‘I’m having a really delightful time, that’s what.’
He turned round, his elegant silken dinner jacket giving a quick flash of a brilliant scarlet lining.
‘Walter, I told you he’d be here. Bruno, my dear, you know my friend, Walter, of course. But let’s be formal, I know how much protocol matters to you military boys. Lieutenant-Colonel Fiebelkorn, may I have the honour of presenting you to Major Bruno Zeller?’
Mai saw the delight trembling through Melchior’s whole body as he made the introduction. Even clearer was the fury that held Zeller stiff, his fists clenched so tight that the silver signet ring stood out like a weapon. Melchior could live to rue the day he had made the major an enemy.
But as Günter Mai looked at the SS colonel’s impassive face and unblinking watery gaze, he felt a sudden certainty that it had been a far more dangerous day for Melchior when he had made Fiebelkorn his friend.
Across the room, a gorgeous French film star fanned her nearly naked breasts and complained how warm it was. A gallant Panzer officer immediately leant forward, drew back the heavy brocaded curtains and began to wrestle with a window.
‘The black-out! Remember the black-out!’ called someone.
‘The black-out?’ said the Panzer officer. ‘Why bother? There’s no danger up there unless Churchill starts sending trained pigeons from Trafalgar Square!’
There was a burst of laughter which became general as this shaft of Aryan wit was passed around the room and for a while the open curtain was forgotten, allowing the brilliance of the many chandeliers to spill its diamantine glory into the darkness outside.
A crowd had gathered earlier in the Rue de Lille to see the notables arrive, but as midnight approached, despite a rumoured assurance that the curfew would be suspended for this night, most of the watchers had drifted away to their own houses and their own meditations on the dying year.
A few remained, however. Among them was Janine Simonian. She had felt compelled to get out of Sophie’s tiny flat that night. She’d let herself drift but hadn’t been surprised to find herself in the University quarter. She had been brought here first by Jean-Paul. It was here that her eyes had been opened to a world outside the bakery, a world of ideas and imagination, of criticism and curiosity. Finally the memories had become too much and to escape them she joined the watchers in the Rue de Lille.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked someone.
‘It’s a ball, just like the old days,’ was the reply.
At that moment the curtain was drawn back and the spectators could see right into the reception hall. Music drifted out, and laughter. Elegant women in expensive clothes were drinking with attentive men in formal evening dress or colourful dress uniforms. It was a scene of assurance and power; it stated more forcibly than marching troops or rumbling gun carriages that we, here, inside, are the conquerors and will be for ever; while you, outside, are for ever the conquered.
A flurry of snow passed overhead, leaving flakes on her cheeks like tears. The last watchers began to depart. Someone said, ‘Happy New Year,’ but no one replied.
Janine said, ‘Jean-Paul, wherever you are, Happy New Year, my love.’
Then she too turned and walked slowly away from the light.
PART THREE
February—December 1941
Dans une telle situation, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte.
Madame du Deffand
1
If it wasn’t the coldest February in years, to most Frenchmen it felt like it.
Monsieur Édouard Scheffer of Strasbourg sat in the Café Balzac near the Quai de Grenelle métro station and shivered. Not even two thicknesses of overcoat, a Homburg hat and frequent additions to his vile coffee from a gun-metal hip flask could keep him warm. The patron, who valued his custom, was apologetic. He and Monsieur Scheffer had done a few small blackmarket deals in the couple of months since Miche the Butcher had introduced them, so he was sure that Monsieur would appreciate the problem of fuel shortage.
The seated man nodded and thought of his beautifully warm room at the Lutétia. Bruno Zeller would never undertake assignments which involved freezing to death. In fairness it was difficult to imagine Zeller being able to pass himself off as anything other than a German officer, but just now Günter Mai didn’t feel like being fair.
The door opened. Two figures entered. One was Boucher, the other was the girl. Boucher peered down the long shadowy room in search of him. He always sat at the furthermost end near the kitchen door, partly for security, partly to avoid the draught.
