Out on the street, she flagged down a delivery truck, offering the driver all the money she had on her to take her and her bulging laundry bags the short distance to boulevard de la Madeleine. She and Violaine would have to re-sew all the labels, and she still had to re-acquire the tools of her trade, but she had won a victory. An immoral one, perhaps, but what did she care about that?
Chapter Twenty-one
Friday again,12 July. Her forger had broken his promise over Ottilia’s papers. Coralie had been back twice to rue Valdonne. Bonnet had not answered her agitated knocking, though on her second visit, his face had appeared briefly at the window. Well, she’d go back again. And again, until he produced.
They were taking late-morning tea at home – she, Una and Ottilia – when three solid raps at the street door froze them mid-conversation. Coralie felt the crash in the stomach that was becoming unpleasantly familiar. It might be Henriette, ranting about hats. It might be the French police, interested in her visits to a forger. It might be German officials, a black car drawn up at the kerb. Her hands turned clammy as she went down and drew back the bolts.
Ramon was inside almost before she had time to gasp, ‘You!’
She noticed immediately that he’d lost weight. His face was hatched with fading scratches. But his clothes were clean and somebody had ironed his shirt. She even got a hint of a woman’s scent. Before she could turn on him, however, he blared, ‘What the devil are you up to?’
‘Talking to Bonnet? Lucky I did, or I might never have known you were back.’
‘Bonnet?’ Ramon stared. Then, ‘You’ve been to rue Valdonne? Coralie, how dare you? Only I deal with Bonnet.’
‘Had you told me you were in Paris, I’d have asked you. Ottilia’s in danger. We’re shipping her out.’
Was that a flicker of shame? ‘I was going to call. I’ve been busy.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Don’t you dare put me in the wrong.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘After what you did to my sister!’
‘To Henriette? Hang on. Not only did she rob me, she nearly murdered my assistant. Go and poke your finger at her.’
‘I know what she did, and there’s no excuse, but to get her arrested? Coralie – such revenge is beneath you.’
‘Arrested? I don’t rat, not even on Henriette.’
‘You didn’t need to. You made a prime show on rue Royale. Those hats, red, white and blue, covered in revolutionary cockades?’
‘My window display? A little lacking in finesse,’ she rammed her hands on her hips, ‘but I made my point.’
‘Oh, you made a point. Henriette and Lorienne Royer were arrested the same morning for subversion. Yes, subversion! It is illegal to display the French colours. Do you see any tricolores in Paris now? They were taken to the Santé prison. Lorienne’s out, but Henriette is still there.’
‘I didn’t mean that to happen!’
‘But it has. You barge ahead, like a lunatic firing bullets in a crowd. It was the same at the Rose Noire, when you dragged us all into a fight, and Arkady and the other boys were nearly beaten up. All so you could be the centre of attention, prancing about in a gold hat. You’re dangerously irresponsible.’
‘How about you? I thought you were dead, or a prisoner of war.’
His reply was an ironic snort. ‘I hardly fired a bullet. I ended up behind the lines, ferrying wounded men to field hospitals.’
‘And now you’re skulking in a back-street with somebody else’s woman.’
He flushed hard. ‘What makes you think she’s somebody else’s?’
‘Because they always are. I was the honourable exception. I don’t suppose you’re working, either.’
‘I can’t because the German military police are looking for me. I got caught just before the surrender, made a prisoner of war, only I escaped. Me and some other lads jumped out the back of a lorry and ran for it. I pick up jobs here and there now, so don’t ask me for money.’
‘When was the last time I did that?’
Noëlle must have heard them, because she suddenly wailed, ‘Papa, Papa!’ from the top of the stairs.
Coralie turned to go up, but Ramon stopped her. ‘Once upon a time, Raphael Bonnet lived in Montmartre, but one day he got so drunk he rolled down the slope all the way to Montparnasse.’
‘Save the fairy stories for Noëlle.’
‘It’s not a fairy story. If the Gestapo ever get on to him, he will talk. You’ve heard of the Gestapo? Geheime Staatspolizei, secret state police. Nice fellows who wear black uniforms or, more usually, grey. Sometimes they lurk in plain suits, trying to look like the rest of us.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Bonnet knew my name and address and now he knows yours. If he is taken in for questioning, if they torture him, he will betray you.’
