doors on the floor, screaming, “Police, everyone downstairs except children! Now!”
Like frightened mice inching out of their hiding places, the neighbors came out from behind their doors. Middle-aged men and women, a sixteen-year-old boy, an ancient man of about eighty-five, a woman around sixty, all silently gathered on the landing next to the lift.
“Move your asses!”
The group ran down the stairs, even the old man. Duisberg was behind them, cursing and shoving them down the four flights. No one uttered a word of protest or tried to make a run for it. As they passed each floor, Bruckner knew that all the residents were behind their doors listening and praying with all their might that there wouldn’t be a knock on their door. Duisberg herded them through the beautiful wood-paneled entry foyer and out into the street. Bruckner followed behind and walked to his car parked at the curb and lit a cigarette. When everyone was lined up in front of him, he threw out his unfinished cigarette and paced up and down in front of them.
“I’m thinking of a number from one to twenty. Each of you guess what it is,” Bruckner said in a jovial voice. He went to the end of the line and faced the sixty-year-old woman.
“What number?”
The woman was tongue-tied, and this annoyed the captain.
“Give me a number, old woman.”
“Eleven.”
“No, that’s not it.” He moved to the next in line, the sixteen-year-old boy.
“One.”
“No. How about you, beautiful?” he asked an attractive middle-aged woman.
“Seven.”
“You win!” he shouted with glee, like an announcer on a game show on the radio. With lightning-fast reflexes, he whipped his Luger from his holster and shot the woman in the middle of her forehead. She dropped like a rock to the gray sidewalk. Bruckner holstered his weapon, walked to the middle of the street, and looked up at the apartment blocks that surrounded him.
“This woman lived on the floor where a Jew was hiding,” he shouted at the windows of the buildings on both sides of the street. “I bet she didn’t even know he was there. But that really doesn’t matter, my friends. If a Jew is found in your building, every last one of you will be shot. If a Jew is found on the fifth floor and you live on the second floor—you die. It’s as simple as that.”
Bruckner walked a few meters down the street with his arms folded. His eyes scanned the facades of the elegantly designed apartment blocks. Not a single person was standing at a window, but they were there all right, standing a meter or two away from the sash listening. He understood how the neighbors behind those windows felt. They all were going to look the other way; they didn’t want to see what was going to happen to the people waiting in the street. That’s the way the French acted during the Occupation—they didn’t want to see. All that mattered was that they weren’t rounded up.
Becker and Bloem came out of the building, and Duisberg helped them get Bloem into a black Citroën by the curb. Bruckner watched impassively and then walked over to the remaining apartment dwellers. They hadn’t even looked down at the dead woman but kept their eyes straight ahead. The Gestapo captain resumed pacing directly in front of them, looking each person straight in the eyes as he passed. One of the most fascinating things he’d experienced in his three years of service in the Gestapo was how people acted when they were about to be shot. To his surprise, very few broke down and started sobbing or begged for their lives; most remained resigned to the fact and were quite stoic. The residents of rue Blomet were in the latter group. Like all Parisians, they seemed to accept that death was inevitable and that it could come at any hour of the day. It was odd that the French were so dignified in death but in life acted like shits squealing on each other.
He wondered what they were thinking about. If Bruckner were in their place and were about to die, he’d try to think of the most enjoyable experience he’d ever had. That wonderful summer in Bavaria when he lost his virginity to Claus Hankel’s aunt. Seeing Trudy Breker’s tits for the first time. Or the time he was awarded his university’s highest award for athletic achievement in the long jump.
He stopped in front of a middle-aged man in a rumpled gray suit who stared straight ahead. Maybe he was off i
n his own world, remembering something fun he had once done. Or was he betting that Bruckner only intended to execute one resident to make his point?
The Gestapo captain kept pacing for another minute, then returned to his car, leaned against the hood, and lit another cigarette.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s getting late and I don’t want to keep you any longer. Thank you for your time. Good night to you all.”
18
“Ah, Monsieur Bernard, good to see you. Please, please come in.”
Major Herzog looked very odd in civilian clothes. His dark green smoking jacket was quite handsome, and the cuff of his charcoal gray trousers broke just right on his polished chestnut-colored shoes. Lucien, who’d made sure no one saw him slip into the entrance of the apartment building on rue Pergolèse, quickly stepped into the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.
Lucien saw that Herzog was amused by this. They both knew the French were in a precarious position, and they couldn’t be seen in public socializing with their conquerors. That’s why Lucien had been invited to dine with the major in his home. Lucien had said absolutely nothing for almost thirty seconds after Herzog had telephoned and extended the invitation. A debate had raged in his head whether to accept. Celeste had also been invited, but that had only been a formality; Herzog must have learned after a few months’ duty in Paris that Frenchmen rarely mixed wives with pleasure, a combination of oil and water. Lucien had accepted because, like in peacetime, it was good business to socialize with the client. What the hell, thought Lucien, he’d see Herzog once and that would be the end of it.
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