Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  Isabelle glanced at Maxime and he grunted and retreated into the cafe.

  ‘You speak French?’ Alain asked the soldiers.

  The sergeant jiggled his hand. ‘A little. We have been in France for a few years now.’ He paused and then gave a cold smile. ‘Do you speak German?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘You might do well to start learning it.’

  ‘Is it worth it?’ Alain said. ‘Will you be here long?’

  The young man looked incensed but the sergeant chuckled, silencing his companion with a glance.

  ‘Herr Hitler says the Reich will last a thousand years,’ he said. He sipped his coffee. ‘So that must be the case because he informs us that he’s always right.’

  Alain smiled. ‘All politicians are the same.’

  ‘The Führer is not a politician,’ the young man said, angrily. ‘He is far more than that.’

  Alain and the sergeant exchanged glances but said nothing.

  ‘My name is Wilhelm Ferber,’ he said. ‘This is Private Alphonse Dahn. He is imbued with the ardour of youth. Me not so much.’

  He gave a deep sigh and looked the buildings up and down. ‘This is a fine town,’ he said, as much to himself as to them. ‘I come from Darmstadt, in Hesse. We have a market-place much like this, the Schlossplatz.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go back there,’ Alain said.

  ‘Believe me, I want to. Just as soon as you Frenchmen admit defeat, hey.’ He slapped the table and laughed at his own jest.

  ‘It’s the British and Americans who aren’t admitting defeat.’

  ‘Their time will come,’ snapped the young man.

  Wilhelm swallowed his coffee and got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Madame,’ he said. ‘I shall come again.’

  ‘You’ll pay for the next one,’ Isabelle said.

  Wilhelm smiled. He very much doubted that.

  The young private also stood but as he did so he knocked both his and Wilhelm’s cups on the ground. Then he stamped on them, his face contorted with fury. He glared at the Frenchmen, as if daring them to do or say anything in response.

  They looked at the ground.

  ‘Accidents will happen,’ Isabelle said brightly. She called to Maxime to fetch a broom.

  Wilhelm opened his mouth, perhaps to apologise, but thought better of it. He contented himself with glaring at the boy and pushing him away. As he left, he turned and gave a small bow to Isabelle.

  Alain stared at the broken shards of the cups. The young soldier had ground them into the smallest pieces. He felt sick at the sight of them. He was not sure why but images of the German round-up in Marseille filled his mind.

  ‘Free coffee?’ Theo scolded Isabelle. ‘You’ll have the whole army sniffing around the place. You’ll be seen as an easy touch.’

  ‘I doubt it. The old man is too shrewd to tell anyone else that I gave him a coffee for free. I think I can look forward to a good working relationship with him.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ Theo’s friend asked.

  Isabelle did not answer but looked at Alain.

  ‘It’s business,’ he explained. ‘The Germans are here in Grasse. We can’t do anything about it except to make the best of it. And to rob them blind without them noticing.’

  ‘I don’t see how giving them free coffee is robbing them blind.’

  ‘A farmer chooses one cow to lead the others to the slaughter-house,’ Alain said. ‘Wilhelm is our chosen cow.’

  ‘But what about the boy?’ Theo said. ‘Is he a young bull or is he the slaughter-man?’

  None of them answered. It was not a question they wished to consider too deeply.

  THE WOLF AND THE WEASEL

  Grasse, 12 September 1943

  Gerard Pithou had been waiting in the forecourt of the Police Station for almost two hours. He felt honoured by being chosen for the task, and the long wait did nothing to diminish his enthusiasm. The Gestapo were setting up an office in Grasse with Kriminaldirektor Heinrich Schorn as their head. Gerard had been given the task of welcoming him and acting as his official liaison. He had settled himself on a bench beneath a plane tree where he could get a good view of the road leading up to the building.

  He was desperate for a cigarette, had been for the last hour, but he’d successfully fought off the desire. Now, finally, he succumbed to temptation. He pulled a packet from his jacket pocket and lit up. He inhaled deeply and felt a sudden sense of calmness. All was right in the world. Birds cheeped in the trees above him and the sun dappled his head.