So, she had blundered, but she wasn’t going to give Ramon the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. ‘Bonnet doesn’t have this address. I go to him.’ She did feel bad about Henriette, though. ‘Shall I pack a basket of food to take to your sister?’
Ramon rolled his eyes. ‘She has a girlfriend for that. Look, I’ll go to Bonnet’s now, chase up your papers. Men like him need men like me to kick their arses. It’s not women’s work.’
*
Two hours later, Ottilia was staring indignantly at her new identity. ‘That photograph is awful. I look sulky and fat.’ It had been prised off Ottilia’s London Library card. Coralie had been appalled to discover that Ottilia had brought it to France, along with two further proofs of her identity: her passport and a British alien’s identity card. This last, a fawn-coloured booklet, revealed every detail of her birth and her former residence in Berlin. Coralie had lit a fire in the grate and put the documents into the flames, ignoring Ottilia’s pleas that she couldn’t legally re-enter Britain without them. ‘Better detained in England than deported to Germany.’
Now she looked over Ottilia’s shoulder to assess Bonnet’s work. The identity card looked convincing, to the point of being creased and a little greasy at the corners, as if it had been inspected scores of times already. ‘Guard it with your life, Tilly, and learn every line of it. Most of the details are true, but not all. See? It says you live in rue de Madrid.’
‘But that’s an awful street. Once I had a charwoman who lived near there.’
‘The point is, it’s easy to remember because you’re making for Madrid.’
‘I thought I was going to Vichy.’
‘You are at first—’ Coralie stopped, catching Ramon’s eye. He considered their plan for Ottilia’s escape to be amateur. Such things were men’s work, no doubt. ‘Una will explain better than me,’ she said. ‘She’ll be back from her hospital shift in time for supper.’
‘Why does it say that I am a florist?’
‘Your cover story is that you are a single woman, with no parents, going to live with an aunt in Perpignan. Women in such circumstances usually have to work, so we chose a profession you could talk about, if you’re questioned. You must have bought enough flowers in your life!’
‘That doesn’t mean I know about them. I order them and another woman brings them and arranges them. Why should I do it myself?’
Ramon interrupted, asking if Coralie had beer in the flat? He’d run to rue Valdonne for the papers and back again, and it was hot out there.
‘We can manage weak tea,’ she said. ‘Did Bonnet give you anything else?’
‘A bill.’ Ramon handed her a square of grimy paper with figures scrawled on it. ‘And this.’
‘This’ was a flimsy pink rectangle, their counterfeit Ausweis, authorising four male musicians and Ottilie Dupont to cross the demarcation line into the Free Zone. It was stamped with the German eagle and today’s date. As Bonnet had forewarned, it required an authorising signature.
‘For which you will have to jump through h
oops,’ Ramon told her.
‘We’ll queue at the Kommandantur, no hoops required. I’ll make your tea.’
He shadowed her to the kitchen, and while they waited for the water to boil, she took him through the escape plan in detail.
‘It’s simple,’ she insisted. ‘The Vagabonds will play a double set at the Rose Noire tomorrow night. Soon as curfew’s lifted, they’ll set off for Vichy, taking Ottilia with them.’
‘Picking her up here?’
‘We’re all going to the club. She’ll leave with them.’
‘Then what?’
‘Remember that champagne we drank at Christmas? That came from a friend of Una’s. He’s now an adviser to the new government in the south, in Vichy. He’s pulled strings to get the Vagabonds a week’s residence in a club near the Hôtel du Parc. That’s where all the top-rank ministers are staying. It turns out Vichy’s a bit thin on fun.’
Una had put it slightly differently. ‘The ministers, their wives and mistresses are at each other’s throats with boredom. Any table-scraps of Parisian culture are welcome.’
‘And how do they travel?’ Ramon demanded. ‘Train?’
Coralie measured tea leaves into the pot. ‘By car, courtesy of Serge Martel.’
