Memory and Desire

by Lisa Appignanesi

  Sylvie lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes sparkled with a hard brilliance, ‘I would like to see her suffer. Suffer slowly for each malicious act she has performed. And know it was because of me,’ she drew in her breath, saw her excitement reflected in his features. A shared exhilaration in cruelty. ‘But, it cannot be. There would be reprisals. There…’

  ‘Trust me,’ Berring cut her off. ‘I will arrange everything,’ his lips curled into a thin line. ‘Everything. And then…’ Below the cover of the tablecloth, he touched the silk of her knee. Sylvie face was impassive, judging. Slowly she took a cigarette from her evening bag, allowed him to light it, puffed once. And then, her gaze challenging him, holding him, she wrote a name on a slip of paper. Nadine Castelnau. Hotel du Midi.

  A week later, amidst the bustle of the Provençal, he motioned her to his table. ‘It’s done,’ he said. His eyes glimmered with a new intimacy as he raised her hand to his lips.

  Sylvie perched on the edge of a chair, crossed one long silken leg over another. ‘Good,’ she drawled, taking a deep breath, savouring her revenge. ‘I only hope she knew through whom.’

  ‘Your “message” was conveyed,’ he chuckled over the word. ‘My men tell me she begged your forgiveness.’

  ‘Very good,’ Sylvie’s eyes sparkled to the bright silvery tune of the rhinestones on her dress. She felt for a moment as triumphant as if she had won the war. She wanted to rush back to Caroline and tell her, tell her instantly.

  ‘And now my cruel beautiful one, shall we meet after the show?’ Berring’s hand curled insidiously round her arm and kept her by his side.

  Sylvie turned a laughing face on him. ‘I’m afraid, Herr Oberstlieutnant, another night’s delay is in order. Tomorrow night, perhaps, or the next. To kindle your ardour a little.’

  He bowed, his eyes steely. A little nerve played in his jaw. ‘Tomorrow night, then. My car will be waiting.’

  Sylvie blew him a careless redlipped kiss.

  As soon as she could the next day, Sylvie went to see Caroline. She was buoyant with her triumph, the success of her simple Old Testament understanding of justice. An eye for an eye. ‘It’s done,’ she said as soon as the door of Caroline’s room was closed behind her. ‘It’s done.’ She took her friend in her arms and danced her round. ‘Nadine won’t spy or inform anymore. Tortured by the very people she’s so loyal to.’ She giggled girlishly. ‘Katherine is revenged. We’re revenged.’

  For a brief moment, Caroline smiled, tasting vengeance, keeping pace with her friend. Then she stopped, slumped into a chair, looked dismally at the wall.

  Sylvie shook her. ‘What’s the matter? It’s done, I tell you. Everything we planned for.’

  Caroline’s voice when it came was hoarse. ‘It doesn’t bring Katherine back, Sylvie. Nothing can bring Katherine back. The Germans are still our masters, still committing unspeakable acts. And Joseph, Joseph,’ she hid her face in her hands, sobbing silently.

  Sylvie felt suddenly drained. She looked unhappily at that bowed head, stroked it listlessly. ‘But we’ve had our revenge on Nadine,’ her voice was pleading.

  Caroline’s tear stained face stared up at her. ‘If only there had never been a Nadine. If only…,’ she stopped herself. Her hands flew up to her face, hiding it, hiding her thought.

  The unfinished sentence coiled between them. Sylvie finished it in her own mind. If only she had never gone to the Hotel du Midi. Of course, why had it never occurred to her, she thought grimly. In some way, Caroline held her responsible for Katherine’s death.

  Sylvie fled. She walked aimlessly through the wet grey streets of the old city. She felt depleted. All the drive had gone out of her personal war, shaped as it had been by her loyalties to friends. All her acts of spontaneous courage had been for them, in their defence, not performed out of some deep and intractable sense of abstract justice. And now she had lived out her passions to no end. She was alone. Caroline was removed from her. She had not seen Jacob since that fateful night when they had argued instead of lying in each other’s arms. The news Vassier occasionally gave her of him was merely a testimony to his continuing, and as the old man implied heroic, existence. Andrzej seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. She had been unable to trace him. She was alone.

  Sylvie watched the waves, saw the world close in on its horizon. She felt abandoned, impotent, aimless.

