Murder in the Marais

by Black, Cara

  “He said you’d try…,” Thierry sputtered.

  “And you are a Jew.”

  Thierry stopped dead. “What are you talking about?”

  “Technically,” Aimee continued, “since you were born of a Jewish mother. Judaism follows matriarchal lines. But you’re German too since your father was an occupying soldier. Probably Si-Po, responsible for the Gestapo who pursued enemies of the Reich.”

  He shook his head. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Read it,” she said.

  Doubt flickered in his eyes.

  “Nathalie wanted you to know your real parentage, Thierry,” Aimee said. “Her soul couldn’t rest after her promise. Secretly, it hurt her to see you hate the Jews. Especially…”

  Thierry grabbed the letter out of her hands. He went to the window and read it. For what seemed an eternity, she heard the monotonous tick of the kitchen clock.

  “How could this be true?” His eyes flashed at Aimee. He sat down and reread the letter. “All these years? Lies, a pack of lies! Is this why she drank?”

  “I can’t answer that,” she said. She caught his wild gaze and held it. “How does this involve Lili?”

  “How would I know?” Thierry’s voice dropped. “Nothing makes sense. It’s like I’ve been hit by a wave in the ocean and my feet can’t touch the sand. I don’t know which way is up for air.” Then he asked simply, “Why didn’t they ever tell me I wasn’t theirs?”

  He looked devastated. Even though she felt sorry for him, she still had to know the truth.

  “Did you kill Lili? Make an example of her death?” She watched him closely.

  He shook his head. “From an airplane? I told you, I flew in from…”

  “Who did it?” she interrupted.

  “Someone’s trying to frame me,” he said. He began rummaging through papers near the window.

  “What are you looking for, Thierry?”

  “Something that tells me who I really am.” Thierry picked up papers, never taking his eyes off her. “All this reveals is…” But he couldn’t say it.

  “That your mother was Jewish and your father a Nazi?” she finished for him.

  “What does this mean?” Thierry said with a strange look. He pulled Nathalie Rambuteau’s photo out of the silver frame and lifted up a scrap of paper. “Is this my Jew name?” He thrust it at Aimee.

  She took it. Sarah Tovah Strauss, nee April 12, 1928, was printed on a yellowed, otherwise blank scrap of paper.

  “Can you believe that?” he said. “Even with all my work in Les Blancs Nationaux I’ve never really felt like a Nazi,” he laughed.

  He hurled the frame on the floor. Nathalie Rambuteau stared up, filtered by glittering shards of glass.

  “Maybe that’s because I’m half-Jew,” he said.

  SHE HATED going to the Archives of France but if any record of Sarah Tovah Strauss existed, besides in the Centre de Documentation Juive Contemporaine where it was not, that was the only place it would be. The old palace, glacially cold and littered with rodent droppings in its corners, was open late on Wednesdays. Napoleon’s records and Nazi documentation along with most of French history filled much of the adjoining mansions, hôtel de Soubise and hôtel de Rohan. Her level-two access card allowed her entry twenty-four hours a day.

  She followed a clerk with a thinly curled moustache who reeked of garlic-laced rabbit stew. They entered a glassed-in lobby, filled with large wooden reading tables.

  “The material is quite heavy. Use a cart.” He pointed to a high-tech metal wire construction resembling an Italian sports car.

  Off this parquet-floored area, open and light due to myriad skylights, stood racks and racks of leather-and cloth-bound volumes.

  She approached the small checkout desk. “Bonjour, I’m looking for records from 1939 to 1945 in Archives of the Commissariat general on the Jewish question.”

  “Something specific?” the librarian asked. “We have thousands of files.”

  “Strauss, Sarah Tovah,” Aimee said.

  The librarian clicked on the computer. “Living or deceased?”

  “Well,” Aimee stumbled. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I only ask because some patrons already know.” The librarian smiled understandingly. “Find the AN—AJ 38 division. The Deceased section is to the left, oddly numbered. Aisle 33, Row W has volumes with the names starting with S. Unknown or nonreported deceased are to the right.” She indicated a much smaller area. “Please call if you need assistance. Good luck.”

