by Martin Lake
He kept his hand inside for a while longer, enjoying the look of fear on their faces. But then he produced his wallet. They could not disguise their look of relief. He took out a hundred franc note and handed it to the woman. She took it quickly and secreted it in her purse.
‘You look aggrieved, Madame,’ he said. ‘You expected more?’
‘Not at all,’ she said hurriedly, her voice trembling with fear.
‘It would have been more,’ Schorn continued, ‘if the list had contained more Jews. It is a matter of simple arithmetic.’ He smiled. ‘But now you know for next time.’
His smile vanished and he gestured to them to leave. He decided that he would have another glass of wine and retire for the night with his book.
The dark woman went to open the door but the blond woman placed her hand against it.
‘I know a Jew,’ she said.
Schorn stared at her.
‘Go on.’
‘A little boy. He’s being taken care of by a French couple.’
Schorn gave an appreciative nod. ‘And how do you know this?’
The woman did not answer for a moment. When she did it was with triumph in her voice. ‘Because I know the woman. She’s my sister.’
Schorn’s eyes glittered. Siblings, the deadliest of rivals.
‘And the man,’ Odette continued, ‘he’s half Gypsy.’
Schorn reached for his wallet, pulled out another hundred franc note and gestured them to sit once more.
THE GYPSY QUESTION
Grasse, 15 November 1943
The rain battered the town with greater ferocity than a normal November. The temperatures plummeted and the days grew ever darker and more drear. Viviane swaddled the children in every article of clothing she could but they still complained that they were cold.
It’s because they’re so thin, she thought. There’s not enough flesh on their bones and no warmth in their bellies. She too was hungry. She would sometimes wake in the night with her stomach clenching in painful spasms. Every morning she grasped her wrist to check how much thinner it had grown. And every morning she gave the children the little she should have eaten for her own breakfast. Alain was also getting thin. His ribs were starkly visible and his clothes hung on him. Sometimes he looked like a child who had put on his father’s clothing.
They might have starved altogether if it were not for the meals she ate at Dorothy’s. And even these were getting smaller. Dorothy gave Marie ever more money for the shopping but it bought less each time. Viviane’s ingenuity was stretched to make meals which would beat their hunger. She began to dread the onset of winter.
Dorothy, on the other hand, somehow maintained her sense of cheerfulness. Viviane wondered if it were not sometimes a charade, but if it were, it did the job. Villa Laurel felt like a refuge from the storm, an oasis in an ever more barren desert. Viviane sometimes found herself praying to the Madonna, thanking her for sending Dorothy to them.
It was on the fifteenth of the month that Dorothy’s good cheer disappeared. She took Viviane to one side, her face tight with anxiety.
‘I’ve just heard disquieting news,’ she said. Her voice was unusually quiet.
Viviane felt that she would vomit. She could not speak, merely nodded for Dorothy to continue.
‘Himmler has just announced that Gypsies are to be treated the same as Jews and sent to camps.’ Dorothy held Viviane’s gaze. ‘Gypsies and part-Gypsies.’
Viviane’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Alain’s mother was a Gypsy.’
‘I know. Alain told me. He thought that coming here might incriminate me so he told me.’
‘But what does it mean?’ Viviane grabbed Dorothy’s hand so tight it made her wince. ‘Dorothy, what does it mean? For him? For Celeste?’
Dorothy did not know how to answer. She took a deep breath and spoke in as calm and honest a way as she was able.
‘If the Nazis use the Nuremberg Laws and treat the Gypsies the same way as they do the Jews then Alain is in danger. He will, I think, be considered a half-Gypsy and may be sent to a camp.’
Sent to a camp. The words hung in the air; pestilence heavy.
‘And Celeste?’ Her voice was shaky and barely audible.
‘She will be deemed a quarter-Gypsy,’ Dorothy said. ‘But I doubt the bastards will target her.’
Viviane wailed in horror. Doubt was not strong enough, nowhere near strong enough. She leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, unable to suck any air into her lungs. She thought she might die.
