‘No – been back in my office for about an hour or so now.’
‘Good. Check your inbox – I’ve emailed you a couple of photos.’
‘Of what?’
‘This might seem a strange place to start but you’re Jewish by birth, aren’t you?’
‘By birthright and mess of pottage… Sorry, that’s not helpful. Yes I am. Non-practising, of course. And non-believing, come to that. Most of the time.’
‘But you know Jewish lore?’
‘Try me.’
‘What do you call those text-containing cases that Orthodox Jews attach to their doorframes? To attract good luck.’
‘To attract good luck and good Nazis, my grandfather used to say. Mezuzoth – mezuzah in the singular.’
‘Mezuzah – that’s it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think Corinne Delage has one. And it’s been attached, taken down and reattached to her front and rear doorframes several times. It’s not in favour at the moment.’
‘I never thought I’d have anything in common with Corinne Delage.’
‘I just want to be sure it’s what I think it is before I go any further.’
‘You’re sounding pretty upbeat… Ah, here we go. I’m opening the photos now… Okay. The first one could be a case. Little untypical, though. No Star of David or anything in the pattern. Now the second… is the text: Shema Yisrael. It’s a mezuzah, alright.’
‘This is it. This is the lead, Frankie. Granot and Bonbon are still researching old files. Tell them they can stop. I don’t know the details yet but I think I know what’s behind this whole thing.’
‘What?’
‘We pass a plaque commemorating it every day.’
‘The… round-up? In ’42?’
‘The round-up. I’ve got some people to see and other calls to make but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
He began by calling Adèle Rousade in Archive.
10.35 AM
Darac strode into a squad room that bore no relation to the sleepy, report-strewn mess he’d left a couple of hours before. The news that he was on to something had got around. More than thirty officers and assistants were crowded in. But before he got the meeting rolling, he needed to check a couple of things.
At the back of the room, the projector he’d called up was hidden under the blond blackout curtain of Erica’s hair.
‘Alright back there?’
‘Having to replace the bulb holder. Be a couple of minutes.’
‘Did Adèle come up with all the files I asked for?’
‘All of them.’
‘Good, thanks.’
He found Granot next.
‘I’m going to need your help during this. Got a ruler and a pad to hand?’
‘Yes?’
‘All will become clear in a minute.’
Darac returned to the front of the room. Behind him, the screen had already been set up.
‘Okay, everyone.’ The buzz subsided. ‘While we wait, I’ll explain why I’ve come to the conclusions I have.’ His eyes swept the room, engaging with every face. ‘Put the following factors together and see what they suggest to you. Corinne Delage was on hand when poison was jabbed into the arm of Emil Florian; and later, playing a more active role, she was there when he finally succumbed to it. Then we learn the frugal, seventy-year-old Delage recently bought a van for €9,500. The money was given to her by a third party – obviously to mask the purchaser’s true identity. That van is then identified as almost certainly the one used in the kidnapping of the boss and her father. Now this morning, I learned something we didn’t know about Corinne Delage. Frankie’s best placed to help us with this.’
Feeling strangely moved, Frankie enlightened the team on the concept of the mezuzah.
Darac took it on from there.
‘Thank you. Now clearly, a non-Jewish person could own such a thing, though it’s less likely they would display it in the prescribed manner. But there’s an interesting aspect to this. A pair of matching screws was taped to it. All four turning surfaces in the slots were chewed-up. I then found several pairs of matching holes in the front and rear doorframes. In other words, Delage had attached, removed and reattached the mezuzah on a number of occasions. I think I know what this on-off approach implies about her Jewishness but let’s move on. We know she was a war baby. We’re not sure of the true details because her original birth certificate was lost but she was registered as born into a family of tenant farmers, the Groismonts from Grandeville in the Île de France.’
The monologue drying his throat, he went across to the water cooler.
