Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  Also, she has admitted the trip is becoming dangerous. I think it has always been dangerous, but this is the first time she has admitted it. I can read the feelings on her face. This time she felt frightened. It is less than a month now, and then at long last we’ll know if I can help support us.

  FEBRUARY 20th, 1943

  There’s something very peculiar going on at the bank. Something extremely strange. What kind of tricky carry-on is the Count attempting?

  Is he some sort of fraud? A con man? What’s his game?

  Today Mademoiselle Patou sent for me. She said the Count has been away on a business trip — which I happen to know is not true — because Kimiko told me he went skiing. How Kimiko finds out these things I don’t know, but she seems to know the secrets of this place, and she says he has been to Nagano with Moustique, his Vietnamese mistress. They are both expert skiers; he learned when he was a child in the French Alps, and was once a reserve in France’s team for the Winter Olympics.

  But to Mademoiselle Patou I pretended not to know this. He is expected back late today, she informed me, and tomorrow morning wants me to be in the office before the usual time. An hour before the bank opens. I’m to come to the private side door at 8am — I’m to ring the bell and Frankenstein will admit me.

  Is it for a special meeting, Mademoiselle, I asked?

  You’ll be told in due course, Alex, she answered. At least she now calls me Alex, and smiles at me. I’ve come to like her, and she seems less formal and more friendly than at first. Someone told me a rumour that she really isn’t Mademoiselle Patou at all, but has a married name and a husband. Nobody is sure. Even Kimiko seems not to know any details of her personal life, so it must be very private — because Kimiko knows almost everything that happens here.

  I waited for a moment in Mademoiselle’s office, hoping she might explain more about the meeting, but she put on her gold-rimmed pince-nez and picked up her fountain pen. It was a hint, and although I wanted to ask if I’m to be sacked — in which case I’d beat him to it and resign — she is not the kind of person one can speak to like that. So I just thanked her, said I would be punctual and left her office.

  But all day since then I’ve been wondering — what can it be? A private eight o’clock meeting — especially with Count de Champeaux who never likes to come to the bank early — has a very worrying feel about it.

  5

  A MATTER OF TRUST

  Alex knocked on the side door, but no-one seemed to hear. He knocked again. It was almost eight o’clock and he had slept badly, trying to imagine the reason for this meeting. It was true he was just a week away from completing his six-month trial, but he knew the Count was a stickler for procedure.

  So if it wasn’t to be good news, then it must be bad news, which could be conveyed at any time. He had spent half the night composing an angry resignation speech, in which he denounced the French bank, accused it of venal behaviour, fraudulent practice and corrupt exploitation of youth, until he ran out of invective and in utter exhaustion fell asleep.

  Breakfast had been tense and moody. Cook-san and his mother were not on speaking terms again. There was a milk shortage, and a meat shortage, and the cook was protesting that as food was rationed she could hardly be blamed if they didn’t like her meals. She did her best, but foreigners got no rations, and she had to buy the food on the black market, which was expensive and not always good quality. While this was going on, Alex’s sister looked at him critically and with all the wisdom of her 17 years asked if he was in love or had a problem, because he looked like death warmed up. He had abandoned breakfast, told her to shut up and stop talking tripe, declared the place was a madhouse, and ran for the station.

  The earlier commuter train had been even more crowded than usual, the tight crush of people almost unbearable, with the pushers at each station making certain there was not a spare inch of space in any carriage. He always wondered why the pushers wore white gloves — whether it was to avoid making the passengers dirty, or protection against having their hands soiled while they shoved so many sweating bodies. Through a window he glimpsed the American prisoners-of-war out in the fields already at work, but there was no way to raise his arm in even a token wave to them. It was one of those mornings when the entire carriage felt as if they could hardly breathe, and if one person dared to cough, it would affect the lungs of dozens.

  He hammered on the side door of the bank again, and it opened so abruptly that he almost fell inside.

  “I hear, first time,” Frankenstein glowered at him and mumbled an inaudible complaint. The massive caretaker spent a lot of his time muttering uncomplimentary remarks, but few in the bank knew what he said, or were bold enough to ask.

  “I have an appointment,” Alex told him.

  Frankenstein gave no response, apart from a twitch of his head, which seemed like an order to enter. This was followed by a jerked thumb in the direction of Count’s private office, and Alex heard the heavy security door clang shut behind him.

  Savignan de Champeaux was already at his desk. As always he was impeccably dressed, and his face glowed with a deep tan which could only have come from the ski slopes. He nodded a greeting.

  “Sit down, Alex,” he said. “Here’s the Nippon Times, to occupy you while I finish with these documents.”

  He continued working. Alex tried to focus on the front page. There were headlines proclaiming Japan was continuing to advance in New Guinea, and that Australia was on the verge of defeat. In the Atlantic, German U-boats were sinking British ships, and England must soon ask for surrender terms from Hitler.

