by Martin Lake
Viviane turned over on her back and opened her eyes. She smiled at Dorothy and then immediately a frantic look came over her face.
She sat up in bed and clutched Dorothy by the arm.
‘Why are you here?’ she demanded. ‘What’s happened? Where are the children?’
‘They’re sleeping soundly,’ Dorothy said. ‘Marie slept on the chair in their room.’
‘Because they’re in danger?
Dorothy shook her head. ‘Because you were too sedated to wake if one of them called for you.’
Viviane relaxed a tiny bit. ‘You’re not lying?’ she asked. ‘You’re telling me the truth?’
‘Of course.’
Dorothy felt queasy at her words, knowing what she had planned to tell her later that day. But then she thought, maybe this is the best opportunity and she should seize it.
She took Viviane’s hand. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you, honey.’
Viviane stared at her wide-eyed. ‘Alain?’ she whispered.
‘No. It’s about David.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Colonel Weiser has guessed that he’s not your son. He overheard Celeste and David talking and it made him put two and two together.’
Viviane’s hand went to her mouth. Dorothy’s eyes filled with tears but she knew that she could not stop now. She had to press on.
‘And he’s guessed that David’s a Jew.’
‘What?’
Dorothy placed her hand on Viviane’s knee. ‘The Colonel’s not a fool. He reasoned that it was the most likely reason you’d take David in.’
‘But he could be the son of a relative. Or a friend. Which he is.’
Dorothy forced herself to speak more forcefully. ‘David’s mother wasn’t your friend, Viviane. And even if that were the case, then the boy would have been taken in by an orphanage. Weiser knows that. You don’t become a colonel if you’re an idiot.’
‘Will he betray us?’
‘He’s vowed not to. He hates the Gestapo, it seems.’
She gazed at Viviane. And maybe he likes you rather more, she thought.
‘What about the other one, his friend? He’s a much nastier man.’
‘So I thought,’ Dorothy answered. ‘But when Weiser said that he knew about David the Major grew very fierce. Surprisingly so. I’d put money on it that he’ll never give you away. Never, ever.’
‘But he’s a German.’
‘But not necessarily a Nazi. Neither of them are, I guess.’ She could not help her mind from wandering back to Mundt’s angry, determined reaction. What was it about that?
‘But Gerard…’ Viviane began.
‘Hush now, sweetheart. Gerard will be too ashamed to do anything about it. And besides, when he’s calmed down, he’ll probably feel contrite and ashamed. He won’t do anything to hurt you.’
At the precise moment she said these words, Gerard was walking into Gestapo Headquarters.
BETRAYAL
Grasse, 9 December 1943
Kriminaldirektor Schorn sat back in his chair and studied his visitor.
‘You seem agitated, Pithou,’ he said, at last. ‘Please, sit.’
Gerard slumped into a chair and, without realising he was doing it, patted his pockets.
‘You want a cigarette?’ Schorn asked. He pushed a pack across the desk.
‘Lucky Strike,’ he said. ‘American cigarettes. Do you know that the GI’s get nine cigarettes in their rations? Our soldiers get six at most, and they’re usually foul weeds taken from Russian corpses. These were confiscated from Red Cross packs for American airmen.’
Gerard took a cigarette, lit it and went to pass the pack back across the desk.
‘Keep it, my friend,’ Schorn said. ‘It looks like you’re in need of it.’
He waited until Gerard had taken two long puffs and then leaned forward in his chair.
‘Now, Gerard, my friend. Tell me what is troubling you?’
‘I’m not troubled,’ Gerard said, quickly.
Schorn shrugged. ‘My mistake, forgive me. But you have news?’
‘I found a Jewish boy yesterday.’
For a moment, Schorn looked surprised. Then he gave a slow hand-clap. ‘Bravo, Gerard. I shall telephone the Führer and give him the news. The end of the war is now that much closer.’
Gerard flushed a deep crimson.
Schorn chuckled to see his discomfort. He took out another packet of Lucky Strike, lit one, and took a long drag on it.
