Disturbing the Dark

by Wendy Hornsby

  “Had you invited her into your home?”

  “No one invited her in. What really alarmed me was that my ninety-two-year-old grandmother arrived home an hour before I did, and was alone in the house while Madame Karl was upstairs searching around.”

  The judge was eyeing Erika over the top of his glasses, trying to reconcile my story with the bedraggled woman sitting in front of him. I wondered if she had made herself look as unkempt as she did that morning as a ploy to present herself as more dotty and harmless than she was.

  Renée asked, “At some point Sunday morning, did your grandmother encounter Madame Karl?”

  “She did. I called the police and walked Madame Karl downstairs to wait for them outside, hoping my grandmother would be spared. But Grand-mère saw her. Madame Karl begged my grandmother to tell her what she knew about Major von Streicher, whom she described in idyllic terms. Grand-mère decided to set her straight about her father’s character.”

  Renée held out a hand as an invitation for me to elaborate. First I checked on Ma Mère. When she gave me an encouraging nod, I began.

  “My grandmother told Madame Karl the many ways that Major von Streicher had abused the power bestowed upon him by the Nazis. Grand-mère called him a thief, a martinet, and a rapist. And then my grandmother told Madame Karl how she slit the major’s throat with a pruning knife.”

  “And killed him?” the judge asked, eyes wide.

  “If that didn’t kill him, the bullet Grand-mère put in his chest immediately after did.”

  “Was there a precipitating event for that act?” he asked, brow deeply furrowed.

  “It happened during the war,” I said. “Von Streicher was an enemy combatant. As if that weren’t reason enough, Grand-mère walked in on von Streicher as he initiated the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl. Grand-mère stopped him.”

  The judge, transfixed, muttered, “Mon dieu.”

  Erika dropped her head into her arms and wept. Ma Mère crossed herself.

  “What happened next, madame?” the judge asked.

  “The police came and took Madame Karl into custody.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “But what happened next with your grandmother and Major von Streicher?”

  “She dug a hole in the turnip field and buried him.”

  The courtroom crowd erupted and the judge pounded the table with his fist to quiet them. When order was restored, he asked me, “Is von Streicher still in the turnip field?”

  “The field is planted in carrots at the moment. But, no. His remains were discovered on Thursday.” I looked at the clock on the wall behind the judge. “Just about now, volunteers from the German Volksbund should be putting what’s left of Major von Streicher into an unmarked grave at La Cambe military cemetery.”

  “Ah, yes. The carrot field.” The lightbulbs seemed to come on. “He was not the only Nazi buried under those turnips, then, was he?”

  “No, sir. There were sixteen others.”

  He turned to Renée. “You are finished with this witness, yes? I want to hear what Madame Karl has to say for herself.”

  A brief recess was called so that Erika could pull herself together. She blew her nose and tossed back a small brandy her lawyer provided to her. I went back into the spectator section, choosing a seat as far away from Harry as I could. He skewed around and waved to get my attention. In a stage whisper that the entire court must have heard, he said, “Now it comes, aye? You just get ready.”

  After a conference with the judge, Renée resumed her place. “Madame Karl, will you explain to the court how you came to be inside the Martin home on Sunday morning?”

  “I needed to get something,” she said.

  “And what was that?”

  “Some personal property that belonged to my father,” she said. “I thought that while everyone was away at a party no one would mind if I just popped in and got it.”

  “Are you a friend of the Martin family?”

  Erika turned in her seat and searched the room until she found me. Facing forward again, she said, “No.”

  “Did any member of the Martin family invite you into their home or give you permission to retrieve this property?”

  “No.”

  “You are from Germany, are you not?”

  “I am.”

  “Is it customary in Germany for people to pop into stranger’s homes uninvited to retrieve items?”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “What do you call that sort of activity in Germany?”

  “Einbruch.”

  “That means burglary, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happens when burglars are caught in Germany?”

  “They go to prison.”

  Renée turned to the judge. “I am finished with this witness.”

  He nodded, but he was watching Erika closely. “Tell me, Madame Karl, exactly what were you looking for?”

  “A box.” She held her hands as if she were holding something about the size of a shoebox. “My father put it under the floor in his room to keep it safe so he could bring it home to us.”

  “And what was in the box, pray tell?”

  She hesitated. Then in a tiny voice that was barely audible at the back of the room, she said, “Gold rings and watches.”

  “Your father brought this box of gold rings and watches with him to France from Germany?”

  “No,” she said, squaring her shoulders and looking him in the eye. “He acquired them during the war.”

  “He told you where to find this box?”

  “He wrote to my mother about it,” she said. “After the war, whenever life seemed too harsh for my brother and me to bear, my mother would tell us about the treasure that our father had hidden away for us. She would promise that as soon as we could, we would go get it. And then everything would be as it had been before the war was lost.”

  That did it for the judge. The room had erupted again but he paid no attention to the chatter. He said, “Prisoner is to be held on remand, no bail. A trial date will be set by the master of the court. Officers, please take Madame Karl in charge. Next case, please.”