  It must surely all be true, he thought, while remembering how sceptical Brother Abromitis had been about swift conquests. He wondered where the Cockroach was, and if he was teaching maths somewhere at home in Alabama. If so, he hoped it was to a class kinder than his own had been. But even Abromitis must now know the war was almost lost. What will happen in America, and Britain, and even here, he mused, when Hitler and Tojo and fat old Mussolini win the war? What kind of a world will it be … or will anyone with a half-Jewish mother be allowed to live in it to find out..?

  “Alex, did you hear me?”

  “Monsieur ..?”

  “You obviously didn’t hear.”

  “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Le Comte. I was worried about the news in the Nippon Times.”

  “There’s not a great deal we can do about the news. Your concern will hardly alter the course of the war.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” He was conscious how abruptly the Count spoke. It was unlike him, and did not auger well. It began to seem as if everyone was in a bad mood today. In which case, if this was a prelude to what was about to happen, Alex would soon be in a similar state himself.

  “I asked if you’d had news from your father.”

  “Unfortunately no, Monsieur.”

  “I hope he’s not in any trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “There were rumours before he left here.”

  “Rumours?”

  “Must you keep parroting me? There’ve always been rumours.”

  “About what, Monsieur?”

  “His political sympathies. Even in 1939, there was talk that he kept watch on German shipping from his house in Kobe. Reporting their movements to the French and British embassies.”

  “I could hardly know that. My parents were separated by then. I was at school in Yokohama.” He wondered if he sounded convincing. The Count merely nodded.

  “Later, there were suspicions of Free French activities, and talk of a newsletter. Did you know anything of that?”

  “No, Monsieur.” He felt no compunction now in lying, and hoped the other believed him.

  “He never spoke of the security police? The Tokko?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Or his feelings about that wretched man de Gaulle?”

  “I think he once called him an opportunist.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  Alex felt nervous,
but tried to conceal it. This blunt interrogation was very strange. The Count was quite different; he seemed aloof, almost hostile. Was this why he’d been summoned here so early, before any other member of the staff was present?

  “What about his business in Kobe?”

  “I’m afraid it’s in total chaos,” Alex answered abruptly. If he was to be cross-examined like this, he’d adopt the same blunt tone as his inquisitor.

  “What happened?”

  “He decided there were better prospects in Saigon, and felt he should go there to develop his new company. At the time he had no idea there’d be a war to prevent him returning. His manager in Kobe hasn’t been able to keep the firm intact.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “My mother was told money would be sent to her. It was arranged before my father left. We’ve learned there’s no hope of this. The firm has collapsed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the Count said after a reflective pause.

  “Yes sir. Workers there, many of them loyal friends have lost their jobs.”

  “Can I ask you another question?” The Count’s change of tone was conciliatory, surprising Alex.

  “Of course, Monsieur.”

  “Your mother was a friend of Richard Sorge?”

  “She knew him.”

  “How well?”

  “He came to afternoon tea.”

  “Regularly?”

  “Once that I know of.”

  “I’m told they were closer friends than that.”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur Le Comte. I’m not qualified to discuss or comment on my mother’s friendships. He apparently hoped she could help him with his Russian but she said he didn’t speak it well. That’s the only time we discussed Sorge.”

  “You know he’s going to be found guilty of espionage?”

  “I’ve heard it. But what’s it to do with my mother?”

  “Nothing I hope, Alex.”

  “Then why all these questions, Monsieur? You ask me about my father, now my mother. What’s the purpose of this?”

  It was a rash thing to say, but Alex felt he could no longer endure the probing. It was too persistent and far too personal.

  “Sorge is being tried in court. Is there anything — and I don’t meant to offend — but is there anything he could say that might implicate your mother?”

  “In what, sir?”

  “In his activities. In espionage.”

  “You mean is my mother a spy?”

  “That’s putting it bluntly.”

  “Then how should we put it?” Alex asked recklessly, too angered by the implication to care what he was doing to his prospects. “Are you seriously asking if my mother — a White Russian who fled from the revolution and hates communists — has been a spy for Stalin’s regime? I’m sorry, but how could anyone imagine she’d help a man like Sorge work for Moscow.”

  “I’ve offended you, Alex.”

  “Puzzled me, Monsieur. Yes, you’ve certainly done that. I’m at a loss to understand some of your questions.”

  “I didn’t like it any more than you did, but there was a purpose,” the Count said. He pressed a buzzer beside his desk and almost immediately his regular servant entered with a laden tray. There were cups, a coffee pot and a covered silver salver. It was clear he’d been poised outside, awaiting this signal. He put the tray down, bowed and left them. The Count waited until the door closed behind him.

  “It’s all a matter of trust, Alex. I need someone I can completely rely on.”

  “For what, Monsieur?”

  The Count ignored this, as he continued: “I’d be making a very serious mistake choosing a person who might — for any reason at all — come under suspicion.”

  “You mean me? Under suspicion because of my parents?”

  “Don’t be offended. Anyone can attract the wrong kind of attention. Whoever we associate with — any person we know, or anything we do — can bring us under scrutiny in these difficult times.”

  “You do mean because of my parents!” Alex was half out of his chair with anger.