‘The child has been taken in by a French woman,’ Gerard said. ‘Her husband has fled because he’s a Gypsy. I believe he is with the Maquis or maybe criminal elements in Marseille.’
‘And why is this so important that you bother me with it?’ Schorn said, his voice with a trace of contempt. ‘Tell Kriminalinspektor Buchner. He will deal with it.’
Gerard did not answer, only looked even more uncomfortable.
‘I see,’ Schorn said at last. ‘This is some personal grudge. You do not like this woman.’
He paused and an amused look came to his face. ‘Or perhaps you like her too much. Don’t worry, my friend, I understand this.’
He stubbed out his cigarette, for the conversation now promised much greater pleasure than even a Lucky Strike. ‘You want me to arrange to deal with the child?’
Gerard gave a slow nod.
‘And then you want more?’
Again Gerard nodded. ‘I want her, sir. I want her to be given up to me.’
‘Of course you do. But you realise that she will not welcome your advances.’
Gerard recalled how she had reacted at the Villa.
‘I do. That does not matter.’
‘I suppose you relish it, in fact. Enjoy the thought of making her accept your advances.’
Gerard gave the briefest of nods.
Schorn chuckled. ‘Then you will require some equipment, no doubt. Handcuffs, a gag, a riding crop, a whip?’
Gerard did not answer although the tip of his tongue licked his lips.
‘Consider it done,’ Schorn said. ‘Now, where can we found this woman of your dreams?’
‘She’s at a villa a few kilometres north of the town. It’s called Villa Laurel and is owned by some American bitch.’
‘An American? And she’s still in France?’
Gerard nodded.
‘Excellent. Two birds with one stone. You shall have your paramour and I shall have the American. I am fond of all things American.’
‘She’s an older woman.’
Schorn shrugged. ‘I only want to interrogate her. Unless she’s a comely matron, of course.’
‘And the boy?’ Gerard said. ‘The Jewish boy?’
Schorn sighed. ‘I can’t lay on transport to the camps for just one boy. He’ll have to be dealt with here. Buchner will be happy to do it. It only takes a bullet.’
‘Could the woman watch?’
Schorn’s eyebrow rose to his hair-line. ‘Watch the little boy being executed? My, but you have been wounded.’ He gave a fulsome smile. ‘Yes, if that’s what you wish. Now, tell me where is this Villa Laurel?’
The Gestapo car gunned up the narrow road and screeched into the driveway of Villa Laurel. Showers of pebbles cascaded from its wheels as the driver revved the car up even faster. Schorn liked this driver because he knew how to drive in the most appropriately dramatic manner.
The car skidded to a halt outside the entrance. Schorn scrutinised the villa carefully. Envy licked at his soul.
‘She must be a very rich bitch,’ he murmured. ‘Do you know how she came by this wealth, Pithou?’
Gerard shrugged. ‘Some people say she’s a film star from Hollywood but I don’t know if that’s true.’
Schorn’s interest was piqued even more. Officially, the Nazi Government condemned decadent American films but that rarely stopped aficionados such as he from watching them. The image of Greta Garbo came to his mind, swiftly followed by Mae West, and he wondered who the owner of the Villa would look like most.
The driver leapt out of the car and opened the door for Schorn who headed straight for the villa. Gerard joined him at the front door. He was torn. Part of him wanted to scurry away from the place but part of him was excited at returning in such powerful company.
Schorn glanced at him. ‘Aren’t you going to ring the bell?’
Gerard hurried to do his bidding. He listened to the ringing of the bell sounding in the hall, imagined what effect it might have on the listeners.
The door opened and Marie peered out.
‘You —’ she hissed at Gerard.
Schorn pushed open the door, almost knocking her to the floor in the process.
‘Where is your mistress?’ he demanded.
‘I’m here,’ came a voice from the morning room. Dorothy stepped out and confronted Schorn. ‘Who are you?’
Schorn scrutinised her from top to toe. His lip curled. ‘I was told you were a Hollywood star. A character actress, perhaps?’
‘Who the hell are you?’
Schorn gave a little bow. ‘I am Kriminaldirektor Heinrich Schorn. The chief of the Gestapo for the area.’
