by Martin Lake
‘No,’ he continued. ‘You can keep your playmate for a little longer. The Italians have been promised everything east of the Rhone but Blaskowitz tells me that we are to keep hold of some strategic areas, including Marseilles and Aix.’
‘Not Toulon?’
‘I don’t know. But I doubt the High Command will want our forces to clear up a dock with so many burning hulks. Nor a town incensed by the destruction of their fleet. Best leave it to our Italian friends.’
‘And what do you think about what the operatic Admiral said? Do you think the Allies will invade Europe?’
Weiser shrugged. ‘Personally, I doubt it. The Allies may have gained some of North Africa but it’s little more than sand and palm trees. I think we got the better bargain, occupying the rest of France. Even if we have to share some of it with Mussolini.’
‘It’s worrying, though.’
‘I worry more about the Eastern Front. About the Russians.’
Otto looked at him in surprise. ‘But we’ve almost defeated them, Ernst. Stalingrad will fall anytime soon and we’ve reached the Caspian oil fields. The war is as good as over.’
Weiser laughed. ‘I applaud your optimism, Otto. I just fear it’s misplaced.’
Mundt glanced out of the window. ‘It’s only the failure to take the French fleet that makes you talk this way,’ he said, at last.
‘That and the fact that the Americans have started fighting.’ He lit a cigarette and stared at the tip. ‘I wonder what that will mean for us all.’
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS
Grasse, December 1942
Alain was in Cannes, negotiating food purchases for Christmas. He could easily lay his hands on oysters and Guinea Fowl but Foie Gras was difficult to come by and he would be able to charge a premium price for it.
He smiled to himself. The Italians had moved into Grasse at the beginning of December and they were already making their presence felt. They had far more money than the French and they were keen to spend it. His chief aim was to help himself to as much of it as possible.
There had also been a marked relaxation in the snooping of the French police. They were angry at how the government in Vichy had been overrun and wanted as little to do with the occupying forces as possible. His brother-in-law, in particular, seemed highly disillusioned.
The last wholesaler he visited was Jean Ribot who dealt in wines and spirits. His shelves were almost bare.
‘Have you sold everything?’ Alain asked in consternation.
Ribot nodded. ‘The harvests were good this year. But the Germans are like locusts. They bought a million bottles of the finest Bordeaux and the same with Burgundy.’
He took a few steps to the front of his store, checking there was nobody else within earshot.
‘And it’s got worse since last month,’ he continued. ‘I used to get a lot of stock from the Languedoc but now the Bosch are squatting on that. And I always got some Algerian supplies. But since the Yanks invaded, nothing has come from over there.’ He took Alain’s arm. ‘But for special customers, I have a few bottles.’
‘At a special price, no doubt.’
Ribot grinned. ‘We do what we must. Come, let me show you.’
‘Do you think there will always be shortages of wine?’ Alain asked as Ribot led him to a room at the back of the store.
Ribot nodded. ‘The Bosch are winning in Europe, make no mistake. Russia is all but conquered. The British are exhausted and have no stomach for any more fighting. I think the Americans will march east to Egypt and then take over India. It’s a new world, my friend, and not, I think a hopeful one.’
Alain felt his stomach grow cold for a moment but he shook himself out of it. ‘I don’t agree. I know the Americans.’ He thought about Dorothy and her kindness and opposition to the Nazis. ‘They won’t betray the British.’
‘The British betrayed us,’ Ribot said. ‘My brother died at Dunkirk just so those cowards could flee the battle. They deserve all they get.’
Alain thought it best to say no more. He took three cases of mixed bottles at prices he would have walked away from in the summer. But he consoled himself that they would prove to be some of the best wines available in Grasse. He doubted the Italians would want them, for they were already importing their own wines, but he felt confident he would be able to sell them to the wealthier families of Grasse, even at this inflated price.
Yet his despondent thoughts returned as he carried the wine to his motorbike. He lowered the cases into the sidecar and lashed them in securely. Every day brought some new turn to life, some good, most bad. He climbed onto his saddle and kicked the bike into life. Perhaps he’d keep the best bottles for himself. He deserved a little pleasure.