‘Last night, Bonbon and I came to the conclusion that the Groismonts were not Delage’s natural parents. Reinforcing that theory is a remark Madame Groismont, who was not Jewish, makes to her in a letter. She refers to the day young Corinne came into their lives, and I quote, “wandering in like a little lost lamb.” Not “climbing out of the car” or anything like that. “Lost” and “wandering”. It suggests she was unaccompanied, doesn’t it?’ Grandeville is a small, rural community…’
Perand examined his nails for a moment.
‘…but it’s also a rail head. Land Registry confirms that in the forties, the Groismont farm lay right alongside the principal train line from Paris to the south-east – the line used to transport Jews from Nice to the holding camp at Drancy. The records we’re about to view should help us with this but I believe that the girl who became Corinne Groismont was on board one of those trains. I’m contending she somehow escaped from it as it slowed to a crawl or made an unscheduled stop alongside the farm. The authorities sealed carriages and freight vans. But I’ve just been told that there are numerous accounts of captive passengers cutting holes with concealed tools, even forcing apart planking under the noses of the guards. The picture I have in my mind is of someone, probably the parents, seizing the opportunity when the train was stationary to thrust Corinne through such a crack. She was only a toddler, remember, and tiny. Eventually, she found her way across the fields to the Groismonts’ cottage. And there, they welcomed in the lost lamb with open arms. And it seems they kept them open.’
He paused to take another sip of water.
‘The letter I quoted suggests that at some point, perhaps towards the end of their lives, the Groismonts told Corinne of her true heritage. They knew full well where she had emerged from – those fucking trains were going past their land on a regular basis. It must have been horrendously difficult for Corinne to hear that truth. And confusing. Suddenly, she’s not the grown-up darling of a Catholic farming family, she’s a… Jewish orphan of the storm. She doesn’t feel it but she knows she is. The repeated displaying and taking down of the mezuzah suggests uncertainty as to her religious identity, doesn’t it? There’s no copy of the Torah or any Jewish literature in her bookcase, incidentally. And Rabbi Pawel has no knowledge of her ever attending synagogue – I’ve just asked him.’
At the back of the room, Erica was staring into space.
‘Ready yet, Erica?’
‘A parent pushing a little thing like her out of the train – can you imagine? Almost like giving birth to her a second time.’ A shake of the head. ‘Sorry. A few more seconds, that’s all.’
‘Any more questions before we start looking at things?’
No takers.
‘Alright, we’ve got facts and so far we’ve got little more than informed speculations linking them. But now we come to something about which there is no speculation and it tightens up the whole chain. Adèle has unearthed case files relating to the round-up, detainment, screening and deportation of Jews from the Caserne in 1942. The first thing we’re going to see is a list of the officers who played major roles in the operation.’
‘Ready now.’
Erica flicked a switch and the projector threw the image at the screen. It landed on Darac first, trammelling him in a net made of names. He stepped quickly aside.
‘Just close that blind behind you,’
he said, parking his backside on Perand’s desk. ‘Make it easier to read.’
The list of names formed up in stark black against white:
Chief Inspector Crutte, Albert
Inspector Medenville, Jean-Francois
Sergeant Letcheberia, Pierre
Officer Dantier, Vincent
Officer Djourescu, Adam
Officer Lourthe, Simon
Officer Bertrainde, Carl
‘Dantier.’ Armani almost spat out the name. ‘Vincent the Good and Wise Dantier.’
Darac took out his notebook.
‘He, Djourescu, and Lourthe, I think it was… yes, Lourthe, all young officers, received commendations for their efforts. Djourescu was a real star, apparently. Top marks in everything. Rounding up Jews was just another opportunity to shine. They arrested over a thousand men, women and children in just two days.’
‘Makes you feel proud, doesn’t it?’ Bonbon took a sweet out of his pocket, then put it back. ‘And it happened in these very buildings.’
