by Pirate Irwin
“I was picked up by the Brigades Speciale, your former colleagues, as I was cycling to a rendezvous. They knew that we had been friendly. I realized how they knew this when I was taken to the Quai and that monster who led the raid on Bernard and Lisette’s farm de Blaeckere was standing on the steps to welcome me,” she said.
Lafarge groaned when he heard that. De Blaeckere, who as an affectation didn’t believe in giving his first name thinking just using his surname gave him some form of extra mystique and menace, was a psychopath. He had seen the sickening evidence of his torture in Limoges and he hated to think how he had behaved with Aimee especially as he and de Blaeckere had clashed on several occasions.
The son of a minor Norman aristocrat had also held a grudge because Lafarge had witnessed how he had gone to pieces in an attack on a house in Limoges, peeing himself and incapable of issuing an order or firing a gun.
“How I didn’t lose the baby is a miracle. They didn’t rape me but they gave me the bath water treatment and slapped me around, really just for the fun of it as they knew I was due for Fresnes and after that probable execution.
“De Blaeckere said I was going to be his personal punchbag and he would visit me every day in Fresnes to freshen up my bruises,” she said shuddering.
“However, I wasn’t at Fresnes for long enough for him to perform his perverted desires. It was July and the Germans were getting itchy despite their outward confidence of turning back the Allies. Thus a whole raft of prisoners were pulled out of the cells one morning and butchered, initially there was a certain order to it. The officer would read from a sheet of paper and issue the execution order and they would be led away.
“However eventually they dispensed with that charade and the execution squad simply walked cell to cell shooting the occupants dead. It was horrific, the screams and the crying of the prisoners and the shouting of the Germans mixed with the odour of death and the spent bullets. It was a Bosch tableau brought to grim reality.”
Lafarge didn’t really even want to contemplate what it must have been like.
“Yet you were fortunate enough to survive?” he asked hoping she didn’t take it as an accusation.
She smiled and held out her wine glass. He refilled it and lit two cigarettes for them and settled back in his chair.
“Yes they were so merciful. A mixture of their ammunition running out and their blood lust evaporating, it happens even to mass murderers. I guess that even they have their limits.
“We thought we were lucky being spared. How stupid were we! Afterwards those of us who survived the hell of the crammed cattle trucks and arrived at Ravenbruck wished we had been shot in Fresnes,” she said her voice tightening.
She fell silent and Lafarge didn’t fill the vacuum. He thought of going over to her and taking her in his arms, nothing sexual just as a comfort. However, he held back and sipped at his drink and used the time to get back up and walk over to the window and admiring the painting, one by the French surrealist Yves Tanguy, which was on the wall to the left of it.
That was one of the bonuses of living in the Rosenbergs flat as they had been young art collectors, the husband had been a dealer, and while not on the level of the Wildensteins or other big gallery owners in Paris they had spent their money tastefully. He wondered idly sometimes what would happen if they never returned did they have family who would claim their flat and valuables.
Soon he would have to put out feelers to see if they were still alive. Perhaps they were trapped like so many others in the mass of bureaucracy dealing with refugees and the camp inmates. Or maybe they had been killed fighting the Nazis as he had heard from Madame Grondon they were intending to flee south, he had allowed them to stay in his flat when he temporarily left Paris, and join the maquis.
For the moment he was just using up their excellent cellar, the least one deserved after he saved their lives he felt, but were no one to come forward after whatever the allotted time was he would gladly take over ownership of the paintings and the flat.
Shame to let it go to the state he thought which is what was happening to a lot of property and valuables belonging to the Jews who had been sent to their deaths by the Vichy Government.
Lafarge thought it was bitterly ironic as the last people they would have wanted to benefit from their misery would have been the French state even if it was vastly different to the one that had murdered them.
He turned to see if Aimee had recovered the will to speak. She excused herself and he showed her to the bathroom stroking her shoulder in sympathy.
He felt enormous sorrow for her for to have been betrayed a second time – fortunately his had not proved catastrophic for her personally as a colleague Broglie had saved her – was bad enough but to have subsequently been deported to Ravensbruck would have tested anyone’s will to survive.
However, she had and for that he had his utmost respect, and what was more she certainly showed initially in the bistro that she retained some of her confidence and allure, although he reminded himself again she is an actress.
All the same he could see she was understandably damaged and he was not going to pose questions about the fatherhood of the child. If she claimed it was his then so be it he would assume the responsibility. It was the very least he could do given their history.
However, not for the first time in his life Lafarge was getting ahead of himself. She had said they had a child, but she had not gone further than that. There had been nothing about reviving their relationship, though that would have been far too rapid as if that was to be the goal then there was rebuilding of bridges to be done. If she was hoping he was going to hop in the Citroen and accompany her to Germany to pick up Bernard then that too was wishful thinking.
He would in due course but she would have to understand he first had to solve the case.
She returned looking better, she’d splashed some water on her face, and smiled as she smoothed her dress and sat herself down. Lafarge refilled her glass and gave himself another dose of cognac, looking mournfully at the bottle as there remained perhaps two more glasses.
