‘You’ll be in touch?’ she said, clearly eager to be rid of him.
‘Yes,’ he said.
She walked swiftly away, not once looking back.
9
A cold October wind rattled leaves like bones down the side of the synagogue.
‘Jesus, I’m frozen,’ said Michel Boucher stamping his feet. ‘Where is the little bastard?’
The little bastard was Pajou, who had just clambered through a forced window at the back of the building. It was size not courage which had got Pajou elected. The other three men in the group, though not as large as Boucher, were all well bulked with beer bellies. Boucher thought they were a dead loss. He’d been amazed at first to discover they weren’t even getting paid. The Mouvement Social Révolutionnaire, they called themselves.
‘I’ve never heard of it,’ he told Mai in the weekly briefing he gave the Abwehr lieutenant on SD plans. ‘Have you?’
Mai had smiled and nodded and made another note.
‘He’s here,’ said one of the MSR men excitedly. ‘He’s here.’
‘All right. Calm down. Let’s get on. And for God’s sake, not so much noise!’
He’d thought at first there wouldn’t be much need for stealth. But Pajou had put him right. Even though it was an SD operation in origin, for some reason the Fritzes wanted to keep right in the background and hadn’t even tipped their own Boche military patrols the wink to keep out of the way. It was all very puzzling. What did occur to him was that if he could lead this bunch of dynamite-laden idiots round the city without getting picked up, then it shouldn’t be too hard for Resistance groups wanting to blow up the Boche to do the same. But he kept this thought to himself.
Inside, for a little while the darkened solemnity of the synagogue seemed to affect even the MSR men. Then one of them farted and the others laughed.
‘Here, Paj, how the hell have we got mixed up with these jokers?’ asked Boucher.
‘You’re getting paid, aren’t you? Let’s get these fuses laid. And keep that lot away from the detonators!’ retorted Pajou.
The little man proved to be expert in the laying of charges and rounded off the job by setting a clockwork timing device.
‘Aren’t we going to see this shit-heap blow up then?’ asked one of the MSR men, disappointed.
‘There’s more to do,’ retorted Pajou. ‘Once one goes up, the gendarmerie will likely check up on others, so we don’t want to warn ‘em, do we? You can watch the last one!’
As they passed silently through the door, Boucher glanced back, feeling again the peace and solemnity of the place. What’s the point of it all? he wondered.
Then he felt the weight of the piece of silver plate he had pushed inside his leather tunic and thought, well, mebbe it’s not all been a wasted effort!
That night six synagogues were blown up and a seventh, where the saboteur’s charges didn’t go off, was destroyed by the military for ‘reasons of public safety’ the following day.
In the collaborationist press the outrage was reported as the protest of ordinary Frenchmen, indignant at the slowness of the anti-Jewish reforms promised by their new military partners.
‘But I told you what was going to happen!’ fumed Günter Mai. ‘Didn’t you pass it on to your chums at the Majestic?’
‘Don’t be insubordinate, Günter!’ warned Zeller. ‘Of course I passed it on.’
‘Then why didn’t they stop it?’
‘How? By putting a permanent Wehrmacht guard on all the synagogues in Paris? Think of how that would have looked back in Berlin!’
‘At least they could have used our advance warning to make sure everybody knows who really organized this.’
Zeller sighed wearily and said, ‘You disappoint me, Günter. This is like burning the Reichstag. Of course everyone knows who really did it, but private knowledge and public acknowledgement are very different things. No, the SD have done well for themselves here. They’ve put the Military Governor in an impossible position either way. So, despite your excellent advance intelligence, it’s one in the eye for the Abwehr too.’
‘Listen, sir,’ said Mai urgently. ‘It isn’t just a game between us and them, is it? There is a war on and none of this is helping us to win it! There’s England uninvaded, Russia sucking up our troops like an ant-eater sucks up ants, America sitting waiting till someone gives her the push to join the war, and what’s happening here in France? We’re spying on the SD who are trying to undermine the Military Governor’s authority at the same time as they play into the hands of the Resistance by initiating a reign of terror! We’re going to have to conquer this sodding country all over again, has anyone told the Führer that?’