‘I see.’ Dorothy made her voice friendlier. ‘How can I help you, Herr Schorn?’
Schorn took off his gloves and slapped them against his palm in an impatient rhythm. ‘You have a woman here.’ He paused, realising he did not know her name, and glanced at Gerard.
‘Viviane Renaud,’ he mumbled.
Schorn nodded. ‘As my friend said. And Mademoiselle Renaud has two children with her. One of them a member of a proscribed community. A Jew.’
‘Viviane is here,’ Dorothy said. ‘But the boy is not a Jew. We have the papers to prove it.’
Schorn scoffed. ‘Papers. French papers aren’t worth the paper they are written on.’ He smiled at his own joke. He had been waiting a long time to say it. He turned to Gerard who forced a laugh.
‘Send this woman to me,’ Schorn said, pushing past Dorothy into the sitting room. ‘With the children and the papers.’
Dorothy swallowed hard. She wondered if she could alert Viviane and give her the chance to make a run for it. But she dismissed the thought as soon as it came to her. Fleeing with the children would be impossible and, even if they got away, they would not escape their hunters for long.
‘Bring them here, Marie,’ she said quietly. ‘And then go to the kitchen and prepare some lunch for the Kriminaldirektor.’
Marie looked astonished at the notion but hurried off to do it.
‘You’ll have a drink, Herr Schorn?’ Dorothy said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any schnapps.’
‘I can’t abide the stuff. Do you have any Bourbon?’
Dorothy gave a look of surprise. ‘Not many Germans appreciate American drinks.’
‘I appreciate all things American, Frau Pine.’
He watched her appreciatively as she went to the drinks cupboard to find some Bourbon. She was more Mae West than Greta Garbo but, despite his earlier jibe about her being a character actress, handsome enough. In his experience, older women were often more satisfying than younger ones.
‘You were an actress, I’m told.’
She handed him a large glass of Bourbon. ‘You were told wrong, Herr Schorn. I was a script-writer.’
Schorn looked impressed. ‘You must know many actors and directors. Authors, perhaps? Dashiell Hammett? I greatly admire his books.’
‘Never met Hammett. He’s kind of a private guy. I worked a little with James Cain, though.’
‘The writer of The Postman Always Rings Twice?’
Dorothy nodded.
Schorn raised his glass in salute and took a sip. ‘You appear to have kept good company in the past, Frau Pine.’
The door opened and Viviane walked in with the children.
Schorn got to his feet. ‘Mademoiselle Renaud, I presume.’
Viviane’s eyes flicked to Gerard and then back to Schorn. ‘Madame Renaud,’ she said. ‘I’m a married woman.’
‘Of course. And these are your delightful children?’
Viviane clutched hold of their hands tightly. ‘Yes. Celeste and David.’
‘The little boy is very dark.’
For a moment Viviane almost said that her husband was as well but she checked herself in time. ‘He’s not my natural child. He’s the son of a good friend who was killed in a bombing raid by the British.’
Schorn gave a sympathetic look. ‘What terrible cruelties the British inflict on you French. The poor boy.’ He came over and rubbed his hand across David’s hair. ‘Very dark. Almost oriental.’
‘I think his father’s family may have come from Corsica. It’s the Italian influence.’
‘Our erstwhile allies,’ Schorn said with a sigh.
He held out his hand. ‘Your papers please. The children’s as well as yours.’
Viviane fumbled in her bag. The room was chill but sweat appeared on her brow. She prayed that Schorn would not notice.
‘Are you unwell, Madame Renaud?’ he asked. ‘Have you a temperature?’
‘I’ve been busy in the kitchen,’ she replied. She held out the papers. ‘Here they are.’
Schorn took the papers and examined hers carefully before handing it back to her. He looked at Celeste’s, grunted and returned it as well.
Then he glanced at David’s, rather more casually.
‘All in order,’ he said, and made to hand it back.
Viviane gave a sigh of relief and closed her fingers on it. But she was too late. Schorn had snatched it away.
A frown appeared on his face. He looked at the document again, turned to the light from the window and scrutinised it with painstaking care.