  He had been selected for this honour because of his enthusiasm and dedication. It was, he thought, an appropriate reward. He had, at some risk to himself, already spied on members of the police who he believed to be lukewarm in their support for Maréchal Pétain and Prime Minister Laval. Raoul Villiers was the chief of these. Gerard had even gone to the length of befriending him, a task he found most distasteful. Villiers was a loud-mouth and a fire-brand. Gerard thought he might even be a communist. So far he had discovered nothing incriminating about the man but he remained convinced that he would find something sooner or later.

  His fingers fondled the revolver at his lap. He was no great master of it, with an aim which was distinctly feeble, but it gave him a feeling of immense importance. He took a long drag on the cigarette, closing his eyes so that he could savour the taste more thoroughly.

  Suddenly he heard a screech of tires and car doors opening. He leapt to his feet, throwing the cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the earth. He wondered whether to rush to open the gate but, while he was hesitating, the Gestapo officers pushed it open and entered.

  He stood straight and saluted, searching the men for any indication of who might be the Kriminaldirektor. It was impossible to say. There were four men, who looked to be in their early forties, all dressed in civilian clothes of good quality. One wore a bowler hat, two were bare-headed and one wore a trilby.

  The man in the bowler hat approached. His face was long and lean, putting Gerard in mind of a bloodhound. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. He spoke atrocious French in a heavy German accent. His air of authority was palpable.

  ‘I am Militiaman Pithou,’ Gerard answered, cursing inwardly that he had angered the Kriminaldirektor. ‘I have been ordered to welcome you, to see that you are made comfortable and to act as liaison while you settle in. It is an honour to meet you, Monsieur.’

  ‘You have been smoking,’ the German said in reply.

  Gerard thought for a moment to deny it but the man’s manner told him that he would be foolish to oppose him in any way. There was a hard edge to him, the feel of a man who might be ruthless in squashing any dissent or failings.

  ‘I have, your honour,’ Gerard admitted. ‘It was a long wait.’

  The man turned towards the others. ‘You see how this Frenchman berates us for our tardiness,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t mean to sound critical —’ Gerard began.

  ‘I want no excuses,’ the man said. ‘If you are to serve the Reich adequately you would do well to learn this. And smoking is a disgusting habit, one more suited to the criminal class.’

  The man in the trilby approached. Gerard realised that he was actually considerably younger than the rest of the men, possibly in his early thirties. But he was very overweight and it gave him the appearance of an older man. His face was round and flushed, and his breathing sounded laboured.

  He touched Gerard gently on the arm. ‘We do not mean to be so fierce,’ he said. ‘But if your wait has been long then our journey has been longer. We too are fatigued and, if truth be told, a little bad-tempered. Forgive us.’

  He spoke excellent French with only a trace of accent and he sounded friendly and good-natured.

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  Gerard turned towards the Kriminaldirektor and gave a little bow, holding out his hand to indicate that he should go first into the building. ‘Please, after you, Herr Kriminaldirektor.’

  �
�Herr Schorn,’ said the man in the bowler hat, bending to whisper in the fat man’s ear.

  The young man gave a little chuckle, causing his jowls to quiver.

  Gerard was aghast. He had mixed the two policemen up. The Kriminaldirektor was not the hard, lean-faced man, He was the fat young man.

  ‘A thousand apologies,’ he stammered. ‘I had not realised.’

  ‘There is no need to be contrite.’ Schorn said, his face bright with amusement. ‘You will not be the first to make this mistake nor the last.’

  He indicated the lean man in the bowler. ‘Herr Buchner is my deputy. He looks like a detective, does he not? Whereas I…’ He patted Gerard on the hand. Gerard almost recoiled for Schorn’s hand was cold and wet. It was like being touched by an octopus.

  Schorn grinned and entered the building.

  Capitaine Boyer was waiting with three of his senior staff. He snapped to attention and his men, after a moment, did likewise, none of them in time with any other.

  ‘Slovenly,’ Buchner said. ‘Have you no pride?’

  Boyer swallowed. ‘Welcome to Grasse,’ he said.