‘Less of the piety, please.’ Granot’s dissent had an unfamiliar sharpness. ‘Imagine the pressures on them. Don’t suppose they enjoyed doing it. Despite the commendations.’
The colour had drained from Frankie’s cheeks.
‘You’re right, of course. But “I was only following orders” has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?’
Granot wasn’t the most sensitive of individuals but he hadn’t the heart to press the point.
‘And,’ she went on, ‘not every officer in France toed the line. Some deliberately lost paperwork; others carried out more active acts of resistance.’
Granot couldn’t let that go.
‘And what happened to them? And to their families?’
Darac shook his head.
‘There’s no time to debate moral questions now. Let’s concentrate only on the case. Any questions before we move on?’
Flaco raised a hand.
‘How did Delage get to know Vincent Dantier had been involved in the round-up? Just because of his age? Or something more concrete?’
‘Good question.’ Darac ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. And I don’t yet know where Emil Florian fits into this.’
‘Here’s a possibility.’ Perand stuck out his long chin and scratched it. ‘He doesn’t fit into it. He was just the wrong man in the wrong place – a random victim to try out the poison on.’
‘A walking crash-test dummy?’ Darac stared off for a moment. ‘I like the freedom of your thinking but it’s far too risky, isn’t it? Let’s press on.’ But he took a deep breath instead. As chills raced each other down his spine, he told himself to essay calm efficiency and get on with it. ‘We’re going to look at two other lists and compare them. Erica – bring up page one of the first, please.’
As a page of names and ages formed on the screen, Frankie’s grandfather’s words came back to Darac: Mezuzoth attracted good luck and good Nazis. ‘These are the names of all those who were eventually deported from the Caserne to Auschwitz.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Bonbon exhaled deeply. ‘Look at the ages of some of them.’
‘The detainees were given the option of handing over their children.’ Frankie put a hand unconsciously to her bosom. ‘There were organisations who took them and looked after them. But I’ve heard that a lot of parents thought it was a trick and kept their children. Tragically, as it proved.’
Darac kept a concerned eye on Frankie as he continued.
‘It’s easy to make mistakes with lists, right? We need something foolproof and I can’t think of an easier way of doing it, so, Granot – you’ve got a pad and a ruler there?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘As Erica brings up each page, note down the name of any child with a DOB between 1936 and ’42 – the span is just to give us a bit of leeway. Tear off each entry as we go so each name has its own strip of paper. Then when we get to the end, we’ll distribute the strips evenly around the room to make it easier to match the names to the second list we’re going to see. That way, none of the names…’ He almost said, ‘can fall through the cracks’. ‘None of the names can be overlooked.’ He stared at the screen. ‘Okay, on page one here, there are… none at all. Good. Page two, Erica.’
By page twelve of the first list, Armani could no longer look at the screen. Giving Frankie’s shoulder a squeeze en route, he went to the window and stared out.
A roll call of names gradually coalesced.
‘That’s the last page,’ Erica said, her voice almost inaudible.
Armani went back to his place as the distribution of the names began. At the end of it, virtually everyone in the room had become the proxy guardian of a child. Darac suspected that the name of his charge, Paul Stefan Gartos, was one that would remain with him. For his part, Armani had cast only a cursory glance at his own strip of paper. Alexander Jacob Markowski was a name he didn’t want to remember.
His heart rising in his chest, Darac took another sip of water. And then another.
‘Now it gets harder. We’re going to see that initial list of names again. This time, in date order, the details of what became of the children is recorded.’
As each page came up, anxious eyes scanned the list. Every so often, there would be a sigh, an “oh no” or a shake of the head, and a strip of paper would be laid gently down. It was on page eleven that Darac let go of Paul Stefan Gartos.
Armani made it through to the final page of the inventory. But then there it was. Alexander Jacob Markowski had not been spared.
‘No!’ Crushing the strip into a ball, he turned to Darac. ‘You think that was easier? Do you? Jesus!’