He was surprised to find Dorothy sitting in the living room when he got home.
‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure it’s a pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’m down in the dumps, if truth be told. Thinking about those poor American boys who are fighting and dying in North Africa.’
‘But they may yet save us, Dorothy. Them and the British.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ she said.
Then she shook her head, wearily. ‘I’ve heard your General de Gaulle is in a rage about what’s happening over there. It seems that some American General has recognised Admiral Darlan as head of the French forces in North Africa and de Gaulle thinks it should be him.’
‘That’s typical,’ Alain said, with a sigh. ‘We quarrel amongst ourselves instead of fighting the enemy.’
He glanced at Dorothy with curiosity. He wanted to ask her how she had found out such news but knew it would be unwise to. The less anybody asked about such things the better.
‘Are you sure it’s Darlan?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Six months ago he was Pétain’s Prime Minister, and a friend of the Nazis. Now he’s Roosevelt’s and Churchill’s pal and the ruler of the French Empire.’
Viviane came in with two cups of coffee.
‘You’re back,’ she said to Alain. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. Was it a successful trip?’
‘In parts. The worst news is that the Germans have taken most of the wine. I only managed to get three cases.’
He gave a sudden grin and went out to the room and across the street where he stored his goods, returning with two bottles of wine.
‘These are good bottles,’ he said, uncorking one of the bottles. ‘Let’s drink a toast to the American and French soldiers in Africa.’
‘But I made coffee,’ Viviane said. ‘It will go to waste.’
‘Better than letting the wine go that way,’ Dorothy said, gratefully taking a glass.
Viviane hesitated for a moment, aware that they were drinking wine they could sell for food and other essentials. But she thought it had been so long since there had been anything to celebrate that she took it, nonetheless.
‘Dorothy, did you tell Alain why you’ve come?’ she asked.
Dorothy shook her head. ‘I was just about to. My car’s playing up, Alain. Monsieur Vernet at the garage says it needs a new carburettor but he can’t lay his hands on one. I thought you may be able to.’
Alain frowned. ‘I should be able to find something in Marseille.’
‘I don’t want you going there anymore,’ Viviane said, quickly. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘In that case I could try Nice. It won’t be so easy but I’ll have a go.’
‘I’ll pay whatever it costs,’ Dorothy said. ‘I can’t do without my car.’
‘You’ll pay nothing at all,’ Alain said. He picked up the other bottle and gave it to her. ‘And this is also a gift.’
Dorothy smiled and put it in her bag. ‘The one thing my mother taught me was always to accept a gift graciously.’
She raised her glass in the air. ‘To the Allies and to victory. And the hottest place in hell for Adolf Hitler.’
They chinked glasses and took a sip.
‘This is very good,’ Viviane sai
d.
‘And the other bottle is for Noël,’ Alain said. He gave a huge grin. Despite the fact that he considered the existence of Jesus to be childish nonsense, he still looked forward to celebrating the story.
Dorothy clicked her fingers. ‘That’s the other reason I came,’ she said. ‘I want you and the kids to spend Christmas with me. I’ve got plenty of food and gifts for the little ones.’
‘That’s really kind,’ Viviane said. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. It will be the best Christmas I’ve had for the last three years.’
‘Then I shall provide the wine and oysters,’ Alain said. ‘Noël is a time for celebration.’
It seemed likely to be the best Christmas since the start of the war. Dorothy had told them they could stay overnight which excited Celeste beyond anything. She took to calling the villa a palace. ‘And you’re the princess,’ Alain said, swinging her in his arms.
They used the motorbike and sidecar to get to Villa Laurel, leaving home at three in the afternoon to make sure of the daylight.
Celeste watched her father anxiously as he tied a case of food on the back of the bike. Now that Christmas Eve had arrived, she was less enthusiastic about spending the night at the villa. ‘What if Papa Noël doesn’t know where to find me?’ she asked.