  Étienne Moss took my elbow and we rose to leave. On the way out, I spotted Paulette and Henry Matson among the crowd with their heads bent close together, deep in conversation. I didn’t stop to speak with them, or with anyone, but continued on until we were outside in the sunshine.

  “What will happen to her?” I asked Moss as we walked briskly away from the mairie.

  One of his shoulders went up, a twitch more than a shrug, the French version of an American saying “Um” while he thought. “Most likely, she’ll be put into the charge of her consulate and invited out of the country. But first, she’ll probably need to sign a pledge never to return. In exchange, the case will not come to trial. After all, she took nothing and did no damage.”

  “That’s probably the best solution,” I said, offering him my hand. “Thank you for staying for the hearing.”

  “My pleasure,” he said with a little bow, just a slight bend from the waist, but a courtly gesture nonetheless.

  Still holding on to his hand, I asked, “How do you know Jean-Paul Bernard?”

  That shoulder twitch again. “He was a university classmate of my older brother. Do say hello for me. And tell him that Suzanne and I will expect the two of you to come for dinner very soon.”

  Knowing Jean-Paul as I did, I had expected the answer to be something in that vein. We said our good-byes and I started off toward the café tabac where Guido texted that he was waiting for me. I was about halfway there when the Matsons caught up with me.

  “Maggie,” Paulette said, a bit breathless as she slipped her hand around my arm and walked along close beside me. “What a story! And what a crazy woman.”

  “Double that.” Henry had her other arm. “I think that both she and her brother, the count, must live in fantasy land. Quite the pair. After hearing what that woman had to say, I wonder if our count ac
tually believes that his title is legitimate.”

  “I’ve been humming ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow,’ ever since her big finish.” Paulette leaned her head closer to mine. “So, do you think there really is a box of gold stashed under the floor in your grandmother’s house?”

  “No. It would have been found during the big remodel fifty years ago,” I said. “Though no one would have been surprised if something like that had turned up. Major von Streicher stole all sorts of things, including a houseful of furniture. After the war, my grandparents and the priest cleared his loot out of their house and did their best to return all of it to the original owners.”

  “So tragic for so many people,” she said with an angry shake of her head. “I suppose the man got what was coming to him, but holy Jesus, Mary, and Joseph it took some balls for your grandmother to do what she did to him. I only hope that in the right circumstance I would have the fortitude to do what she did.”

  “Honey,” Henry said, “I have no doubt that in a battle of the cojones, you would come out on top.”

  She paused to think about that for a moment, and then she let loose her big, American laugh. I thought that poor Henry would melt with pure joy just hearing it.

  Still smiling, Paulette leaned forward to catch Henry’s eye. “Well, my prince, I think it’s just about time for you to summon the coachman and carry me away.”

  “Where are you two off to next?” I asked.

  “Saigon,” Henry said. “Not for fun this time, just business.”

  “I enjoyed meeting you,” I said. “Have a safe trip.”

  Paulette gave my arm a squeeze. “Don’t think you’ve seen the last of us.”

  “I hope not.”

  We managed to pull off a round of les bises as if it were perfectly natural for us to do so. With a last wave, they headed off toward the car park behind the mairie and I continued on my way toward the café to meet Guido. Before I went inside, I found a shady spot and called Jean-Paul.

  “I like your friend Étienne Moss,” I said.

  “He’s good at what he does. Tell me about the hearings.”

  “Guido was sprung, as expected.” We went over the testimony during Erika’s arraignment, but I had the feeling that he already knew the essentials. “Moss thinks she’ll be sent home with a warning. I expected her consul to be there. Maybe I missed him.”

  “No, he wasn’t there,” Jean-Paul said. “Ordinarily in a case where there was no actual damage, a woman of a certain age and with a clean record, like her, would be reprimanded and turned over to her consul, who would put her on an airplane home. But Germany is very sensitive about its image, especially when there is any reference to its Nazi past. And while France loves tourist dollars, it does not encourage tourists from Germany who are openly interested in nostalgic pilgrimages into Papa’s World War Two stomping grounds.”

  “Stomping grounds is a descriptive word choice,” I said. “So, the German consulate left Erika to twist in the wind?”

  “If that means what it sounds like, yes,” he said. “It was decided that the best way to make her cease and desist would be to allow an open airing of not only her reprehensible behavior, but also that of her sainted father. Let the public stone her in a metaphoric sense.”

  “And then put her on a plane headed home,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Do you think she got the message today?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be happy when her plane leaves French air space. So, tell me about your day,” I said. “Are you at lunch?”

  “I’m lying on a beach with a mai tai resting on my bare belly.”

  “Interesting image,” I said.

  “I lied. But if I lean way out I can see a bit of water. Or is that just a puddle on the pavement below my hotel?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Paris still,” he said. “Maggie, I’ve been offered an interesting position. But before I accept, you and I need to talk.”

  “Do we?”

  “Don’t tease, chérie. My poor heart won’t take it; I haven’t had lunch yet.”

  “I’m all ears.” Actually, I was all nerves. When someone says, “We need to talk,” something damn serious usually follows.