Now Boucher saw him. Spoke to the girl. Pointed.
She looked, saw, recognized.
In that instant he could see she’d had no idea who she was going to meet. He’d assumed Boucher would have told her, and he’d been surprised when nevertheless the redhead had confirmed the meet was on. But all that he’d read into this was that the girl was desperate, and desperate people made easy recruits.
She was trying to leave but her cousin was hanging on to her arm. Mai willed him to let her go. If she was forced to confront him now, his cover could be blown and he found Édouard Scheffer very useful.
She was coming. Damn. He signalled the patron to bring more coffee. The girl arrived and glowered down at him.
‘Darling, how good to see you. Not still angry with me, are you?’
She was taken aback. The patron, arriving with the coffee, grinned lecherously, scenting a lovers’ quarrel. Angrily she sat in the chair he ostentatiously pulled out for her.
Mai took out his flask and poured an ounce of liquor into her glass.
‘I don’t like schnapps,’ she said. But he noted with approval that she waited till the patron retired out of earshot.
‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘That’s why I carry cognac.’
She drank, enjoyed, didn’t try to hide it. Or perhaps couldn’t. Not the best quality of a prospective agent, an inability to hide your feelings, thought Mai. Still he wasn’t really thinking of her as a Mata Hari.
‘I didn’t know it was you,’ said Janine.
‘You wouldn’t have come?’ asked Mai.
She shook her head then added, ‘Not because of the shop, what happened that time, but…’
‘Because I’m not a general, someone important? I take your point.’
She was much calmer now. It didn’t surprise him. This was what he was noted for - baiting, hooking, playing, and not so much landing the little fish as persuading it to jump out of the water.
He produced his pipe, held it up in a token request for permission, and lit it. Women often found a pipe reassuring.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Someone important.’
He studied her through his pipe smoke. On her entry to the café he had thought she was plumper than he remembered. Now he realized that like himself she was just wearing several layers of clothes against the cold and was in fact rather thinner than he recalled. It was a good face, not beautiful but intriguing, full of life and mobility despite the wasting effects of this long winter.
‘Don’t you even want to talk about your problem?’ he asked.
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh? You’ve managed to track down Corporal Jean-Paul Simonian of the Light Infantry then?’
She went red with shock and anger.
‘He shouldn’t have told you,’ she said. ‘He had no right.’
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ said Mai. ‘I got the details elsewhere.’
For a moment she looked puzzled then it dawned.
‘Maman!’ she said. ‘She’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?’
He was right. She was no fool. He nodded.
‘Mothers like to talk about their children,’ he said. ‘Even when they quarrel. She doesn’t blame you. She told me you were on edge because you’d no idea what had happened to your husband. So when Miche said you had a problem, I guessed.’
‘Very clever,’ said Janine. ‘What else did mam
an say? That I’d be better off if Jean-Paul never came back?’
Mai shrugged, a good French shrug.
‘He mightn’t, you know that? In fact it’s the likeliest explanation.’
‘Of course I know that.’
Her anger had faded. She drank her spiked coffee. He drew on his pipe. He could see she was building an equation, checking what it meant. At last she shook her head. There was neither relief nor disappointment in her voice when she spoke.
‘This is a waste of time. For both of us. I’ll be honest with you. Since Miche arranged this meeting, I’ve been wondering why any German should even think of helping me. There’s only one possible reason. He’d want me to agree to be an informer, a spy, something like that.’
She paused. He asked, ‘And what had you decided?’
‘I decided anyone who got me as a spy would have made a bad bargain,’ she said with an unexpected flash of humour. ‘Though I suppose, now that I know Miche’s boss isn’t a stranger, there could be another possibility.’
It took him a couple of seconds to work it out. He had to make an effort to keep the surprise out of his face, but Janine put his thoughts into words.