‘You are kidding.’
‘Nope.’ Back in charge of his club, eager to curry favour with the new, collaborationist government, Serge Martel had not only agreed to release the Vagabonds from their contract for a week but also to loan his famous wine-red Peugeot for the journey. Una had called on him a few days ago, just to make sure. She’d worn her tightest outfit, undone the top buttons . . . Her attention to detail had worked. So far.
Still, Ramon seemed determined to find fault. ‘Ottilia will have to hide for a week in a town full of government spies, German agents and security men.’
‘It’s still safer than Paris and she’ll have Arkady to take care of her.’
‘And when the week is up?’
‘Three boys will come back, and Arkady takes her by train to Perpignan. That’s close to the Spanish border.’
‘I know where Perpignan is! You’re talking about my backyard. It ought to be me taking her—’
‘Well, it isn’t.’ Coralie poured boiling water on tea leaves, splashing some in her irritation.
Ramon had the grace to shrug. ‘I suppose you have to look after Noëlle.’
‘I do.’
‘And Una—’
‘Has her hospital shifts. Arkady will be fine. He’s fought in a war, you know.’ She bit her lip as Ramon looked away and down. ‘What I mean is—’
‘I know what you mean.’ Black eyes flashed. ‘I wanted to fight the Germans, but I ended up digging latrines and carrying stretchers. The war isn’t over and one day I will prove that my blood is as good as the next man’s.’
‘It won’t come to that. Look, there is a way you can help. Look after Noëlle tomorrow night. And if . . . if anything happens and I don’t come back . . .’
He put his hand hard on hers and the teapot went down with a crack. ‘You will, chérie, because at the first sign of danger, you will leave the Rose Noire. But don’t come back here tomorrow evening in case you’re followed. Go somewhere safe and get a message to me.’
She wanted to tell him not to be so over-dramatic, but instead she apologised again for getting Henriette into trouble.
Ramon said grudgingly, ‘My sister! Let’s admit it, she had it coming.’
*
After Ramon left, Coralie and Ottilia made their way to place de l’Opéra and joined a line at the Kommandantur, where the Germans administered the permits that now governed French lives. ‘I’m sure this queue is growing from the front,’ Coralie complained after they’d stood for two hours. Arkady was minding Noëlle, but he had to leave at five for the Rose Noire. At a quarter to five, a uniformed functionary came out and shouted, ‘Closed. We are closed. Come back again on Monday.’
Monday? ‘Couldn’t we see somebody now?’ Coralie pleaded, stepping in front of him, showing him the pink Ausweis. ‘We need a signature.’
The man frowned at the paper, reading the names listed. ‘Which of you is Dupont? Why have you come here together?’
‘We’ll come back on Monday,’ Coralie said. Sensing danger in his questions, she hurried Ottilia away.
*
Over supper Una proposed a solution. She’d brought home slivers of smoked ham from the hospital kitchen, a rare luxury, and for Ottilia and Noëlle, a whole chicken leg. Coralie had managed to buy a few potatoes and a litre of rough red wine. It was amazing, she thought, as she laid the table for the adults’ supper, how such basic provisions could manifest a feast. Add hunger, and you had a miracle. Noëlle had fallen asleep faster too, having put away a good meal.
‘This is how we’ll do it. Serge Martel boasts that his club is a magnet for a certain type of German officer.’ Una lifted her glass and said, ‘Cheers.’
‘What type?’
‘The old-school kind, which signed up to Nazism but doesn’t really swing along with it. Martel told me that he keeps an eye out for them.’
‘Protects them?’
Una laughed at Coralie’s naivety. ‘Garners information on them for the security services. Every night one table at the Rose Noire is reserved for Nazi police who are spying on their own side.’
‘Gestapo?’
‘Martel just said police. He points out those officers who might be getting a little . . . shall we say, too French? A little too relaxed. Anyway, we will brush up our charms, and they will give us our signature.’
‘You think a German policeman will put his name on an Ausweis because we smile at him?’
Una topped up their glasses. ‘Sure I do.’