Dorothy massaged her shoulders, rocked her back and forth, desperate to get her breathing again. Then Viviane gave one almighty sob and began to breathe. She slipped to the floor, weeping inconsolably.
‘Get out,’ Dorothy snapped at Celeste and David who had come running to see what was wrong.
David screamed and fled but Celeste burst into tears and swooped upon her mother.
‘Maman, Maman, I’m here, I’m here. Don’t cry, please don’t cry.’
Viviane reached out and gathered Celeste close. Dorothy took one look and rushed out in search of David.
She found him sitting at the top of the stairs, shaking with terror. She scooped him up and hugged him tight. ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said. ‘Auntie Dorothy didn’t mean it.’
‘I want my Maman,’ he said.
‘She’s downstairs, with Celeste. I’ll take you to her.’
‘Not this Maman,’ he wailed. ‘I want my old Maman.’
Dorothy held him even tighter. How could this be happening?
They spent the afternoon talking in lowered voices about anything other than the news that Dorothy had told them. The children were calm now and playing board games under Marie’s watchful eye. Dorothy talked about her days in Hollywood. It seemed the only thing worth talking about, the only thing safe to talk about. Her words were like stones dropped into a pond. They made a momentary impact and then the ripples died and it was as if they had not been.
Alain came over as the evening drew on.
Viviane threw herself into his arms. She began to sob, almost noiselessly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Alain asked, in alarm. The question was directed not at her but at Dorothy.
For answer, Dorothy rose and poured him a large glass of cognac and placed it on a table beside the couch. ‘Come sit,’ she said, ‘both of you.’ She gestured to Marie to take the children to another room.
Alain heard the news in silence. He had been half-expecting this for years so he was shocked less than the others. But an icy void grew in his stomach, little by little, so unstoppable it seemed it would swallow him alive.
‘Do you know more?’ he asked at last.
Dorothy shook her head.
Viviane looked up and stared into his eyes. ‘What will happen to us?’
‘Probably nothing,’ he said, trying to smile but failing. ‘As least nothing serious. Maybe we’ll find some shopkeepers less willing to sell food to us but I’ve still got enough friends to save us from starving.’
Viviane sighed in relief and threw her arms around Alain, kissing him on the cheeks, on his lips, on his nose. It would be alright. Everything would be alright. He would make sure that it was.
At that moment they heard the sound of a car crunching over the wet driveway. Alain went to the window and peered out cautiously, watching as the car pulled up in front of the villa. ‘It’s Roland,’ he said.
He hurried to the door, returning a moment later with his brother-in-law.
Roland Boyer pulled off his hat and bowed to Dorothy. ‘Apologies for this intrusion, Madame, but I must speak with my sister-in-law and her husband.’
Dorothy rose from her chair but Alain stopped her. ‘Whatever you have to say, Roland, you can say in front of our friend.’
The policeman looked doubtful but gave a shrug.
‘Is it about the laws concerning Gypsies?’ Alain asked.
Boyer looked flabbergasted. ‘How did you know?’ he asked.
‘Never mind how. I know. That’s why I came here. To tell Viviane and Dorothy about it.’ He had no intention of letting Roland suspect that Dorothy had a wireless set so powerful it was illegal.
Dorothy poured Boyer a cognac which he swallowed in one gulp, not even thanking her.
‘What will it mean,’ Viviane asked. ‘For Alain and for Celeste?’ She surprised them all, even herself, by how calm and strong her voice seemed now.
Boyer took a deep breath. ‘Not good, I’m afraid. Alain will be considered a half-Gypsy and be sent to a camp in the east, Poland probably.’ His face was tight with sorrow.
They heard this news in silence. The hopefulness of a moment before was now smashed and irreparable.
‘And Celeste?’ she asked, her voice now beginning to break.
‘She will be considered a quarter-Gypsy,’ Roland answered. ‘It’s unlikely that she will be sent to a camp.’
‘Unlikely? But not certain?’