Zeller stood up and waggled his finger in his ear.
‘Strange how deaf I’m getting,’ he said. ‘Hardly caught a word of all that! Günter, take care of yourself, dear boy.’
He went out. Mai smiled after him. His indignation was genuinely felt, but, sober, he was not in the habit of letting his emotions control his mind. But he had to be quite sure where he stood with Zeller and a little controlled indiscretion was the best way of checking on that. The way things were going, he could see a hard road ahead and he needed to be sure who was walking along it behind him.
Later that day he was sitting having a drink with Michel Boucher, debriefing him about the aftermath of the synagogue burning.
‘Fiebelkorn’s going around like a dog with two cocks,’ he said. ‘They all are. Me, I don’t get it. What’s so clever about letting off a bit of dynamite?’
‘I can’t say, Miche,’ said Mai, who found Boucher’s political thought processes at once naïve and impenetrable. ‘We’ll keep in touch, eh?’
‘Sure. Talking of which, Auntie Lou was wondering if she’d offended you somehow. Says you’ve not been into the shop for ages.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘That’s what I said. I expect she’s just worried she’ll mebbe not get her next lot of extra flour. I told her I’d fix her up if you let her down, but I don’t think she liked my prices. Cousin Jan was asking after you too.’
‘Was she? Why?’ snapped Mai, guilt making him aggressive.
‘No need to get ratty! I think she’s still hoping you might be able to help with finding Jean-Paul, that’s all.’
So at least the girl had had the sense to keep the news of her husband’s survival to herself. Probably that was Valois’s idea.
‘It’s not easy,’ he said.
‘I didn’t reckon it would be,’ said Boucher. ‘Might cost a bit, I told Janine a while back. Only, make sure you get value for money.’
He knows, thought Mai. Or at least, he’s guessed.
He’d made a conscious effort to avoid meeting Janine ever since he’d raped her. Yes, that was the right word; went to bed with, made love to, had sex with, none of these phrases would do. The act had been brief, brutish and against her wish if not her will; it deserved the most unadorned of verbs. The memory of the encounter filled him with shame.
And yet, amidst the shame, vibrating on the edges of these pangs of self-reproach, he could recognize, had to acknowledge, desire. He wanted to do it again, not as it had happened last time, but with her body compliant and consenting and receiving as well as giving pleasure. He found himself thinking of Jean-Paul Simonian with furious resentment. For God’s sake, it was almost like being jealous of the man.
‘I’ll be on my way then,’ said Boucher.
‘All right. Look, if you see Janine, tell her…’
‘No need,’ interrupted Boucher with a grin. ‘Tell her yourself. I mentioned I’d be seeing you in here today. That’s her just come in. See you, lieutenant!’
He rose and left, exchanging a brief word with his cousin en route. She came straight to the table and sat down. Mai found he was packing his pipe so full that strands of tobacco drooped down from the bowl. He expected her tone to be accusatory but when she spoke, her voice was hesitant, almost apologetic.
‘I hope you don’t mind. Miche said you’d be here. I know it must be hard to get things moving. Miche said, a man in your position, well, you’d need to be careful. I appreciate that, I really do, only as I knew you were going to be here, and time goes by, and we’ve still not heard a thing…’
She looked at him with a confident expectation that was harder for Mai to take than recrimination and despair.
In fact Janine was feeling far from confident. In some ways she was a shrewd judge of people and what had prompted her to be so frank with this stocky Boche with the filthy pipe and the probing eyes was a feeling that he was the kind of man who kept his bargains. But the nature of their bargain bothered her and paradoxically it was her trust in her judgement which was making her feel increasingly doubtful of his dependability. She looked at him now and couldn’t see in him the kind of man who would look for the cheap, speedy thrill he must have got in that squalid room above the café. He looked so comfortable and domestic. But you couldn’t tell just by looking. Who could look at me and tell that I’m nothing but a tart? she asked herself scornfully.
She said, ‘Please, how is he…?’