  Even her performance gave her no satisfaction that night. Men’s eyes devouring her, but leaving her untouched. She made her round of the tables. The conversations she half heard made no sense. Men’s voices droning, boasting, endlessly considering the movement of troops, the advance of the Americans here, the retreat of the British there, Mussolini, Stalin, Hitler, Hitler, Hitler. She suddenly hated them, hated them all, but with no passion.

  When after her last set a message came to tell her a car was waiting for her, she was momentarily bemused. She had forgotten all about Herr Oberstleutnant Berring. She had certainly never had any intention of taking up his invitation. Indeed, she had never thought at all beyond the completion of her personal mission. And now as she tasted the notion of going off into the night in a sleek car and compared it to the thought of a lonely, defeated bed, there was hardly any question of choice. A German. Why not? She could test her power a little further on the hated Germans.

  The chauffeur brought her to the very door of the apartment, and then bowing briskly, left her. Sylvie smoothed the lamé of her long dress and knocked. Berring came to the door himself, took her hand to guide her into a richly appointed salon. His tone was angry. ‘You are late. I cannot stay long tonight.’

  Sylvie shrugged, ‘I work late, as you know.’

  He took it, then said more softly, ‘I thought you might not come.’ He was gazing at her intently.

  ‘Did you?’ Sylvie arched her brows, laughed, slipped her stole off her shoulders and filled his hands with it. She strolled away from him, taking in the room, caressing the heavy velvet of a sofa, the dark sheen of a grand piano. He poured her a glass of champagne. She took it nonchalantly, continued her stroll, her cool assessment of her surroundings. She paid no attention to Berring.

  Suddenly he gripped her shoulders from behind, veered her round to him and kissed her violently on the lips.

  Sylvie stroked the lapel of his uniform, ‘Not so fast, my lieutenant. We are not children. We have time. Time to get to know each other,’ she smiled into that hard face, slipped from his arms. ‘A little more to drink. Perhaps a dance.’

  He moved deliberately to the gramophone, a slow crooning number, poured more champagne into her glass. His eyes, dark, steely, never left her.

  Sylvie sipped her drink, held his eyes. She moved back towards him, put her arm lingeringly on his shoulder, started to dance, her body skimming his, drawing him on. Her fingers slipped beneath his jacket, nails found skin. A rush of breath. Sylvie’s laugh tinkled, ‘I adore dancing,’ she breathed. ‘Don’t you?’

  He tried to kiss her again, but she evaded him, put a finger to his lips. She could feel the tautness in his limbs. ‘Would you like to see me dance?’ Her lips brushed the place where her finger had been.

  ‘It depends on the nature of the dance,’ his mouth curled, a thin tense line.

  ‘Oh, I was thinking of a very special dance. A performance. Just for you,’ Sylvie put a throb into her voice. She eased his tie from his neck, led him to the sofa. ‘There,’ she crooned, ‘Comfortable?’ She floated sinuously away from him, began her own gyrating, rhythmic movement. Then, with a hoarse little laugh, she unzipped her dress, let it fall slowly from her shoulders, lifted it with a high heeled foot into his lap. ‘Just for you,’ she mouthed.

  He brought the garment to his face, breathed in Sylvie’s fragrance. His eyes flickered over her, saw the long silky expanse of her swaying body, the pallor of skin where dark stockings ended. His features grew strained, his lips dry. He reached for his drink, a cigarette, sat further back in the sofa.

  Sylvie, impassive, rea
d his desire as if from a great distance. It was no different from the hotel, she thought dimly. This was what they all saw, all those ogling men, who worshipped her from within their private little peep show fantasies. Sylvie stripping. Performing. Like this. She cupped her hands over her breasts, circled her nipples, released the lace of her bra, swung her hips closer and closer to him with a riveting motion, so that he couldn’t prevent himself from reaching out for her.

  ‘No, no, not yet,’ she evaded his grasp, moistened her lips. She caressed smooth hips, released a stocking and drew it lingeringly down her leg. She heard the uncontrollable rush of breath and met his eyes for a moment. Then slowly, deliberately, she brought her foot to his crotch, rubbed. And again. ‘Oh yes, we must release the prisoner, give him air.’ With sure, unhurried fingers, she unbuttoned his trousers, let her cool hand trail over his stiff penis.