‘Maman wrote to him yesterday to tell him where you’ll be,’ Alain said.
‘Did he write back?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Can I see the letter?’
‘I’m afraid not. A fairy flew into the house and took it back to Papa Noël.’
This, more than anything, convinced her of the truth of his words.
Alain lifted her into the sidecar, squashing her in next to David. Viviane climbed in behind them.
‘We’re on our way to the best Noël ever,’ Alain cried, kicking the bike into life and heading out of town.
Dorothy and Marie had gone to a great deal of trouble, digging out an old box of decorations which, although frayed still looked splendid. A small tree had been festooned with ribbons and underneath was a basket with wrapped sweets. Celeste had never known anything like it.
Dorothy had spent a fortune on food, making great demands on Alain’s black-market web. They sat down to supper at six o’ clock, as traditional a Christmas as they could conjure. The table was laid with a fine linen cloth, with three candles casting a warm glow.
The bottle of wine which Alain had given to Dorothy lay open on the table but, to everyone’s delight, he had brought a bottle of champagne.
Marie brought in the food and served them, then took her place at the table, which surprised Alain and Viviane.
Dorothy noticed their reaction. ‘Marie lives here,’ she said.
Marie blushed a deep red and began to serve the food.
The meal was superb. The oysters were tasty and the foie gras rich and satisfying. There were no capons to be had anywhere so instead they had a roast rabbit with olives, green beans, potatoes and a delicate mustard sauce. There was a delicious young goat’s cheese to follow and then, to the children’s delight, a real Bûche de Noël.
‘I’ve not eaten so well for years,’ Viviane said.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Dorothy said. ‘And anyway, Lucile did the cooking and much of the food was provided by Alain.’ She passed him a bottle of cognac.
‘Now it’s time for bed,’ Viviane said to the children. ‘Thank Madame Pine for a lovely supper.’
Celeste was the first to do so, giving Dorothy a loud and wet kiss upon the cheek.
‘Do you think Papa Noël will be able to find me here?’ she asked.
‘I sure do, honey. One of his people dropped by today to say everything was hunky-dory.’
Celeste had no idea what hunky-dory meant but seemed satisfied by the phrase. She headed for the stairs, eager to get to sleep so that Papa Noël could come.
‘You too, David,’ Viviane said. ‘Thank Madame Pine.’
David approached nervously and touched her on the knee. ‘Thank you for a lovely Hanukkah,’ he said.
Alain and Viviane exchanged baffled glances. What on earth did he mean by that?
But a look of alarm crossed Dorothy’s face although she hid it immediately.
‘Thank you, David,’ she said. ‘You’re very welcome. But there’s a new word you must use instead of Hanukkah. You must now say, Noël. Do you think you can remember that?’
He nodded with great seriousness.
Dorothy took his hand and followed Celeste up the stairs.
The children hurried down to the dining room next morning. Celeste squealed with excitement. Beneath the tree was a small pile of gifts, wrapped in old Hollywood magazines, the best paper that Dorothy could now lay her hands on.
Celeste skipped with excitement. ‘Papa Noël,’ has been, she called to her mother.
Viviane hurried down the stairs, anxious in case Celeste opened the gifts before the adults arrived.
She needn’t have worried. Marie was standing guard in front of them, her arms folded and a stern look upon her face.
‘You get no gifts until after petit-déjeuner,’ she said. ‘And then, only if Madame Pine lets you.’
‘But Papa Noël left them for us,’ Celeste said, her lips beginning to wobble in distress.
Marie gave a wide smile. ‘Well in that case, maybe you can open one of them now.’
She glanced at Viviane who nodded in agreement. ‘Just one, though.’
Marie selected one of the gifts and handed it to Celeste who began to tear it open.
‘Careful, darling,’ Viviane said. ‘Madame Pine may want to use that paper again.’
Inside was a small bowl decorated with flowers.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Celeste cried.
Marie beamed. ‘It used to be mine,’ she whispered to Viviane. ‘My favourite uncle gave it to me when I was your daughter’s age.’ She guessed that Celeste would find it as enchanting as she once did.
