Had Emil done his homework at my kitchen table? The thought of him filled me with unaccountable sadness. I had a sudden urge to get out of the apartment as quickly as I could.
The café was called Les Deux Pigeons. Two pigeons. Inside, there was only one other table taken, and that was by two elderly Frenchmen in old knitted jumpers, one with a bushy moustache, and one without, but wearing a dusty, faded beret. The sight of them made me smile. Both had their braces pulled over the top of their jumpers, their trousers up past their waists. They watched me come in with beady eyes. I sat outside at one of the two rickety tables that were set on the pavement.
‘M’sieur?’ A short, stout woman appeared by my side. She had expressive black eyebrows over bright blue eyes, despite the bristling grey hair that stood straight up from her forehead.
In French, I ordered the cassoulet and a glass of vin ordinaire.
She nodded, her eyes flicking to my bruised eye, and strode away with a bouncing, energetic step. I put her in her late forties, despite the grey hair.
The cassoulet must have been bubbling on the stove already, because she was back within a few minutes, the plate steaming with a tempting aroma of cloves.
‘Bon appétit,’ she said.
I tucked in, and, I swear, it was one of the best things I’d ever tasted. I was about halfway through it when two German soldiers came and sat at the neighbouring table. I smiled at them, but they ignored me and continued their conversation in loud German. I expect they thought I couldn’t understand.
‘We’ve put the fear of God into them,’ the older one said. He had a nasal voice and a thin, mouse-like face. ‘Pétain’s asked for an armistice, and the Führer’s agreed. From now on France will be split into two zones. Ours and theirs.’
‘Surely that won’t work,’ the one with the wire-rimmed glasses said. ‘Where do these zones begin and end?’
‘We’ll have Paris and the north, and the Frenchies have fled to Vichy.’ The thin one gave a choke of a laugh. ‘They’re calling themselves the French State.’
‘Did the Führer agree to this?’
‘Seems so. Don’t think it will last though. The south’s the best part of France. Best wine, best weather, anyway. And I fancy a chateau when the fighting’s over,’ thin face said. ‘How about you?’
‘A spell on a nice hot beach. Palm trees and sun. St Tropez or Nice. What if we get leave and want to go down to the south?’
‘We’ll have to have a visa. You won’t get leave anyway. Too much shit to do here. But the French are fools. They’ve burned their boats. If they want to cross back over the border now, we can keep them out.’
His friend grunted and reached for my ashtray. He didn’t ask or say ‘excuse me’. Just took it, as if everything was his by rights. I might as well not have existed. I glared at his profile, but he was oblivious.
‘Hey, can’t we get any service round here?’ Thin face stood and shouted in German into the café.
The grey-haired woman came out but gave no greeting, just waited for their orders with a stony face. I could see she hated to be summoned in such a rude way.
They ordered a carafe of wine, and pâté de foie gras. So they were obviously intent on three courses. I didn’t like the two men, and their presence, and the fact they were my countrymen, made me uncomfortable. I was about to ask for the bill, when I realised, with horror, that I had no money. Neither French nor German. And I wasn’t even sure which I was supposed to pay with. Francs or Reichsmarks? Or should I have a ration card? I should have read the instructions in the dossier before coming out. Hell, I wouldn’t last long if I didn’t get more on the ball. I hadn’t even thought.
I searched my pockets but found only fluff.
I hovered by the table. A sneaky getaway? No, it would draw attention to me and have every flic in Paris after me. Maybe I should ask the two Germans for a loan? Impossible. It would mean explaining, and I’d been well briefed to keep my identity secret.
There was nothing else for it. I went inside and headed for the counter. The woman was just making up the bill for the two Frenchmen outside. She raised a hand in apology. ‘One moment, M’sieur.’
She delivered their bill with a friendly smile before returning to me.
God, I hoped my French was up to this. I began, ‘So sorry, Madame, but I find myself in an embarrassing situation. I’ve only just arrived in Paris, and find I have left my wallet behind.’