‘I meant easier logistically, Armani – that’s all.’
No one said anything for a moment.
His expression a curious mixture of concern and surprise, Granot looked across at Darac.
‘All the names are… well yes, accounted for. The girl who became Corinne Groismont was not on board any of the trains.’
‘She must have been.’ But Darac wondered if he had made a serious error. An error that was wasting valuable time. ‘I would have staked anything on it.’
‘She wasn’t there, chief.’
Frankie raised a hand.
‘The plaque outside commemorates 1942. But we should probably look at 1943, as well. The ’42 round-up targeted Jews from around Europe who had fled here looking for sanctuary. The poor souls underestimated the reach of Vichy. But by ’43 when the Nazis themselves were in charge, the situation changed. I know from my grandfather that local Jews were the targets, then. There were deportation quotas; bounties paid to anyone who would identify them; local hotel rooms turned into torture chambers. It was worse than before. Appalling.’
And it would have been appalling to have reacted to the revelation with anything but disgust. But Darac felt a sense of release, nevertheless.
‘Thank you, Frankie,’ he said. ‘Those are the lists we need.’
He punched buttons on Perand’s desk phone. As he waited, he watched Armani straightening his screwed-up strip of paper with an ironing motion of his fist.
‘Archive? Get me Adèle.’
11.13 AM
Every so often, the light had flashed. And now it became more regular.
I’m breathing, he said to himself. Breathing under my own steam.
The blonde one. Talking over him, as usual.
‘What’s the backup rate set to?’
‘Twelve,’ the black one said. ‘And the total rate is reading sixteen.’
The blonde one’s face. Big and beaming. Coffee breath that could de-grease a chain.
‘Clever boy, breathing by yourself. But we’re going to keep a watch on you, alright? Because the machine is still doing most of the work. And we want to see you take over completely.’
I’ll move my fingers. That will impress her.
‘Look at him go! There’ll be no holding you back soon, will there? You’ll be able to breathe, move�
� And you’ll be able to talk – not just blink yes and no. You’ll be able to say anything you like. Are you looking forward to that?’
Oh yes. He was looking forward to that very much indeed.
He blinked once.
11.33 AM
Erica flicked the switch.
‘The blind again, please.’
Another page. Another river of tears flooding in from the past.
As Granot noted down the first of the names, Bonbon lowered his head into his hands.
‘Bills of lading.’ He massaged his forehead. ‘Human freight.’
Frankie sat forward as if prodded from behind.
‘Look at the bottom of the page.’
For a moment, the group was too stunned to say anything. Erica refocussed the image. No, they weren’t seeing things. The entry referred to a family of three who had been arrested and dispatched to hell within one working day: 10 October 1943.
Djourescu, Adam: DOB 9/7/20
Djourescu, Elena: DOB 16/4/21
Djourescu, Olivie: DOB 30/08/40
‘But he was one of the arresting officers the summer before.’ The words were Flaco’s but she was speaking for everyone. ‘The commended one, the high flyer.’
Perand shook his head.
‘He certainly paid for arresting his own kind. And the rest of his family paid with him.’
Bonbon turned to Granot.
‘Who arrested them, I wonder?’
‘Fucking hell!’ Armani threw a hand at the screen. ‘Jacques Sevran selling photos of me and some of the others to the boys is shit, isn’t it? But sending a brother officer and his family to their deaths? That can never be forgiven.’
‘What was that?’ Granot stopped writing. ‘Did Seve do that? We thought he’d just accepted a bribe. To fund his wife’s care.’
‘That may have been the reason he was arrested – so what? He’s done a few things, I hear. The rat.’
‘The Seve issue can wait,’ Darac said. ‘Carry on, Granot.’
The procedure proved even more gut-wrenching the second time. As the inventory accounted for child after child, the sense of loss in the room was palpable. But as the torture finally ended, a solitary hand rose into the air. A hand clutching a strip of paper.
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