  “Not on the telephone,” he said. “I will need all the weapons in my arsenal for this particular discussion: dimples, boyish charm, maybe a little pout if things don’t go my way.”

  “Your only dimples are on your backside.”

  “Be warned, I will launch them if necessary.”

  “When will this launch take place?”

  “Maybe tonight. I’ll call when I know.”

  My hands actually shook when I put the phone away. Was I ready for this conversation? Feeling the need for a bracer, my first stop when I went inside the café was at the zinc-topped bar for a petit blanc, a short glass of wine. I slugged it back the way the locals did, letting it hit the back of my throat without landing on a single taste bud until I exhaled the fumes afterward. I suppose that it’s the shock of the alcohol hitting bottom all at once that steadies the nerves.

  After a few deep breaths, I went in search of my old friend, Guido. I found him drinking coffee and reading his Mickey Spillane novel at a table in a far corner, next to a window that looked out onto the street. The duffel bag we had taken to him at the barracks was on the floor next to his chair.

  “Fine literature?” I asked, pulling out a chair. I waved at Clothilde, the proprietress. She set a demi-tasse in front of me filled with coffee so dark I swear the spoon could stand on its own.

  “That’ll put hair on your chest,” Guido said, laying the book aside.

  We spent the next hour filling each other in. It had only been three days since he was picked up by the police, but so much had happened that it felt like a month had gone by.

  His first question was, “Do you want me to pack up and fly home?”

  “I hope you don’t want to go, Guido. We’re so far behind and now with everything shut down because of the break-in, we’re pushed back even further. I can’t finish this film without you.”

  “Seriously?” he said. “You want me to stay?”

  “Seriously.” I nudged his hand with my fist. “Though I must say that the interns have really stepped into the breach. They’ve taken enough background footage that we could junk all this serious shit we’ve filmed so far and make a really hot film about the summer scene in Normandy. Zach’s bikini shots alone would sell it.”

  He laughed. “Okay, we’re back. What’s first?”

  “Know where we can get some decent video cameras?”

  “There’s an electronics store over in Pérrier.”

  I held up Jean-Paul’s keys and gave them a shake. “We have wheels. Let’s go do it.”

  He looked at his watch. “Lunch first, okay?”

  I called Grand-mère and told her that I had Guido with me and that we would be eating in the village. She thought it was just as well that we were. The police had made the entire backyard off limits so lunch would be served to the workers and students in the dining room of Freddy’s community center. She and Grand-mère Marie would have lunch at Julie and Jacques Breton’s house.

  The local word-of-mouth information service had already given her all the gory details from Erika’s arraignment. I apologized for testifying in public that she had slit von Streicher’s throat, but she promised that it didn’t matter. After all, she said, I had already filmed her talking about the same incident, but in far greater detail than I had revealed to the judge, and that film would be broadcast to the public soon enough.

  There were only two restaurants in the village center. My favorite was on the ground floor of the only hotel in town, a workingman’s hotel that offered long-term guests a package deal that included lunch and dinner. The restaurant off the lobby was open to the public. All meals were served family-style at long tables, and just like home, everyone who sat down was served the same meal. It was always surprisingly good and surprisingly cheap, a
nd the dining experience there had a certain earthy charm about it. You never knew who would sit down next to you.

  The lunch fare posted on the board outside was rosemary-roasted chicken and fried potatoes, so we went inside and found seats among the mix of working men, village locals, and tourists. If the food was simple, the mix of languages and conversational topics was rich.

  A man with a florid face and a too-tight collar reached past me for the carafe of red wine on the table in front of Guido. He pulled a well-read newspaper out from under the edge of his plate and slapped it with the back of his hand to show us an article about Chinese imports.

  “You see how it is?” he said, washing down a mouthful of food with wine. He told us he was a salesman for a company that made knives and scissors. At one time the factory and corporate headquarters were in Germany and he reported to a French supervisor in Lille. But now the factory was in China, his boss was English working from an office in Brussels, and the company’s headquarters were in Singapore. He complained that he was no longer treated like a valuable asset, but had become an easily replaceable cog in a huge ­machine. Worst of all, the product he now had to sell was crap. And so on.

  Of course, this conversation was entirely in French so Guido understood virtually none of it. But he responded to the tone of the man’s voice, nodded during pauses, and tsk’d when the man tsk’d. When the man finished his lunch, he complimented Guido on his grasp of the problem, shook his hand, saluted me and went on his way.

  “What was that about?” Guido asked me.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Probably not.” He scooted a little closer to ask, “Anything new on Solange?”

  “If there is, I wouldn’t know. Antoine told me that all of the students were questioned individually, but Pierre isn’t sharing his thoughts. Not with me anyway.”

  I retrieved the wine carafe and refilled our glasses. “I have a hunch, though, that Pierre is using the break-in at our studio as an excuse to move his officers onto the estate because he’s closing in on a suspect or he’s worried something else will happen. Last night, he imbedded two officers in the student camp. He wanted them staying in the tents, so he moved Taylor and Zach into Grand-mère’s with us. Get up early, my friend, because you can expect a line for the hall bathroom.”