Boyer shook his head. ‘Alas, I cannot say for sure. But I do know that the Germans didn’t want to accept Jewish children for the camps. I’m ashamed to say that it was Pétain and Laval who insisted on that. I doubt the Germans will want to take Gypsy children.’
‘But they will take Alain?’
Boyer nodded.
‘How will they get hold of me?’ Alain asked.
Boyer looked confused.
‘Will they come and arrest me? Will they surround my home? Will they hunt for me in the streets and alleys if I’m not found there?’ There was a strange, hard note in his voice, a note that none of them had heard before, not even Viviane.
‘They will demand that people give themselves up,’ Boyer said.
Alain shook his head. ‘I won’t.’
Roland stared at him. ‘Then what will you do?’
‘I’ll go to ground. I’ll get away.’
‘And leave us?’ asked Viviane aghast.
He began to weep, tried but failed to keep the tears from flowing. ‘It’s the safest thing to do, Viviane. For you and the children. If I’m found with you it will be dangerous. Deadly dangerous.’
Boyer looked from Alain to Viviane and nodded. ‘Alain’s right. The best thing for all of you is for him to disappear.’
‘And go where?’
Boyer did not answer for a minute. No one spoke, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock.
‘To his friend in Nice,’ Boyer said at last. ‘Either that or go to join the Maquis. They are fighting from their bases just north of here.’
‘They’re part of the Resistance, right?’ Dorothy asked.
Boyer nodded. ‘Joining his friend or the Maquis are his only choices. If he is to survive.’
‘Could your criminal friend get you out of France?’ Dorothy asked.
Alain shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’
‘You must decide quickly,’ Boyer said. ‘At once.’ Then he held up his hand. ‘And whatever your decision, do not let us know.’
Alain looked at him, his face stricken. Then he hugged Viviane. ‘Tell the children that Papa’s gone to visit a friend. Tell them I’ll be in London.’
Viviane wailed in horror and clung onto his neck. He removed her hands gently, kissed her on the lips and then made for the door.
‘I’ll take him to your house,’ Boyer said to Viviane, ‘let him pick up some things. Then I’ll drive him out of town.’
‘Isn’t that a risk for you?’ Dorothy asked.
‘He’s family,’ he said simply. He turned to Dorothy and whispered something in her ear.
Dorothy turned and glanced at Viviane. ‘Of course, she can,’ she said.
He hurried out to catch Alain.
He returned a few hours later with three suitcases containing Viviane and the children’s clothes, personal belongings and toys.
Viviane stared at them blankly.
‘You’re to stay here,’ Boyer said. ‘Few people know of your friendship with Madame Pine. Keep it that way. Now, I must go. And you must never return to your home.’
It was only when she looked out of the window that she realised that Alain was waiting in Roland’s car. She ran out of the room, desperate to get to him. But the car had disappeared by the time she ran out on to the drive.
HUNTING
Grasse, 30 November 1943
Kriminaldirektor Schorn lifted his head at the sound of the knock. He knew who it would be. He pulled out a cigarette from a pack and lit it, breathed in slowly, deeply, imagining the smoke filling his lungs, curling into every little sac and bronchi. Such pleasure from such a tiny thing, he thought. He took another drag, felt the drying itch at the back of his throat. It was both a pain and a pleasure and that was what he liked most about it.
He stared at the door, thinking about the emotions of the man waiting on the other side. A slow smile crossed his face. After the war, he thought, I should go big game hunting. Africa. Or when the British Empire has been destroyed, India. He chuckled at the idea of it. He didn’t even like the sound of gunfire.
‘Enter,’ he said at last.
The handle turned and Gerard Pithou walked into the room. Schorn stared at him for a little while, exactly like his mother would stare at a herring on the fishmonger’s slab. ‘Sit,’ he said, indicating the chair on the opposite side of the desk.
Gerard sat down and passed a sheathe of papers across to him. Schorn looked as if the action was inconvenient, a bore. But he picked the papers up, nonetheless and began to read them. There were thirty or so names in the list, complete with addresses, places of work and other places where they might be found.
‘A good trawl,’ he murmured. ‘Thirty Jews. You are getting quite efficient.’