‘But I daresay that German officers have found easier ways of getting girls. Anyway, the point is, now I’ve seen you, there’s no point. I can’t see a mere lieutenant being any more useful to me than the Red Cross or a Vichy deputy. So thank you for the drink and goodbye.’ She rose to leave.
He didn’t try to stop her.
She walked straight past Boucher at the bar without saying a word.
‘Hey, Janine,’ he cried, going after her. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded as he overtook her in the street. ‘Won’t he help?’
‘He’s a lieutenant, Miche. A nobody. You should have told me. What can someone like that do?’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said walking fast to keep up with her. ‘You’re probably right. Except that he strikes me as a clever sod, despite appearances, and my mate, Pajou - he’s the one who got me the job - he reckons old Günter really runs half the show at the Lutétia.’
She stopped and turned to face him.
‘This job of yours, what is it exactly?’ she asked.
‘It’s all above board,’ he assured her. ‘We help the authorities recover things. Food that’s been hoarded, valuables that have been hidden, illegally I mean.’
‘You help the Boche to loot!’
‘No,’ he said with genuine indignation. ‘It’s just recovery. People abandon their houses, make no proper provision for storing delicate antiques, the authorities take care of them.’
‘Rich Jews’ villas, you mean? And what do you know about delicate antiques, Miche?’
He grinned and said, ‘Not much. But they have experts to deal with things like that. And it’s not just Jewish stuff either. I reckon it’s a lot of rubbish this stuff about the Boche being down on the Jews. So there’s a bit of trouble sometimes, but there’s never been any shortage of our lot ready to have a go at the Jews. Ask your mum-in-law. I bet she can tell a tale or two. It just goes to show.’
It struck Janine that what her cousin was really wanting to show was that he was quite justified in working for the Germans. And it struck her also that she was feeling rather holier-than-thou for someone who had lain awake all night debating just what she would agree to in return for hard information about Jean-Paul.
But it had all been a waste of time. She was running out of hope. That was the point she was trying to steer away from in this idle chatter with Miche.
She didn’t realize she was crying till Miche said, ‘Hey come on. No weeping. Not outside anyway. You’ll get icicles on your cheeks. Let’s get you home. Tell you what, why don’t I use my influence and see if I can dig you up some proper fuel, and perhaps a kilo of best steak so you can all feast your faces tonight?’
He dropped her in the Rue de Thorigny promising to be back within the hour. He meant it too. Miche the Butcher had a soft heart. But he was even softer when it came to resolution.
As he drove along the Rue Montmartre toward his well-stocked, well-fuelled apartment, he saw a familiar small but exquisitely packed figure, swaying along beneath an explosion of golden hair.
‘Arlette!’ he called. ‘Arlette! How’s it going?’
She looked in surprise at the impressive car pulling into the kerb, then recognized Boucher.
‘Miche, it’s you. God, you’re doing all right, aren’t you?’
‘Not bad,’ he grinned. ‘Long time, no see.’
In fact he hadn’t seen Arlette since she’d put him up when he came back to Paris last June. They’d parted in a quarrel. He recalled throwing some very nasty names at her, not because she’d needed him out of her room so that she could ply her trade, but because he realized her new customers were Germans.
Well, he’d been a patriot then. Still was, only the Marshal had changed the shape of patriotism.
‘Fancy a drink?’ he said.
‘Why not? My place or yours?’
Hélène was at his place. She was dancing tonight and liked to have a good rest. He’d been quite looking forward to disturbing her. On the other hand it would probably be a kindness not to.
‘Yours,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’
Janine had watched him drive away: assertive, positive, athletic. She’d felt envious. What must it be like to be a man and be able to adapt your environment to your needs instead of having to mould your needs to your environment! These men could do anything! Finding a lost husband, or providing food and fuel within the hour, it was all one to them.
But as she shivered hungrily to bed that night, she made a bitter adjustment to her conclusion.