“Aimee you are not obliged to tell me everything about your time at Ravensbruck. I would imagine that you would prefer not to either. I’m just surprised that amidst all the brutality, dehumanizing and death babies were being born. It is surreal,” said Lafarge, shivering at the thought of the first screams of the new-born being crowded out by the screams from the inmates being beaten to death outside.
She nodded.
“Thank you Gaston, you are correct that I don’t really wish to talk about the daily humiliations and brutishness we received,” said Aimee.
“Suffice to say I was one of the luckier ones, simply because I’m not Jewish. They who had done nothing to attack the Nazi state were treated worse than those like me and some English agents who had tried to undermine them.
“When I think about it, though, we must have bred a resilient son of a gun! A paltry vitamin free diet, 14 hour days of incessant work and little in the way of pre natal care. Simply put it was the survival of the fittest that is what the camp doctor who treated me said when I dared to ask him if there was a relaxation of the work hours in the days leading to the birth.
“It is shameful to think that such a man as Percival Treite earned the same diplomas as ones local friendly doctor! Anyway he is the man who brought Bernard into the world aided by the equally soulless head nurse Elisabeth Marschall.
“There was a separate barracks for the mothers and their babies. If you think that meant better treatment, clean laundry and edible food, you would be deluding yourself. Many of the babies didn’t make it past a few days. It was dirty, lice-ridden, bed bugs and the laundry was scarce.
“Nappies, bottles of milk etcetera were thin on the ground, if available at all, and sterilised milk non-existent. Germany was in such a state anyway that even their Aryan women were not receiving the required medication and basics.”
“How on earth did you and Bernard survive?
” asked Lafarge, amazed that anyone could have emerged alive judged on her description of the camp conditions.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“My winning smile wouldn’t you know Gaston!” she said sardonically.
“I would say it was down to sheer luck and my head strong determination to survive, and of course to ensure Bernard came through too. It took a lot of both I can tell you!
“They became increasingly desperate as the Soviets pushed in and they took those of us who they considered fit enough – that is a gross bastardisation of the term of course – on a march. If we thought that impending defeat might improve their behaviour we were wide of the mark!
“We were whipped, screamed at, food dwindled to nothing, and those who lagged behind were given no second chance. They received a bullet on some non-descript lane in the middle of nowhere. That is their grave, can you imagine!
“Eventually, though, the guards melted away and Uncle Joe’s Red Army ‘liberated’ us. However, not even those savages could find it within themselves to rape us scrawny and smelly women. Besides they had the pick of the Aryan litter on their way through Germany, why bother with us!
“They did though feed and clothe us. I and some of my compatriots were delivered to the French Army. There were four French babies including Bernard, who the French Army doctor warned me was unlikely to live long because he was skeletal and he suspected he had bronchitis.”
Here she broke off probably more through exhaustion than anything else.
“Yet as you say he must be a tough son of a gun because he pulled through. But why did you leave him with a German couple?” asked Lafarge.
“I didn’t have a choice Gaston. He wasn’t well enough to travel back with me. In any case I wasn’t sure what I would find here. I didn’t know where I was going to live, I didn’t know what had happened to you, whether you had returned to Paris once the Occupation was over or were still with your wife,” she said staring at him her expression unreadable.
“So the French Army doctor with the padre found a German couple who are respectable – in as much as they have been cleared of being party to the most heinous crimes -- middle-aged and most important of all as it is rare in Germany post war they have an undamaged house with a roof on it in Cologne.”
Lafarge was impressed by the help the French Army had given her in finding the couple, but one thing nagged at him. What was to stop the couple refusing to hand back Bernard when the time came.
“Is there any legal document drawn up witnessed and signed by both parties?” he asked.
She nodded.
“The doctor ensured that was the case. He signed on my behalf and they had a neighbour, a lawyer, sign it. The agreement is that I can reclaim him once I have somewhere settled in Paris.”
“That’s great. You are resilient I can see Bernard’s toughness must come from you, not me,” said Lafarge gently.
Aimee smiled but shook her head.
“It’s kind of you Gaston, but it is a bit of a front really. Of course Bernard gives me a reason to carry on and to rebuild what I can,” she said trying to sound upbeat but her voice was weak.
“However, this experience will never leave me. The smell, the death, the misery and the brutality of the guards, especially the women, my God! I don’t think I will ever feel at ease in a crowd or in the company of a doctor, and it is only the camaraderie and courage of my fellow female prisoners that has allowed me to retain some faith in my fellow sex.
“I have had some very dark thoughts since I was rescued, and it is only with enormous determination that I have not taken that path. However, I can’t swear blind to myself that one day the reserves will be empty and I will end it all.”
Lafarge blinked and swallowed deeply. He had experienced a lot of emotions through Aimee’s awful tale and now he felt exhausted and on the verge of tears, but he breathed in deeply and rose from the chair to take in the view once again, dawn was breaking, so he could hide his emotion from her. The last thing she needed was him sobbing, she had shed tears aplenty herself and there were more to come.