‘There is some irregularity here, Madame,’ he said at last.
A lump blocked her throat. ‘What do you mean?’ she blurted out, finally.
‘Alas, I’m not at liberty to tell you,’ he answered. ‘But I can tell you that there is a serious irregularity. A very disturbing one.’
‘Nonsense,’ Dorothy said. ‘His papers have been checked by the police.’
‘By Captain Boyer, perhaps?’ Schorn said. ‘The buffoon?’
He folded up David’s papers and put them in his pocket.
Then he stared at Viviane for a long time. When he spoke again his voice had lost all trace of friendliness. It was hard, official, naked with power.
‘I believe that the boy is a Jew. I shall have to take you into custody, Madame Renaud.’ He looked stern, almost angry. ‘It is clear that you are an unfit custodian of children. I shall arrange to have both of them taken to some place of safety.’
‘No,’ screamed Viviane.
‘But you said you’d only take the boy,’ Gerard said. ‘Only the Jew.’
‘Tut tut,’ Schorn said. He suddenly grew tired of the charade. ‘I haven’t time for such distinctions. One bullet or two makes very little difference to the Reich. And without their distraction your girlfriend will have more time to attend to your needs.’
JURISDICTION
9 December 1943
Viviane leapt at Gerard, snarling in fury. He just managed to fend her off.
The door opened and Major Mundt entered the room.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.
Schorn gave him a disdainful glance. ‘It is none of your business, Major. Please leave.’
‘I shall it make it my business, Herr Schorn. Why are you here? What are you doing with this woman and her children?’
‘Doing my duty.’ He pointed at David who was clinging on to Viviane’s skirt. ‘If you must know, this creature is a Jew. He is to be taken into custody. As will the woman and her daughter.’
‘I think Oberst Weiser will have something to say about this,’ Mundt said. He poked his head out of the room and called out. ‘Marie, fetch the colonel.’
Marie returned a moment later with Weiser. Curiosity overcame her fear and she slipped into the room.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Weiser demanded.
Schorn sighed and shook his head. ‘I have already told your Major. This boy is a Jew and the woman has been hiding him, illegally. She will be taken into custody.’
He glanced at Gerard. ‘Not by the Gestapo but by the French Milice.’
Gerard’s eyes flared and he took a step towards Viviane.
‘And the children will be taken into a place of safety,’ Schorn continued.
‘Not the girl,’ Marie said. ‘We can take care of her, can’t we Madame Pine?’
Before anyone could answer, Schorn waved his hand dismissively.
‘Very well. But the boy, the Jew boy, he comes with me.’
Weiser limped over to Schorn and stood inches from him.
‘Surely you can’t think that one little boy poses a threat to the Third Reich?’ His voice was little more than a murmur.
‘The idea of him does,’ Schorn said. ‘And those who try to protect such scum pose an equally great threat. No matter what their rank or station.’
Weiser smiled. It was bleak and unforgiving. ‘Do you seek to threaten me, Herr Schorn?’
‘If you feel threatened by my legal actions that is your concern, not mine.’
‘Oh I don’t feel threatened by you, Herr Schorn. I fought at Minsk and at Stalingrad. Nothing on earth can threaten or frighten me.’
Schorn glared at him. ‘I have legal authority in the town and the area.’
‘But not here,’ Mundt said. ‘This is a military base.’
‘Don’t be preposterous,’ Schorn cried. ‘The child comes with me. And if you argue I shall take the whole family.’ He stared at Dorothy. ‘And all who have collaborated with them.’
‘The boy stays here,’ Weiser said. ‘And so does everyone else.’ He turned to Viviane. ‘Madame Renaud, you and the children may leave us now.’
‘You have no authority to do this,’ Schorn said. ‘I have jurisdiction here.’
Weiser frowned. ‘Now where have I heard that phrase before? “I have jurisdiction here.” Where did we hear that Mundt?’
‘In Rostov. From a communist commissar ordering us to leave.’
Weiser clicked his fingers. ‘Of course it was. Remind me, Mundt, what happened to the commissar?’