  A groan escaped him. She drew away again, continued her own rite, stroking herself, swaying, touching herself there, humming a little tune. His eyes were wild. His hand moved involuntarily to grasp his penis. Rub. Then with a savage gesture, he released it, reached for her, pulled her down to him. ‘Ssshhh,’ Sylvie whispered. Still smiling, holding his gaze, she pressed his penis between her breasts.

  It was all over in a moment.

  His eyes focussed on the sperm which moistened her. And then suddenly, he slapped her hard across the face. She arched backwards, her face downcast, oddly penitent beneath the strands of golden hair. A tear glistened in the chastened gaze she turned up at him. ‘I thought it was what you wanted,’ she said in a demure little girl’s voice, ‘what you all wanted, what you dreamt of. A private, an intimate performance.’

  He scowled.

  Sylvie shivered. ‘I’m cold.’ She reached for his Gestapo jacket and wrapped it round her naked body. Then with long, even strides she went to pour herself another glass of champagne. In an instant he was next to her, nuzzling her breasts between the rough folds of the jacket. ‘Perhaps you are right,’ he whispered. There was an air of confusion on his features. He glanced at his watch. ‘I must go. We have just broken a particularly tiresome Maquis group. I have work to do. Tomorrow, no the next night, I shall come back. You will be here?’

  Sylvie nodded. ‘I will try.’

  ‘Make sure,’ his voice was a stern command, but his eyes as he lifted the jacket gently, almost apologetically, from her shoulders, held a plea. It accompanied the formal bow, the respectful clicking of heels.

  When the door closed behind him, Sylvie burst into gleeful laughter. It rippled from her throat as she washed and dressed. Then quietly, stealthily, she slipped from the flat.

  Later that night, Sylvie dreamt. Dreamt uneasily. Dreamt of Jacob. He was calling to her. He needed her. He was in a dark place. A pit smelling of earth. She woke in a sweat. She had the indubitable sense that the call was real. Jacob needed her and last night she had been toying with a German officer. She shuddered.

  It was not that she felt guilty. Guilt was not in the repertoire of Sylvie’s everyday emotions. Nor was the concept of marital fidelity. If she hadn’t slept with another man since Leo had been conceived, - despite what appearances may have suggested - it was simply that she hadn’t wanted to. And she was loyal to Jacob, if not faithful. What she had done last night had nothing to do with him, except insofar as she still irrationally resented his unwillingness to have her with him.

  What she felt now was more akin to panic. Something she had heard last night in the hotel in her listless state came back to her. A gleeful voice in German, above the clatter of the rest ‘Ja, wir haben eine ganze gruppe gehaftet. Und der capo ist einer Wichtiger.’ This, coupled with Berring’s parting comment gave her an uncanny sense of certainty that Jacob was in danger. Jacob, the important leader. Jacob captured.

  She dressed hurriedly in one of the garments she found in the cupboard. Berring had thought of everything. As the first light of dawn shivered in the crack of the heavy curtains, Sylvie stole out of the apartment and stealthily made her way to Vassier. She raged at him, told him he had to find out quickly, now, instantly. Jacob was in danger. She would go to him herself, she would save him.

  Sylvie raced to Caroline’s room, shook her. ‘Wake up, Caroline,’ she shook her hard. ‘You have to wake up. You have to help me. Jacob’s been captured. Jacob. We have to go to him.’

  Caroline sat up sleepily.

  ‘You have to help,’ Sylvie was shouting. A chaos of words poured out of her. ‘I’ll make it all up to you. You’ll have another baby with Joseph. I’ll have another. I’ll give her to you.’ She was pummelling her. ‘Caroline, you’re my only friend.’

  Caroline rose. She embraced her friend.

  Jacob turned over slowly on the plank in his dank cell. There was no part of his body which didn’t ache. When he coughed, blood and mucus tore out of him. Urinating was an agony. Two of the nails on his left hand had been pulled out. He didn’t know how much longer he could go on.

  He had coached himself for this. Prepared a list of false names, false addresses he could give to his torturers, should the occasion arise. He had held out even before releasing these. They wouldn’t trust them if they came too quickly. But even now, now that he had reached the point of confessing these, the torture continued, more brutal than before, at shorter intervals. Perhaps they already knew the names were false. He had no notion how much time had passed. Day blended into night with no mark of difference. He was underground. The scrawls he had made on the walls might bear no relation to real time.