Promising to find a husband; promising to provide warmth and nourishment; promising to come back from the wars safe and sound and soon; it was these resounding promises that were all one to them. All vibrant with sincerity, and all completely vain.
2
It was an April evening, but the wind that met Christian Valois head on as he cycled back to the family apartment in Passy was full of sleet. He carried his bike up the stairs and into the apartment with him. Cars had practically vanished from the streets. There was little petrol to be had and, in any case, you needed a special Ausweis from the Germans to use one, so bikes were now pricey enough to attract the professional thief.
As he took off his sodden coat, the phone rang.
The line was poor and the female voice at the other end was faint and intermittent.
‘Hello! Hello! I can’t hear you. Who is that?’
Suddenly the interference went and the voice came loud and clear.
‘It’s me, your sister, idiot!’
‘Marie-Rose! Hello. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Listen, quickly, in case we get cut off. Are you coming down this weekend? Please, you must, it’s my birthday, or had you forgotten?’
She was seventeen on Saturday. Seventeen. A good age, even in awful times. But could he bear to go to Vichy? His parents had urged him frequently to join them, or at least to come for a visit. So far he had refused. But Marie-Rose’s birthday was different. Despite her youthful impertinence his sister adored him and he was very fond of her.
He said, ‘I don’t know. The weather, it’s so awful…’
‘Damn the weather! Please, please, it won’t be the same without you.’
‘I’ll see,’ he said. ‘I won’t promise but I’ll see.’
Shortly afterwards they were cut off.
The next morning, spring finally exploded with all the violence of energy too long restrained. On the Friday afternoon, he caught the train to Vichy.
At the crossing point into the Free Zone, they were all ordered out to have their papers checked. Valois had had no difficulty in getting an Ausweis. When your father was a Vichy deputy and you were a respectable civil servant, you were regarded as quite safe, he thought moodily.
Not everyone was as lucky. Somewhere along the platform an argument had br
oken out. Voices were raised, German and French. Suddenly a middle-aged man in a dark business suit broke away from a group of German soldiers, ran a little way down the platform, then scrambled beneath the train.
Valois jumped into the nearest carriage to look out of the further window. The man was on his feet again, running across the tracks. He was no athlete and he was already labouring. A voice cried, ‘Halt!’ He kept going. A gun rattled twice. He flung up his arms and fell.
He wasn’t dead, but hit in the leg. Two soldiers ran up to him and pulled him upright. He screamed every time his injured leg touched the ground as he half-hopped and was half-dragged the length of the train to bring him back round to the platform.
Valois turned furiously from the window and made for the platform door. There was a man sitting in the compartment who must have got back in after him.
He said, ‘I shouldn’t bother.’
Valois paused, realizing he recognized the man.
‘I’m sorry? It’s Maître Delaplanche, isn’t it?’
‘You recognize me?’
The lawyer’s face, which was the living proof of his Breton peasant ancestry, screwed up in mock alarm.
‘You’re often in the papers, and I attended several meetings you spoke at when I was a student.’
‘Did you? Ah yes. I seem to recall you now.’ Face screwed up again in an effort of recollection as unconvincing as his alarm. ‘Valois, isn’t it? Christian Valois. Of course. I knew your father when he practised, before politics took him over.’
Delaplanche was well known in legal circles as a pleader of underdog causes. Whenever an individual challenged the State, his opinion if not his counsel would be sought. He had spoken on a variety of socialist platforms but always refused to put the weight of his reputation behind any programme except in his own words, ‘the quest for justice’.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Valois. ‘Excuse me.’
‘I shouldn’t bother,’ repeated the lawyer as Valois opened the door on to the platform. ‘I presume you’re going to make a fuss about the chap they’ve just shot? I’ll tell you his story. His papers were obviously forged. He made a run for it and got shot. He’ll turn out to be a blackmarketeer, or an unregistered Jew, or perhaps even an enemy agent. All you’ll do is draw attention to yourself and get either yourself or, worse still, the whole train delayed here a lot longer.’
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