She stared at me.
‘I can leave my name and address, and I promise to bring you the money tomorrow, as soon as I can get to the bank.’
‘You have no money? No ration card? Are you in trouble?’ She was looking at my eye now.
‘No, no. I had a stupid accident. I fell down the stairs in my new apartment.’ Her expression was sceptical. I apologised again. ‘I’m sorry about the money. I’ll bring it tomorrow, you have my word. I never usually do this. I can leave my name and address.’
‘The two men outside will know what to do with you.’
For a moment my heart plummeted. I’d no wish to have this conversation with the Germans outside.
‘Hey,’ she called, ‘Sebastien! Henri!’
The two old French men shuffled in. Thank God, not the soldiers. But by now I was thoroughly rattled.
‘This man says he can’t pay for his dinner,’ the woman said. ‘What should I do?’
‘How much did you enjoy it?’ the one in the beret asked me, wrinkling his moustache and looking up at me with sharp eyes.
‘To be honest, it was delicious,’ I said. ‘The meat was so tender, and the cloves … well, possibly the best cassoulet I’ve ever tasted.’
‘So, worth your money then?’ the other asked.
‘Yes. And I’m quite happy to pay, as soon as the banks open.’
‘You shouldn’t give credit, Berenice,’ the first Frenchman said. ‘It might set a precedent. You should make him wash dishes, that’s the usual penalty.’
‘Or clean the floor,’ the other said, winking.
‘Now, Sebastien —’ the woman began, but I held up my hands.
‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘That seems fair. Show me to your kitchen.’
The two Frenchmen looked at each other and shook their heads, exchanging shrugs.
‘Don’t mind them,’ Berenice said. She gave me a conspiratorial smile. ‘They were spoiling for an argument. It entertains them and there’s nothing they like better, as long as the argument’s not with them.’ She cast a disparaging look through the window at my countrymen.
‘I meant it,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind doing dishes. I’m used to cafés.’
‘Well, actually, I could use a hand. My kitchen assistant, Nicole, has her day off today, and we’ve been pretty busy. There’s a stack of plates, since there’s only been me.’
‘Right then, lead on.’
She hesitated a moment, and I could almost see her weighing me up. I seemed to meet with approval, despite my black eye. Or was it because of it? She led me into the kitchen behind the café, past a big scrubbed table to an enormous sink, where the draining board was piled high with dirty dishes, and the wooden racks above were ominously empty.
‘No hot water,’ she said. ‘Electricity’s still rationed. You’ll have to manage. You get started, whilst I deal with the two customers still outside. What’s your name?’
‘Édouard. Édouard Vibert.’ The name still felt strange but I held her gaze.
‘Berenice,’ she said. She went to check on the stove where three pots were still bubbling. She must have opened the oven to check on something, because a smell of apples, cinnamon and pastry wafted past my nose. It made me immediately homesick.
To counter this, I stripped off my mackintosh and jacket, rolled up my sleeves and plunged my hands into the freezing water in the sink. I began to scrub. It was pleasant to do something familiar, but a tension still lodged in my stomach. I wished I could have told Berenice my real name. She was not like most Parisian women;
her face was devoid of lipstick or powder and her short, square figure exuded an air of efficiency.
As I scrubbed conscientiously, getting rid of every scrap of grease, she bustled in and out in her canvas apron, pushing the door open and closed with her hips. After a half hour, I’d started on the big greasy potato skillet, when she appeared again.
‘Phew,’ she said, running a hand through her bristly hair. ‘They’ve gone. Not a word of thanks, and no tip. Mind you, they paid, which I suppose is more than some.’
I began to apologise again, but she laughed. ‘Only teasing. You’ve earned your dinner. I watched you; you were thorough. You wiped the draining board down afterwards and didn’t wipe your hands on the glass cloth. You did a good job. You say you worked in cafés before?’