‘Now, take your places at the table, children,’ she said.
‘What about David?’ Celeste said.
‘Oh yes,’ Marie said.
Viviane tensed, aware that Marie now sounded less enthusiastic. But she bent and picked up a little package and gave it to him. He unwrapped it eagerly. It was a scuffed and ancient tennis ball.
Viviane’s stomach crawled. It was a second-rate gift, compared to what she had given to Celeste. Did Marie suspect something about David? Had she given him the worst gift she thought she could get away with? If she had, it was not to be wondered at. Many French people were antagonistic to Jews. Most of them had been more circumspect about it before the war but now they saw no reason to hide it. If Marie was of the same mind, then they were in terrible danger.
Marie blushed a little. ‘It may look worn out,’ she said, ‘but it actually belonged to my uncle. He used it at Wimbledon and the Davis Cup and he said it brought him luck. He gave it to me when I was a little girl.’
Viviane sighed in relief. The battered old ball was actually a gift of the greatest generosity.
Dorothy appeared and took her place at the table, her face glowing with excitement.
Viviane fussed over the children, her fingers like thumbs because of her anxiety about Marie. Would she betray them, she wondered.
Alain arrived and sat next to her, giving her a puzzled look at her obvious distress. She felt his hand reach for her knee.
‘I’m alright,’ she murmured. ‘Just hungry.’
At that moment a delicious smell hit their nostrils and Marie walked in bearing a steaming tray.
‘Croissants, bread and home-made jam,’ she said. ‘But please don’t ask for more, that’s all there is.’
Alain bit into one immediately. ‘They’re delicious,’ he said.
Marie blushed. ‘I made them myself. With real butter.’
‘It is very generous of you,’ Alain said. ‘It must have taken you hours to make them.’
‘More than you might t
hink,’ Marie said, a little prick of pride behind her eyes.
‘What a charming surprise,’ Dorothy said. ‘We’re very grateful, Marie.’
It was the best breakfast that any of them could remember. The croissants were sublime, the bread soft and doughy and the jam superb.
‘Did she make the bread as well?’ Alain asked.
Dorothy nodded, her mouth full of croissant.
The meal was finished very swiftly, but not too swiftly for the children. As soon as Dorothy and Viviane gave the word, they fell on the presents.
Most were utilitarian, new clothes and a box of buttons each which they would be able to play with and could be used to replace those that went missing.
But best of all were the ones that Alain had put furthest out of reach. Celeste got a copy of ‘Black Beauty’ and David a set of little spanners and a hammer.
‘Isn’t Père Noël clever,’ Alain told him. ‘Now you can help me mend my motor-bike.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ David said, staring at the tools in wonder.
Viviane’s heart raced at the word. She turned to Alain and saw tears form in his eyes.
‘Happy Christmas, everyone,’ Dorothy said. ‘Happy Christmas.’
THE ITALIANS ARRIVE
Grasse, 4 January 1943
The Italian authorities arrived in Grasse on January 4th, 1943, a small military unit which ensconced itself in the Town Hall. It was headed by Capitano Emilio Marinelli, a man who had planned to retire in 1941 but, to his fury, kept having the date deferred. He thought that he might well die before the war ended.
Although he came from a tiny village in the centre of Basilicata, he had a holiday home in Sorrento and spent most of his days worrying if the plants in the little garden would survive without his attention. He occasionally remembered to worry about his wife who was often sickly from a range of ailments which baffled her overtaxed doctors. He could never be sure whether they were genuine complaints or figments of her and her doctors’ imagination.
Marinelli was a small man and given to corpulence. He blamed his lack of progress on this and the enmity of nameless officials. Had he been taller, slim and from Rome, he was convinced he would have been a Colonel by now. His bitterness was only consoled by the delights of the table. He considered himself an epicure, although a discriminating one. He was particularly partial to fine French food. He also preferred a Burgundy to a Barolo or a Cahors to a Chianti. He had been reprimanded for this by a superior officer who had insinuated that such tastes were virtually treachery.