  Perhaps they simply enjoyed the torture. He wished he had one of those capsules the Americans carried in their teeth. To end it all. Before it was too late. He thought dimly of his comrades. How many had been taken after that last fatal meeting in the empty barn. Everything had been going so well, the group had been working so well together. The power station explosion had run with the precision of clockword. And in the last weeks alone, they had managed to dynamite a much used section of track; had engineered the escape of over fifty of their men from the hill-town prison. They were just awaiting a new cache of arms, when the Germans had sprung. How many of his friends had been taken? How many were still alive? Their faces leapt out at him clearly now from the darkness. He chased them away. Better not to see them. Not to have their faces in his mind. Sylvie and Leo suddenly lodged their instead. No, no, not them. Not them again. He censored their images. It was dangerous. He might breathe their names. Might mumble something as they prodded and poked and stamped on his defeated body. He prayed that they would shoot him soon.

  There they were again, the heavy door creaked. Perhaps now, perhaps they would do it now.

  Jacob felt rough arms heave him up. Two men marching him, dragging him to the interrogation chamber. He began in his mind’s eye to draw the map of the human body, first the skeletal frame with each bone and joint named, then the intricate route of the nervous system, the tracery of veins, arteries, blood vessels; the lobes of the brain. The effort of concentration lifted him into another space: it was his survival tactic for interrogations.

  But they were taking him further today. Jacob looked down the dim vaulted corridor with its exposed beams. Perhaps today really was the day. His heart raced. He imagined the firing squad lined up in the bleak morning light. He allowed himself the pleasure of holding Sylvie, her cool body close against his. He saw Leo, no longer a baby now, but a boy carrying a school satchel. He sent a silent message to Mathilde, to Violette, an envoi willing them to well-being.

  He was outside. The night was dark. Painfully he breathed crisp air into his lungs. Voices barked. German. No. He didn’t want to hear.

  He was being lifted, pushed into a black van. It lurched into action.

  So it wasn’t his day. Jacob held himself with difficulty on the wooden seat. Hope, stupid, irrepressible hope, sprang up in him. He focussed his mind on the intricacies of the nervous system again.

  He didn’t know how long they had driven when the van pulled up short. T
he guard who had sat with him dragged him out, pushed him into the back seat of a waiting vehicle.

  ‘Au revoir, Monsieur. Bonne chance,’ the man said in French. He doffed his Nazi cap with a smile.

  Jacob stared at him in confusion. But before he could say anything, before he could get his bearings, the car he was in sped away.

  Through the blackness, he distinguished two women in the front seat, both hooded in nun’s cloaks. From the driver’s hood, a wisp of unmistakable blonde hair escaped. A laugh rose in Jacob’s throat, hesitated there and then exploded in a single rush of sound.

  ‘Sylvie,’ Jacob whooped. ‘Sylvie.’

  Chapter

  Eleven

  __________

  ∞

  In the latter part of August of 1945 - that momentous year when formal treaties, at least, declared that the world was at peace - a curious scene unfolded on one of the Quaies of the Paris Gare de l’Est.

  Three women, one man, two children. The man, bearing two middle-sized cases, walked determinedly in front of the group. His face beneath the soft brown hat was set in grim lines. Trailing him, running to keep up with him, occasionally settling a hand on his arm, a laughing woman, blonde hair loosened over the fur of her coat collar. Behind them the two children, a dark curly-haired girl of about ten, hand in hand with a slender blond boy, a little smaller than her, evidently frailer. And then the two other women, one erect, stately, walking with measured steps which left no doubt of her certainty of her destination; the second, head bowed, her gait sluggish, awkward, as if at any moment she might pause and question her whereabouts.

  The odd thing about the party was that it was impossible to tell who was doing the leaving, who staying behind. First the man boarded the train. The blonde woman, after a moment, followed. Then the whole party disappeared into the coach. One by one, they each came out, until only the man was left on the train, while on the platform, the blonde woman held on tightly to the boy kissing him over and over again. And then, just as the train shuddered into life, the man and the blonde woman changed places. The man clung to the woman’s wrist, prevented her from mounting the second step. ‘Please Sylvie, I beg you. Don’t go,’ he mouthed over the mounting clamour of the engine,