Now I was on safer ground. ‘Yes, I used to own a bakery. In the early days I worked in a patisserie with a café attached.’
‘Ah. That explains it. Where are you from? I can’t place your accent.’
‘Jersey. But I trained in Vienna — but that was before the war,’ I said hurriedly. ‘And now I have a bakery in St Helier. But since the hostilities, I find myself stuck here. I can’t get a boat back to Jersey whilst the Germans hold the ports.’ So far, so good. She was listening in a relaxed way, the tea towel slung over one arm.
‘So what were you doing in Paris?’
The question came too quickly, and my answer wasn’t ready. ‘Oh, just business,’ I said, floundering. ‘I mean, I needed some new recipes, so I thought I’d research what was selling well in France.’ I was improvising furiously.
‘A spy, you mean. Pinching all our ideas.’ She grinned. ‘The cheek of it. What will you do with yourself whilst you’re in Paris?’
The clock saved me by pinging the quarter hour.
‘You’d better get on home,’ Berenice said. ‘Curfew in fifteen minutes. Have you far to go?’
‘The Rue Dupin, just around the corner.’
‘Oh, I’ve friends on the Rue Dupin. Which number are you?’
I didn’t want to tell her, but couldn’t see a way around it without being rude. ‘Number sixteen. I overlook the street.’
‘My friend Anneliese had an apartment in that one. They were forced to leave though.’
‘Oh? When the Germans came?’
‘No, I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t bore you with my woes. We all have our stories. War’s not easy, not for any of us. At least I’m not locked out of my country, like you.’
I hung up the glass cloth on the row of hooks next to the sink.
‘Thank you,’ I said to her. ‘I actually enjoyed that.’
I’d unhooked my mackintosh from the back of the door and was about to leave, when a voice from the front called, ‘Berenice?’
‘Pierre! Just wait a moment.’
She ushered me towards the door. The young man who’d just come in had an anxious, harried look and was stepping from foot to foot. She put a hand on his arm, and I saw her whisper something to him as she passed.
‘Your debt’s paid, Édouard,’ she said to me. ‘But I hope you won’t be a stranger, now you’ve found us.’
‘Not if that cassoulet was anything to go by.’ I bent to embrace her in the French way, kissing the air either side of her cheeks. As I walked away, I heard the door being locked. I turned to see her and the man Pierre in the light of the window. They were in earnest conversation. Perhaps he was her son? He had the same high forehead and he looked too young to be a lover. Something about the way his eyes darted around the café, as if checking no one else was there, arrested my attention.
CHAPTER 8
The next day I opened the folder and began work on the translations. There was a note telling me I would be issued with further files in due course. I assumed someone would come by and deliver them or further orders would appear. The documents I’d to translate seemed to be radio transmissions, some in French, some in English. They were weirdly cryptic. ‘The swan has flown.’ ‘Meet Laura at the usual place after the opera.’
Other documents were official notices. Mostly orders about rationing and curfews, and the language of these made me smile. They were so typically Prussian, and sounded horribly stilted translated directly into French. The French had a much more relaxed way of expressing orders.
I was enjoying the work. After three weeks of square bashing, it was a relief to use my brain. Late in the morning, I came to one that had ‘urgent’ attached to it with a paperclip. It was a list of orders. I scanned it, translating and then typing into formal French as I went, but the words ceased to be just words and suddenly loomed into sense. I paused, elbow on table, resting my head into my hand. Was this really what I was reading?
The Executive Order on Family and Personal Names requires Jews bearing first names of ‘non-Jewish’ origin to adopt an additional name: ‘Israel’ for men and ‘Sara’ for women.
Were they serious? Had it come to this, that they were really expecting people to change their names?
The Decree on the Confiscation of Jewish Property stipulates the transfer of assets from Jews to non-Jews. The Decree concerning the Surrender of Precious Metals and Gems currently in Jewish Ownership requires Jews to turn in these items to the state without compensation.
Without compensation? Surely not? It was sheer robbery. There was more.