  At the entrance to the racks, a sign proclaimed that the blue labels were German Occupation Documents, orange labels were Allied Forces documentation, and green labels were French National Records. Most of the racks were filled with blue-labeled material. Aimee knew the German reputation for recording details but this was staggering. She picked up a sagging blue volume tied with string and read a five-page itemized list of the contents of a clock factory at 34 rue Coche-Perce owned by a Yad Stolnitz. A red line had been drawn through his name. She often walked on narrow, medieval rue Coche-Perce, which angled into busy rue St. Antoine, full of boutiques and sushi bars. Once it had thrived with small Jewish bakeries and falafel stands.

  She climbed up the small library stairs and found the Service for Jewish Affairs, the 11—112, of the Sicherheitsdienst-SD, the intelligence agency of the SS. Among the S volumes, “St-” alone took up sixteen volumes. She loaded up her high-tech cart carefully with yellowed documents and wheeled it to a reading table.

  Sadly, Aimee sat and turned page after page, filled with Parisian Jews who were no more. Straus, Strausz, Strauz, she read, going down columns of names. Every single derivation of Strauss had been drawn through with a red line. There was a Sara Straus-man listed but no Sarah Tovah Strauss. After two hours her eyes ached and she felt guilty. Guilty for being part of a race that had reduced generations to ashes or ooze in mass-grave lime pits.

  Convoy lists composed most of the Unknown section. Jews who had arrived at death camps were checked off but no further records existed. No Sarah Tovah Strauss listed here either.

  Back in the Deceased section, Aimee discovered that the Germans also cross-referenced deportees with their arrondissements in Paris. They had sectioned the city into areas with Judenfrei status. Probably the idea of that Gestapo brown-noser in the memo to Eichmann who’d worried he couldn’t get them to the ovens fast enough. She wondered how human beings could do this to each other.

  Well then, she would start with the 4th arrondissement, the Marais, where most of the Jews had lived. Streets, alleys, and boulevards listed names and addresses. Forty minutes later she found a household at 86 rue Payenne cross-referenced from an Strauss, Ruben with this under it:

  Strauss, Sarah T. 12-4-28 Paris Drancy JudenAKamp Konvoy 10

  A red line ran through the name, like all the others on the page. The Strauss family were routed via the Vel d’Hiver transit camp. Sarah T. Strauss had entered Drancy prison and then was listed on Convoy number 10 to A, meaning Auschwitz. How could this Sarah Strauss be Thierry’s mother?

  Aimee noticed how bright the red line through Sarah’s name was compared to the others. Odd, she thought, every other red line had faded to a rose hue. It almost looked to her as though the A had been squeezed next to the non-Aryan classification column, with its bold black J for Jew. As if the A for Auschwitz had been added later. But that didn’t fit with what she’d discovered.

  Claude Rambuteau had seen Sarah alive when she handed them the infant Thierry. Aimee remembered Javel’s comment. He’d mentioned the bright-blue-eyed Jew who’d given birth to a boche bastard.

  As she returned past the desk, wiping her hands of dust, the librarian said that it was their policy for the librarian to reshelve.

  “Find what you were looking for?” she inquired.

  “Yes, but it raises even more questions,” Aimee replied.

  “A lot of people who come here say that. Try the National Library in Washington or the Wiener
Library in London. Those are the major sources besides Yad Vashem in Jerusalem.”

  Aimee thanked her and slowly walked down the sweeping marble stairway. She felt dirty after touching those pages and her fingers reeked with a special musty smell that clung to the catalog of the dead. At home she collapsed and thought over all the events of the day. She took a long shower and stayed under the hot water until it ran out. But she couldn’t get rid of the smell or erase the red lines from her mind.

  THURSDAY

  Thursday Morning

  “I’VE GOTTEN EVERYTHING CHANGED since the break-in,” Rene said. “Here’s your new access code and keys to the safe.”

  “HOPALONG?” She laughed, eagerly punching in her new access code. “Where do you get these, Rene?”

  “My perverted childhood spent with pulp Westerns.” He winked. “I’m CASSIDY.”