  ‘You must improve the appearance and attitude of your men,’ Schorn said. ‘Or Kriminalinspektor Buchner will do the job for you. He will enjoy it. Your men will not.’

  Boyer did not know how to answer so dipped his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘Let us proceed,’ Schorn continued. ‘Where is your office, Capitaine?’

  Boyer pointed to a door with his name upon it.

  ‘That is mine, I suggest,’ Schorn said. ‘You must now find yourself somewhere else. With your sergeants, perhaps, or your Gendarmes.’

  Boyer looked astonished but merely nodded. Schorn stepped into the office, leaving the three other Gestapo officers with Boyer.

  ‘I shall need an office,’ Buchner said, ‘as will my colleagues.’

  Boyer nodded and told Sergeant Lassals to install the Gestapo men in the sergeant’s office.

  ‘But where will we go?’ Lassals hissed.

  ‘The typists’ room. They will have to find somewhere else. Just do it.’

  ‘Capitaine Boyer,’ called Schorn.

  Boyer gestured Lassals to go, took a deep breath and went into his old office.

  Schorn was sitting in Boyer’s chair, behind his desk, as if he had been here for years. ‘Do take a seat, Capitaine,’ he said.

  Boyer pulled up a chair and sat opposite the Gestapo official. It felt decidedly odd to be looking at the room from this perspective.

  ‘This is a very spartan room,’ Schorn said. ‘I thought you French would have liked something softer, more comfortable.’

  ‘Like you Germans, we want our offices to be clean and uncluttered. Formal.’

  ‘Not me,’ Schorn said. ‘Arrange for some vases of flowers. And a cushion for this chair. I find I work most effectively when I am comfortable.’

  ‘I shall see to it at once,’ Boyer said.

  He could not help but stare at Schorn. He was the exact opposite of how he imagined a member of the Gestapo would look. He might have been a bank manager, a salesman of women’s garments or the owner of a café. Someone at ease with himself and the world. He found this dichotomy extremely disquieting.

  ‘Let us proceed,’ said Schorn. ‘My function here is twofold. One is to assist you and your colleagues in maintaining law and order. We are particularly concerned with the black-market, crimes against the Reich and political insurrection.

  ‘The second function is to support the Final Solution of the Jewish Question.’ He gave a wide grin, like that of a child who finds that the birthday gift he has been given is the one he has yearned for all year.

  ‘The Final Solution?’ Boyer asked.

  ‘Tut, tut, Capitaine. Surely even here in the fat and indolent south you have heard that all Jews are being moved to work camps in the east. The war is not just a matter of soldiers. Weapons must be manufactured, roads and railways maintained, homes destroyed by Allied bombers rebuilt. This is the task of the Jews of Europe. Part of my role is to help facilitate it.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘How will we do it?’ corrected Schorn. ‘You are under my authority now, Capitaine Boyer. You also will have a part to play in the identification and transportation of the Jews in this area.’

  He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling before continuing.

  ‘First you will give my staff access to all records of births and marriages. In particular, you will specify who is of Jewish blood, including any who have Jewish grandparents.’

  ‘And what will happen to them?’ Boyer asked.

  ‘I have told you. They will be sent to our eastern territories and put to essential war-work.’

  ‘All of them? Even women and the elderly?’ He paused. ‘And children?’

  ‘Everyone can offer something to the Reich. Those who are strongest will perform the more arduous duties. Those who are weaker will be given tasks appropriate to their physical attributes and abilities. Children are particularly adept at working in the fields, I gather. Picking fruit and vegetables, collecting manure and such-like. It sounds quite fun, actually.’

  ‘There are rumours —’ Boyer began.

  ‘And that is all they are,’ Schorn said. ‘Do you actually think we Germans work the Jews to the point of exhaustion? What is the sense of it? Really, Boyer, you surprise me.’

  Boyer did not say any more. He was desperate to leave the office. Schorn was polite and affable but so were any number of villains that he had dealt with in his career. But with those he had held all the cards. Now, he realised, he no longer had power or authority.