‘He’s very well,’ said Mai confidently. ‘He’s almost back to full health. And he’s in no danger. But I’ve got to be careful not to attract attention to him.’
It was all lies, though it might of course be accurate. He hadn’t made any more enquiries about Jean-Paul since he and Janine had last met. He’d simply tried to suppress the whole affair in his mind. Now she had revived it, damn her.
He left the woman abruptly with a promise that he’d see what could be done.
He wrestled with the problem a week longer. The stupid thing was, it wasn’t really a problem. The only way he could get Jean-Paul released officially was either to confide in, or lie to, Zeller and process an official Abwehr request. The dangers were too great, to Jean-Paul as well as to his own career. Or was it simply that he didn’t want Simonian released?
After another ten days of intermittent soul-searching, it occurred to him that he could do one thing at least. There was no need to keep on withholding Simonian’s mail.
Having once made up his mind, he acted swiftly, authorizing a direct phone call to Erhard, the doctor in charge of ‘Simon’.
‘Give him the letters, you say? Good. About time. It’s an act of sadism, keeping them from him. More Gestapo than Abwehr, I would once have said.’
Erhard was a prickly outspoken man, not the best qualities for survival, even in a doctor.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Mai. ‘It was regrettably necessary. But no longer.’
‘I expect you’ll want to know how he reacts to his letters,’ demanded Erhard grumblingly.
‘No. No need,’ said Mai. ‘You’ve done enough. Thank you.’
‘Oh?’ This gentle response seemed to take some of the steam out of the doctor. ‘Very well. It’s just that pretty soon we’re going to have to make our minds up and his reaction here might help.’
‘Make up your minds about what?’
‘About where he goes next. No point in keeping him here much longer. We need the bed.’
‘And what are the alternatives?’
‘POW camp or medical repatriation, of course. Not that there’s much choice in this case, whatever I say. Unless there’s some vital part clearly missing our admin. chief is impossible to convince, so it’s the long road east for this poor bastard. It should be a medical decision, not some file-farting pen-pusher’s!’
‘He’ll surely review the evidence first,’ said Mai mildly.
‘You would say that,’ snorted Erhard. ‘Two of a kind. This fellow keeps on trying to get transferred to Intelligence. That’s where the real work’s done, he says. Same bloody work, as far as I can see. Gathering information you don’t know what to do with. No wonder he admires you lot. All bureaucrats under the skin!’
Here it was again, the voice of that ironic God he’d heard already in the Café Balzac, though this time disguised in the bitter tones of an over-worked doctor.
‘I wonder if you could get this call transferred to your admin. officer?’ said Mai.
Ten minutes later it was done. No official forms, file records, or signed requests. Hints, hesitations and half-promises, the dialect of deception which Mai seemed to have been speaking since childhood.
‘You’re looking pleased with yourself, Günter,’ said Zeller, entering the room. ‘Up to something wicked?’
‘On the contrary, major,’ said Mai with a smile.
10
Soon it was time for the French to celebrate their first full year as a subject race. In December Maurice Melchior went to a party given by Serge Yerevan at his villa in Auteil.
It was the kind of party he’d once dreamt of, crowded with social and artistic luminaries. Normally Melchior would have revelled in simply rubbing shoulders with such people but somehow tonight he felt out of sorts with this flashy, lively world so much at odds with the reality of life for most Parisians. When a very distant acquaintance in the theatre said to him coldly, ‘Ah, Melchior, I heard you’d been doing well for yourself. Clearly the new regime likes the cut of your bum,’ he’d flashed back angrily, ‘Perhaps, monsieur. But at least I can conduct my business without having to crawl up German arseholes on the Champs-Élysées every time I move!’
This reference to the need for everything that was printed, produced, played or displayed to be approved by the Propaganda Abteilung on the Champs-Élysées caused a little upset. There was no German presence at the party, and a lot of stupid-Boche stories had been flying around, and generally speaking nearly everyone there was busy assuring everyone else that they were all good patriotic Frenchmen.
Yerevan covered the moment by inviting his guests to look at some rushes from his latest film. In the darkness he squeezed Melchior’s shoulder and whispered, ‘Hush, little Maurice. It’s cruel to remind these poor cunts of what they are. Stay behind after they’ve gone. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.’