  “Just calm down, sit down and listen.” De Champeaux was suddenly abrupt again. “Sit. Before you get the wrong idea, I have to preserve this bank. I have to keep it viable under the most challenging circumstances. And when it comes to banking, trust is everything. Our clients demand it. We have to be as credible as priests in the confessional. But perhaps you and I will be dealing with more crucial matters than the sins of coveting a neighbour’s ass, or committing adultery with his wife.”

  He smiled at Alex’s perplexity about this change of tone. “First, let me assure you there will be no further questions. They had to be asked, and you answered them as I hoped and expected. Now we’ll have some coffee and croissants together, and talk in more detail about your future.”

  ALEX’S DIARY: FEBRUARY 21st, 1943

  Fantastic! Unbelievable!

  First of all, he insisted we should drink our coffee before it was cold, and that I must try the croissants if I’d never had one, because he had found a local baker who had once worked in Paris, and the baker supplied them for special occasions. So eat up, he said, as this is a very special occasion. The way he emphasised “special” sounded so promising that the first croissant tasted delicious. When I’d finished and said how nice it was, he suggested I have another. While I was buttering it — because he said it was best with lots of butter — he told me that I had a permanent job here, and my salary would begin at once. Starting today.

  The second croissant tasted even better.

  I could have eaten a third, but thought it best not to make a pig of myself, and told the Count I remembered eating croissants in France when I was 10 and my father took us on home leave, but these seemed much better. I was desperately hoping to hear the details of my salary — trusting it might be at least 40 yen a month — but all he said was, let’s have another cup of coffee.

  It was about then I began to realise I was dying for a pee. I’d left the house in a hurry, had only just been in time to catch the train, and after being wedged in for an hour until we were released at Tokyo Station, I’d felt a slight urge but decided to walk briskly to the bank in case the Count was early. Frankenstein had made me forget my bladder with his grumbling, but now it was a problem, and if the Count did not get on with the details I would have to request him to excuse me.

  How much a month, I silently begged him, but all he did was explain I’d be involved in transactions which would have to remain absolutely confidential. He was becoming expansive, telling me that I’d come along at precisely the right moment, and my knowledge of Japanese and ability to type his classified correspondence fitted the kind of person he’d long been looking for.

  We had fewer clients now, he said. So many French nationals were being forced to live off capital, with their firms dormant because of the war. As a consequence, much of our business was with the embassy and various consulates, and we therefore had to find other avenues in order to keep the bank viable. I thought if he didn’t get on with it, I would definitely piss myself, ruin his expensive carpet and end in disgrace. But that was when he said: “Now about your salary, Alex.”

  Well, what could I say? Monsieur Le Comte, stuff the salary. I have to take a leak. Or else — don’t worry about the remuneration, Count. It’s only money. What’s more important is for me to point Percy at the porcelain before I burst. I’d give any amount to relieve this pressure on my bladder. Any money you care to name.

  “I intend to offer you 100 yen a month,” he said.

  A HUNDRED YEN! ONE WHOLE BEAUTIFUL HUNDRED!

  Dear God, housemaids get eight yen a month, cooks maybe 10, chauffeurs 20, senior clerks 40, and Japanese managers of small firms, if lucky, 85. I was eight months out of school, just 20 years old, and it felt like an absolute fortune!

  One hundred bloody yen every month!

  It is a fortune!

  I tried desperately hard to look unimpressed. Blasé and nonchalant
. I doubt if it fooled the Count for a second.

  “It’s a good income,” he said.

  “Very fair,” I managed to say.

  He raised an eyebrow at that, and gave a slight smile.

  “You’ll earn it,“ he said. “I can promise you that.”

  I was yet to realise exactly what he meant.

  6

  KIMIKO

  The regular morning ceremony, the unchanging routine of handshakes, polite enquiries about health, families and the weather took place as usual that day, when the main bank doors were unlocked by Frankenstein on the stroke of nine.

  The Count was waiting in the entrance hall to participate in this prelude to the day. Alex arrived by the front door, as if he had reached the bank at the normal time; he shook hands with the French employees, bowed to the Japanese, and tried to behave as if his life was unchanged. It was extremely difficult; he wanted to celebrate, to revel in the news of his elevation to such dizzy heights, but had been expressly warned not to do so.

  “This meeting won’t be mentioned, Alex. Your salary is a private matter here in this office, and not to be revealed to the rest of the staff. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Monsieur Le Comte.”

  “You’ll leave now, and return by the front entrance at the normal time. As far as other employees are concerned, not a word. Mademoiselle Patou knows of our meeting, of course, but not the details. Nor will she. Only Monsieur Laroche will be told, which is his prerogative as chief accountant. I can hardly expect you not to tell your family, but do request your mother to be discreet.”

  Alex had agreed, although the insistence on secrecy came as something of a surprise. After the relief of a visit to the toilet, the rear door was opened for him by Frankenstein. Alex nodded his thanks, but was ignored. With only 15 minutes left to fill in, he walked around the Ginza, then back across the Nihonbashi Bridge, managing to synchronise his arrival with the opening of the bank. As he passed Frankenstein, the surly giant did not even blink. Perhaps, Alex thought, we all look alike to him. Or else he was chosen for his ability to remain so stolidly phlegmatic.