  “What a poet!” She frowned. “Finding the Luminol fingerprint is going to be harder than I thought. Fingerprint files have been centralized. It’s all through FOMEX out of Neuilly.”

  “Try to interface with LanguedocZZ via Helsinki,” Rene suggested. “The main menu originated with them.”

  “Good thinking, Cassidy,” she said.

  Twenty minutes later, she’d accessed FOMEX, the repository of files from the prefecture of police of every city or town in France that had its own prefecture. By the time she got to the main catalog of fingerprints, the only title that was close was FINGERPRINT, BLOODY, of which there were three subsets: Pending, Active, and Deceased, and thousands of files under each. It could fit all three. She called Morbier.

  “Where did the bloody fingerprint go?” she said.

  “With the experts,” he said.

  She heard the scrape of the wooden match on his desk. She knew the videoed fingerprint had been scanned and immediately catalogued on computer files.

  “No kidding, Morbier. What’s it under?”

  “Pending and Interpol. What’s it to you?”

  She punched in Pending, then Paris, then 4th arrondissement/ 64 rue des Rosiers. Up came a giant index finger on her screen.

  “Just like to be included in the twenty-eight percent of the informed population,” she said. She’d like to see the expression on his face if he could see the display filling her screen.

  “The higher-ups have spoken again. Seems whatever case I touch they like to take over,” he said.

  “Meaning that they didn’t like your face on the evening news?”

  “Meaning Luminol use falls under strict rules from the ministry at La Defense,” he answered. “Which I didn’t follow. So I’m pushed off that case.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” she said.

  “Leduc, just a word to the wise. Leave this thing alone.”

  “So only the big boys get to play and set up their own rules? Is that what you’re saying, Morbier?” Aimee asked.

  “They already have,” he said. “Watch out.”

  The fingerprint hadn’t even been classified or typed yet, but Aimee could tell by the whorls filling her computer screen that it was common to one third of the population. Such a clear readable print; the swirls over the hump of the center finger pad were unique, as everyone’s were. But she could start to classify and discard two thirds of the millions of prints that were stored based on what she saw. She punched into FOMEX on Rene’s terminal and scanned the known fingerprints of Nazis from Nuremberg trial files into the computer. That would give her a base to start from. On the other terminal hooked to his Minitel she downloaded the R.F. SS Sicherheits-Dienst Memorandum file emblazoned with thick black Gestapo lightning bolts she’d accessed through the Yad Vashem in Jerusalem.

  But that turned into a dead end. She checked other memorandums from the file. Nothing. The Nuremberg trials only yielded prints of those already executed for war crimes and the R.F. SS file was limited.

  At a loss as to where to go, she delved into Republic of Germany classified documents. After forty more minutes of searching, she accessed the Third Reich database, which flooded the screen with a whole plethora of Nazism. Many of the entries had come from charred remnants scanned and entered into the database from the remains left in the burned Reichstag basement smoldering as Berlin fell. Countrywide lists of Hitler Youth group members and the alliance of German Girls were catalogued alongside SA brown shirt organizations, fingerprint files of Gestapo members, and even the names of German women awarded gold crosses for having the most children.

  She entered Gestapo files and searched by surname. Nothing came up that matched the ones she wanted. Then she tried locale, searching the three main headquarters in Munich, Hanover, and Berlin. A “Volpe, Reiner” aged eight years old came up but that was the closest. Then she decided to go year by year. She began in 1933, the first known year on file of an established Gestapo. After an hour and a half she’d found the fingerprints in the Gestapo file of the SS chief and underlings in Paris: Rausch, Oblath, and Volpe. She printed them, amazed at the clear imprints that existed after all this time.

  After pulling up the Luminol fingerprints from the FRAPOL 1 file, she peered through her magnifying glass at the two screens full of whorls and swirls. She inputted them together, counted to ten, then pressed the command REQUEST COMPARISON. A soft whir, then a series of small clicks. REQUEST RECEIVED appeared on the screen, then a flashing signal indicating request backlog. All she could do now was wait until the match was or wasn’t made.