Besides she’d be better served by him behaving like a rock whilst she sorted herself out. Yes, it was another huge personal burden for him, with his son in the asylum, his sister in prison even though he had cut all ties with her it still weighed on him, his father murdered and still coming to terms with the death of Berenice and their unborn child.
Then there was whatever unpleasant news Gerland would tell him later at lunch regarding him and he expected de Chastelain. Plus there was the added complication and hurt of Levau’s hidden past and how it had cost his father his life.
Nevertheless he felt strong enough for the moment to take all this on his shoulders and perhaps it was the news of Bernard that allowed him to do so. However, he wasn’t going to tell Aimee yet why Bernard’s existence mattered so much. His woes were minor compared to hers.
He could see some light ahead in that if he emerged unscathed from this case, a big if given the perpetual risks he ran, he could see a calmer more settled life ahead. That, though, was also based on keeping Aimee’s spirits up and providing some hope, but he wasn’t going to give her any big promises now in case he couldn’t honour them.
There was, though, a halfway house he could assure her of.
“Why don’t you move in here Aimee?” he said softly, turning to face her.
“Don’t worry I have no hidden motive. I just believe it will be better for you to live with someone else and in an atmosphere you know and have generally happy memories of.
“Besides you are more likely to see more of Madame Grondon than myself! You won’t go hungry either as you can eat as often as you like at the Girauds, they owe me rather more than I owe them. However, that is another story which is best left for later.
“That will at least build your physical strength up. There’s plenty to drink too here, but I would caution you against over imbibing. I imagine you think me hypocritical preaching to you like that, but it is in your best interests.
“When this is all over then we can take off for Cologne and pick up Bernard.”
Lafarge looked at her but she didn’t show a flicker of emotion.
“I’m touched Gaston. I will accept your offer and on my side too that does not have a hidden agenda,” she said sounding exhausted.
“Let us keep to this arrangement till we collect Bernard and then we shall see what happens.
“Only one thing Gaston, where are the two of us going to sleep?” she asked.
He laughed, also a tired one, and went over to the smart black leather sofa she was seated on – another of the Rosenbergs prized items of furniture in fact his battered chair was his only contribution to the sartorial elegance of the flat – and kissed her on the cheek.
“Don’t look so worried Aimee! There are two bedrooms but just the one bathroom. You can have the bigger one and I will make do with the smaller one,” he said.
“I suggest you begin your residency here, chapter two as it were, by slipping between the covers now and getting some sleep. I will ask Madame Grondon to expect you downstairs later on and to give you the spare key.”
Lafarge knew he was talking to the converted and she gave him the warmest of hugs before going to the bedroom.
He didn’t think it was a good idea for him to do the same, so he made himself a coffee, quite good quality as it was again from his black marketeer acquaintance, and sat down – this time on the sofa so he could stare out at the brightening sky.
He was delighted Aimee had come back into his life but he was appalled at the horrific experience she had undergone. She was the first person close to him who had been thrown into a camp and subjected to the vile and depraved treatment perpetrated by the Nazis. What made it worse for him was the part played by their compatriots and it made him hate those who had run Vichy even more and that included his father.
Chapter Thirteen
Lafarge arrived at the magnificent Hotel de
Brienne which was the home of the Ministry of Defence in a troubled state of mind. His feelings towards his dead father now even more complex than they had been before. He was trying hard to separate the man from the machine he so loyally served and which had doled out so much misery and death on not just the foreign Jews but to a lesser extent though more reprehensibly their own people.
His father had remained unrepentant to the end, a shiver ran down his spine as he recalled their last meeting, and claimed it was due to his undying loyalty to the Marshal. Was there anything more honourable in that than Bousquet’s faithful following of Laval? Fine the latter two had been the architects of the ‘rafle’ but it had been signed off by Petain and his father as his closest advisor had to share the guilt for that shameful crime.
Therefore he too should be held equally to blame for the injustices meted out to the French people who were rounded up for being members of the maquis, for being communists – no matter that now Lafarge couldn’t stand them because of the disruption they were causing to Parisians daily life -- or simply to settle a personal grudge.
But all this contradicted the image of the man he knew as a doting father, slightly austere for sure but that was typical of his traditional conservative catholic upbringing, and he knew he would have to fall back on this memory if he was to inject his investigation with the usual intensity and vigour he deployed. It was imperative he forced to the back of his mind the man who his father became when in the thrall of Petain in Vichy.
He flashed his card at the sentry outside the gated entrance to the building – which had been home to the Minister of War come Defence since the Restoration of the Bourbons post Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo as the old ancien regime owner the Comte de Brienne had lost his head as many had done during The Terror. He then went through another security cordon as it also served as Headquarters for De Gaulle who aside being head of state also held the responsibility for Defence.
Rather too much power in that man’s hands mused Lafarge as he strode through the courtyard which led to the main building, superbly situated in the chic Saint-Germain area of Paris, and up the marble steps. He was greeted at the archives office by a young officer Captain Junot – who had certainly given for his country as he was missing an arm and a leg hence Lafarge guessed why he now sat among the dusty papers -- and was politely offered a coffee and then issued with the files on the mutiny of 1917 and all documents relating to the courts martial and the executions.