The Decree on the Exclusion of Jews from French Economic Life stipulates that all Jewish-owned businesses be immediately closed.
The Reich Ministry of the Interior herewith invalidates all German passports held by Jews. Jews must surrender their old passports, which will become valid again once the letter ‘J’ has been stamped on them.
I stood up from the table. I knew there was anti-Jewish feeling in Germany, for my brother Horst was not the only one who felt strongly that Jews were the cause of all Germany’s hardships. Schulz, too, had expressed the same opinion. But on Jersey things were different; one of Céline’s best friends, Rachel, was a Jew, and nobody thought anything of it.
Now the stark reality of what that meant was right in front of me. I squirmed, deeply uncomfortable. It was all very well and good in Germany, but now the same rules were to apply in France? I didn’t want to be responsible for writing down these orders in French.
On impulse, I took the German document and tore it in half. If the paper never existed, I wouldn’t have to translate it. I knew this was dodging the dilemma I was in, even as I held the pieces of torn paper in my hands.
A knock at the door.
God in heaven. Panic-stricken, I started to shred the paper into tiny pieces.
More thumping at the door.
Hastily, I scooped the bits off the table into the waste bin and scrumpled up a page of the troops guide to Paris and thrust it down on top.
When I opened the door I was breathless. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I didn’t hear the door.’ I felt heat rise to my face. What a stupid excuse. The first thing I saw was a German uniform. Then I realised it was the thin-faced man who’d been at the café last night. I opened the door to let him in.
He introduced himself in German. ‘Leutnant Freitag. I’ve orders to take you to the Avenue Foch,’ he said. I must have looked blank, because he said, ‘Sicherheitsdienst.’
Security headquarters. Could they know what I’d just done? Of course not. I was just jumpy, that was all. I forced myself to smile and look relaxed.
‘Shall I bring my work with me?’
He shrugged. ‘They didn’t say. So yes, friend, better had.’
I gathered up the papers and my translations. To make conversation, I said, ‘You were at Les Deux Pigeons last night, weren’t you? I was at the next table.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Were you there? I didn’t see you.’
I was beneath his notice, he meant.
‘The food there’s not bad, is it?’ Freitag said. ‘Over-priced to us Germans of course. Not a patch on Maxim’s, or Lafage’s, but all right if you want something simple. Though the servic
e is terrible. They should employ a few young waitresses. That woman who owns it is so surly. Ugly too.’
I made no comment, because I’d rather liked Berenice.
‘What happened to your eye?’
‘I fell over,’ I said. This was so manifestly untrue that I saw him trying to find a reply.
‘How are you finding your apartment?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘But I have no ration book. It must have been an oversight, and I can’t eat without one. It caused some awkwardness at the café.’
‘You are sure? You haven’t misplaced it?’
‘Quite sure. I should have been issued with one.’
He frowned. He obviously didn’t like me remarking on the army’s inadequacies.
‘This way,’ he said, tersely, holding open the door. ‘You need to look as if I’m taking you somewhere to question you. Understand?’
I locked up and he escorted me to the waiting car. There was less traffic on the road since I was last in Paris, and all seemed to be driven by uniformed men. Hundreds of bicycles lined the streets and pavements though, so I guessed that petrol was rationed to the occupying forces only.
If Frenchmen were in any doubt of who was in charge, the National Assembly building soon put them right. A huge banner shouted in capital letters: DEUTSCHLAND SIEGT AN ALLEN FRONTEN! — Germany is victorious on all fronts! To me the sign exemplified the hectoring manner of Hitler and the Nazi Party, and made me sigh and shake my head.
‘What’s the matter?’ Freitag asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just a little tired.’
The Avenue Foch was a wide tree-lined boulevard close to the Arc de Triomphe, and we pulled up outside a substantial five-storey building. All the wrought-iron balconies on the whole row were hung with the obligatory red and black. One of the flags had come adrift and was flapping at half-mast.
The Occupation Page 7