  ‘There is another matter,’ Schorn said. ‘The south of France is noted for the numbers of its Gypsy population. I also want you to provide information regarding them.’

  ‘They are to be sent to work-camps?’ Boyer asked. He was gripped by concern for Alain, Viviane and Celeste but tried to sound insouciant.

  ‘You know as well as I do, Boyer, that Gypsies are loath to undertake honest work. Criminals and swindlers, every one of them. I doubt that they will be useful labourers. The Reich will find another way to deal with them.’ His hand made a slicing gesture across his neck.

  Boyer tried neither to agree nor disagree. Schorn noticed this and looked amused by his discomfort.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said lightly, ‘to work, my dear Boyer. I sense we shall be excellent partners in this endeavour.’

  He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Then he said, ‘Boyer, send in the man from the Militia.’

  Boyer seethed at being used as a messenger in this way but gave a curt nod. Schorn watched this with a cold smile.

  He looked around the room as he waited. He would examine it carefully when he got the chance. You could learn a lot of useful things about a person from his work-space. And he wanted to learn everything he could about Boyer.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  ‘Enter,’ Schorn said in a voice honed to dominate.

  Gerard opened the door and stood hesitantly on the threshold.

  ‘Come in, man,’ Schorn said. ‘No need to be nervous.’ He indicated the chair which Boyer had just vacated. ‘Your name is?’

  ‘Gerard Pithou, Excellency.’

  He sat down and stared anxiously at the German. What on earth could such an important functionary want from him?

  Schorn steepled his fingers, stared at Gerard in silence and let the seconds tick by. He watched the beads of sweat begin to form on the Frenchman’s face. It was pudgy, he thought, the Frenchman must like food and have access to the black-market. Two bits of knowledge he would be able to put to good use.

  ‘You are wondering why I sent for you,’ he said, eventually. It was an assertion rather than a question.

  Gerard nodded.

  ‘I have heard excellent reports of you,’ Schorn continued. It was a lie but a useful one.

  Gerard flushed with excitement.

  ‘I am n
ew to this town,’ Schorn continued. ‘I need eyes and ears to help me in my task. You know what the chief of these tasks is, I assume?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gerard said, although he had no idea what it was.

  Schorn eyed him for a minute, toying with him, not caring in the least whether he knew or not. This was all about snaring the Militiaman, terrifying and binding him.

  ‘I presume that you have no liking for Jews?’ he said at last.

  ‘None at all.’ Gerard said it in as firm and decisive a tone as he could.

  ‘Nor criminals, traitors, idlers? Negroes, Arabs, Gypsies?’

  ‘I dislike them as much as the Jews.’

  ‘Tut, tut, my friend. Not quite as much, surely?’

  Gerard inclined his head in a contrite gesture.

  Schorn smiled.

  ‘So my task,’ he continued, ‘or should I say our task, is to search out these undesirables. They have flaunted themselves for too long, rubbed the noses of you French in the dirt too long, insulted the honour of the Reich too long. It must come to an end, my friend.’ He paused. ‘I’m sure you agree.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Schorn stared at Gerard so long that he began to blush a fierce red.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘Not for a while,’ Gerard answered.

  Schorn suspected that he may never have had one but let it pass. ‘But you like girls?’

  Gerard nodded.

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  Viviane’s face and figure leapt into Gerard’s mind. ‘Yes. The wife of a…’ He stopped himself mid-flow and blushed even more.

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ Schorn said. ‘It is quite normal for a man to desire his friend’s wife. Quite common in fact. What is her name?’

  ‘Annette Dubois,’ he lied. ‘They live in Antibes. I don’t see them often.’

  ‘Probably a good thing, ah?’ Schorn said heartily. ‘Too great a temptation?’ He gave a sigh.

  ‘But if you like any other girl,’ he continued, ‘just let me know her name. I will make it my business to ensure that she becomes a very good friend of yours.’ He gave a conspiratorial smirk.

  Gerard nodded, mutely.

  ‘Good. Now go and see my assistant, Kriminalinspektor Buchner. The man you thought was me. He will tell you of your duties.’ He waved a hand of dismissal and opened an attaché case.