Gerard beamed with pleasure.
‘And the women I have provided for you?’ Schorn asked. ‘They have pleased you?’
Gerard thought of the women who had been delivered to his door. Most were prostitutes although he did not have to pay them. A few were not, young girls mostly, terrified and compliant.
‘Very pleased, Kriminaldirektor, thank you.’
‘But they are not your best friend’s wife?’ Schorn said with a smile. ‘She is still, where is it, Cannes?’
Gerard tried to recall what he had told Schorn about Viviane and where she lived. ‘Antibes,’ he said, relieved that he remembered his lie.
‘And you told me she was called Annette Dubois?’
Gerard nodded. He was sure that was the name he had given.
‘We could find her, you know,’ Schorn said, allowing a hint of excitement to sound in his voice. ‘We could get your friend, out of the way.’
Gerard swallowed hard. ‘I couldn’t do that, Kriminaldirektor. Much though I desire her.’
Schorn leaned back in his chair. ‘And we Germans are told that Frenchmen are great lovers.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I guess it would be different if she lived closer to hand. In the town itself, for example.’
‘Sadly, she doesn’t.’
Schorn smiled. Pithou’s not an idiot, he thought, he knows I am playing with him. He had already found out that the only Annette Dubois living in Antibes was an elderly widow and suspected that the woman he lusted after lived in the town. It was gallant of Pithou to try to protect her and her husband. Gallant but foolhardy. For he could use it against him later, should he have need.
Schorn lit another cigarette and offered the pack to Gerard. He was tempted to take one but thought it best to give a polite refusal. ‘I’ve just put one out,’ he explained.
‘I admire your self-control, Schorn said. ‘I, unfortunately, entirely lack any.’
Gerard’s eyes widened. He had never met a man with such steely self-control as Schorn.
Schorn placed the list of names to one side of the desk and picked up a sheet of paper.
‘There has been a development,’ he said. ‘Reichsführer Himmler has announced that all Gypsies and Half-Gypsies will be officially placed on the same level as Jews. They are to be co
llected together and transported to the east where they will be interned.’
Gerard gave one brief nod. His mind slowed, thoughts struggling jerkily, desperately, like an insect caught in a spider’s web.
Schorn stared at him, suddenly alert to Gerard’s reaction.
‘Do you know of any Gypsies in the area?’ he asked.
‘Not off the top of my head,’ he replied. He heard his voice sounding tense and shrill.
‘Then you must hunt them,’ Schorn said, ‘for me, for Reichsführer Himmler and for the Reich. It is noble work.’ He focused his attention on Gerard until the man began to visibly wilt under his gaze.
‘I suppose,’ he continued eventually, ‘there must be some Frenchwomen who have married Gypsies. They, of course, will not be sent to the camps.’ He gave a fleeting look of concern. ‘Their lives will be difficult, of course, with no man to protect them, no money, no means of support.’ Then he laughed. ‘But it is their fault, of course, for marrying degenerates.’
Schorn held Gerard’s gaze a good while longer. Then he gave a lazy wave towards the door. ‘I believe you have work to do, my friend.’
Gerard struggled to his feet and headed for the door. He closed it behind him and headed for the nearest toilet. He thought he was going to be sick.
Early the next day Gerard put on his Milice uniform and made his way to Alain and Viviane’s house. The curfew had ended but it was still dark and a biting wind raced through the streets. A trashcan tumbled along the road, clattering and crashing. A dog howled in the distance.
He had hardly slept that night, horrified at the news that Schorn had given him. Alain would be sent to some camp thousands of kilometres away. And as for Viviane and Celeste? And then another thought struck him. Not just Celeste, of course.
For the first time he began to wonder about David. He turned over in his mind the story that Viviane had told him about how he came to be living with her, about the penfriend who was the boy’s mother. He had never questioned her account. Doing such a deed seemed entirely in keeping with how Viviane would act. Kindly, caring, decisive, impetuous. It was why he loved her.
He shivered as this thought came to him. Loved her. He very rarely allowed it to surface.