  When the flashing light disappeared from Rene’s terminal and the message came up “No Match of Verified Fingerprints,” Aimee wasn’t too surprised. She’d eliminated Rausch, Oblath, and Volpe as Arlette’s murderer. But they’d been responsible for so many other murders, it didn’t mean much. Primitive elimination. She still didn’t know Hartmuth Griffe’s true identity. Generally, new identities had been found that were close to the person’s real name for easier remembrance and to avoid mistakes. He could be Rausch or either of the underlings: Oblath or Volpe.

  A configuration of jumbled letters appeared on her screen, followed by clicking noises. Alarmed, she looked up. “Rene, something weird is happening.”

  “Mine too,” he said. “Something is either scrambling transmission or we’ve been hit by a virus.”

  “I’ll check the backup server link. Did you confirm our new access codes with them?” she said.

  “I haven’t gotten around to it yet,” Rene moaned. “We’re cooked! Our whole system’s down.”

  Aimee quickly started the automated backup retrieval system, so files wouldn’t be lost or deleted. Automated backup retrieval cost them a lot, but the system was guaranteed to be fail-safe.

  She breathed a sigh of relief after she’d checked the system. “The fingerprints are saved.”

  Rene looked worried as he climbed down from his chair. “I think you kicked off some warning device in the FOMEX system.”

  “I think you’re right.” She glanced at her screen. “That means I dug deep enough to flip off an alarm.”

  For the first time she admitted to herself that she might be in over her head. Way over her head.

  “Go home,” Rene said, as he put on his coat. “I’m going to visit a friend who deals with this kind of thing. Just stay off the system and wait until you hear from me.”

  “I’m going to walk home,” she said.

  “Stay off the phone.” He looked grim. “And make sure you’re not followed.”

  AS SHE walked along the Seine kicking pebbles into the water, she checked to see that she wasn’t being followed. Uneasily, she forced herself to mentally catalog her recent discoveries.

  She’d discovered that a fifty-year-old bloody fingerprint found at the murder scene of Lili’s concierge hadn’t matched any Si-Po officers in occupied Paris. However, she knew that these officers had been listed as dead in the Battle of Stalingrad while they were still signing deportation orders for Jews in Paris. Her office had been broken into, files about Lili and a collabo taken, and a swastika painted on her wall a
long with a threat. She had heard Soli’s last utterance in the hospital of “Ka…za” and was almost run over. Not to mention discovering Thierry’s real parentage and Javel’s statement about the Jew with the bright blue eyes. More of the puzzle pieces had surfaced—fragments and images. They all fit together. Only she didn’t know how.

  Now she needed to stir things up. Throw her idea in the frying pan and see what happened. Test her suspicions about Hartmuth Griffe. She pulled out her cell phone and called Thierry.

  “Meet me in the rear courtyard of the Picasso Museum,” she said.

  “What for?” His voice sounded flat.

  “Has to do with your parentage,” she said slowly. “We need to—”

  He interrupted excitedly. “Did you find out about my…” He paused. “The Jewess?”

  “Look for me by the Minotaur statue. Behind the plane trees.”

  “Why?”

  She explained her plan to him, then hung up.

  As she crossed the Place des Vosges, she kicked the fallen leaves. She made another phone call to Hartmuth Griffe. This would definitely set wheels in motion. Whether they were the right ones remained to be seen.

  THIS FORMER hôtel particulier, now the Picasso Museum on rue Thorigny, still maintained quiet niches of green comfort in the rear courtyard. At this time of year, the small courtyard was deserted of museum-goers. Crisp autumn air skittled leaves over Picasso’s bronze figures reclining on the lawn. Several of his voluptuous marble Boisegeloup females bordered the limestone walls.

  Thierry stood next to Aimee under a spreading tree, his legs apart, his face expressionless. “Him?”

  She nodded. “Keep to the plan.”

  Hartmuth Griffe huddled on a bench beside the gilded Minotaur, pulling his cashmere coat around him. He stared as they approached.

  “Thank you for coming, Monsieur Griffe,” Aimee said.