Business? wondered Melchior. Or could it be that the signals he’d been sending out for some time were at last getting their answer? That Yerevan was bisexual was well known, but for the past few months he’d seemed quite content with Ribot.
When the party reached the point where it was going to turn either sentimental or orgiastic, Yerevan opted for the former, making a little speech about Christmas and absent friends and the gift of freedom, after which he sat at a piano and started to play carols. His guests joined in, raucously at first, but soon with tears in their eyes.
At eleven it was time for the party to break up. The curfew operated even for these people. Probably by inviting a few Germans, Yerevan could have provided everyone with an Ausweis, but he’d preferred not to.
‘I can see my friends collaborating any day,’ he explained later to Melchior. ‘It’s much more amusing to see them being patriotic.’
Melchior glanced uneasily at Ribot. He’d been held back from the general exodus by the director’s hand on his arm. Now the big-nippled actress was glowering resentfully at him, making it clear he’d overstayed her welcome at least.
‘You look tired, my dear,’ said Yerevan to her. ‘Why don’t you turn in?’
This considerate suggestion was received like a threat. Pale with anger, the woman rose and stalked out of the room without a good night.
‘Women,’ said Yerevan, smiling. ‘They don’t know the difference between true sensitivity and pique, do they? Now, business. With Japan and America in the war, I’m a little concerned that the eastern trade routes may be blocked up. I’d like to be certain you can help.’
He was talking about opium.
‘No problem,’ assured Melchior. ‘Do you want to talk prices now?’
‘Later, later. In the morning will do,’ said Yerevan, waving his hand dismissively. ‘I just wanted reassurance. Don’t you sometimes wish you were ordinary, Maurice? Still, God makes us all the way we are, and we mustn’t quarrel with hi
s disposition, must we? Come now. You’ll stay the night, of course?’
He rose and offered his hand. Melchior took it and rose too. He hoped that Yerevan wasn’t regarding tonight as in any sense a down payment. He might be the king of crime movies but a real life gangster like Miche the Butcher would probably come as something of a shock.
As they went up the stairs hand in hand, Maurice said, ‘All that Christmas stuff from you came as a bit of a surprise.’
‘Why so? We mustn’t be bigots. After all, he was a good Jewish boy. And he’s an example to us all.’
‘How so?’
‘He reminds us not to forget what most Gentiles would like to do to good Jewish boys!’
He opened a door leading into a sumptuously furnished bedroom.
‘In these hard times,’ he said seriously, ‘we good Jewish boys must stick together.’
‘Oh, I do hope not!’ said Melchior.
Laughing, they went into the bedroom.
On the last day of the year, a train from the east pulled into the rain-lashed station at Compiègne. The platform was crowded with hopeful relatives and helpers from various voluntary agencies. There were supposed to be two carriages of repatriated prisoners on the train, but a murmur of disappointment rose above the wind as it was realized there was only one.
Janine had scanned every window as the train decelerated past.
‘I can’t see him,’ she said wretchedly to Christian Valois. ‘He hasn’t come.’
‘Don’t be silly!’ he said confidently. ‘Of course he’ll come. You can’t have seen everyone!’
Uncomforted, she leaned against him and pressed her face into his shoulder. He tried to ignore the pressure of her body and concentrate on scanning the figures who were beginning to emerge from the train. He wanted desperately to spot the dear familiar figure of his friend, yet the thought kept on slipping into his mind that with Jean-Paul’s return would vanish all excuse for the kind of contact, indeed for the close relationship, he and Janine were enjoying now. Jean-Paul had brought them together; now Jean-Paul would separate them. It was a good thing, he assured himself. There’d been a couple of times when he’d come close to overstepping the limits of a fraternal embrace. Thank God he had had the strength to resist. The double meaning of the phrase occurred to him and he smiled. He could think of the German he’d killed now with no qualms at all. Indeed, as he watched the line of bandaged and limping figures being helped from the train, he even felt pride.
The Collaborators Page 14