They spent Friday evening packing Ottilia’s suitcase with plain skirts, knitwear and basic lingerie. If she was searched, there must be no couture labels and, heaven forbid, no London ones.
Coralie struggled to make Ottilia understand why she must jettison her twenty-two-carat Cartier cigarette case with ‘von S’ engraved on it. Ditto the gold cigarette holder and lighter. Predictably, Ottilia wept. ‘They were my twenty-first-birthday present from darling Papa!’
‘Choose one, then,’ a spinster florist might conceivably have one luxury to her name, ‘and nothing monogrammed.’
‘When I get to Spain,’ Ottilia suddenly asked, ‘how will I know where to go?’
That was the elephant-sized question and Coralie couldn’t answer it. Arkady would deliver her to a safe house, whose address had been supplied by one of Una’s hospital colleagues. After that, Ottilia would be on her own.
I could survive, Coralie thought, and Una would relish the adventure. Actually, Una would probably end up travelling first class to Madrid courtesy of a German Feldmarschall, with his entourage carrying her luggage. But could Ottilia sustain the shock of having to make endless difficult choices by herself? Even now, she seemed to be in a trance. She was sitting at the dining table, murmuring in a soft monotone. Her voice, with its German inflection, sounded like a whispering water-pipe.
‘Bedtime. I know it’s not dark yet,’ Una spoke like Matron, ‘but we’ve a big day ahead—’ She stopped dead. A car was drawing up outside. She flattened herself against the wall by the window, nudging aside the blackout curtain that Coralie still kept in place. ‘Oh, joy,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ Coralie demanded.
‘Black Mercedes 260D. And two gentlemen.’
‘Are they . . .?’
‘Coming to the door?’ Una leaned as far forward as she dared.
Hard raps at street level told them all they needed to know.
‘Into Arkady’s loft,’ Coralie whispered. ‘Una, grab coats and hats, purses and handbags, so they think we’ve gone out. Leave them.’ Ottilia had begun to pile the teacups. ‘Take your suitcas
e. I’ll get Noëlle.’
By good fortune, Arkady had left the loft ladder down – he’d been late setting off for the Rose Noire. Noëlle in her arms, Coralie watched Una scramble through the hatch, then reach down to take the suitcase, coats and hats that Ottilia held up.
‘Get in!’ Coralie urged as Ottilia climbed gingerly into the roof space. Coralie was halfway up the ladder, passing Noëlle into Una’s arms, when a crash told her that the front door had been forced. Just time to drag up the ladder and close the hatch.
They lay side by side on Arkady’s bedding, the air heavy with the beating of their hearts. Coralie cupped her hand over Noëlle’s mouth, though the child was still half asleep. A louder crash suggested the door of the flat had been opened with a single kick. Then they heard men’s voices shouting for ‘Freiin von Silberstrom?’
A man called in German, ‘Ottilia? Are you there?’
Both she and Ottilia recognised the voice. Coralie hissed, ‘Quiet, Tilly!’
Coralie couldn’t have said how long it took the men to conclude their search and go. Fearing a trap, they stayed where they were until cramp got to their legs and the continuing silence told them it was finally safe to open the hatch. They spent the night fully dressed, alternately dozing and waking. When the street door bumped open in the early hours, they all woke with a shriek. It was Arkady coming home.
*
They couldn’t risk spending the following day at rue de Seine. Dietrich had come to fetch Ottilia and had not come alone. He might return at any time.
Entrusting Noëlle to Arkady’s care – he would take the child to Ramon’s house – Coralie spent Saturday strolling in the Bois de Boulogne with Ottilia and Una. They hid among the trees like outlaws. Around teatime, they walked the short distance to Una’s building on avenue Foch. Talking in the over-cheerful voice she used when she was scared, Una fitted a key into a lock and said, ‘Cobwebs and rotten fruit I can handle, but let’s hope there are no Gestapo hiding behind the sofas.’
Inside, their footsteps echoed like the march of wooden soldiers. Coralie was ready to flee at the first answering creak. But there was nothing amiss, beyond a bowl of pulpy apples, busy with fruit flies, and a coating of dust on everything.
The Girl Who Dreamed of Paris Page 25