Tapestry

by J. Robert Janes

  ‘Madame Barrault must feel the need to confess,’ the concierge of her building had fluted. ‘That one comes and goes, Inspector, and often leaves the child alone.’

  Had he been so wrong about this Drouant victim? wondered Kohler. He had had to wait for more from that concierge. ‘Many times my wife has had to calm the child whose refusal to unlock the door to that flat of theirs has always led to my having to use the spare key of this office.’

  The shit! but had Madame Barrault refused the offer to look the other way when she went out alone if only she’d give him a bit on the side? Had she come here to confess?

  Cop registered in made-up eyes, and as one they sat immobile, now wondering if there’d be a roundup and they’d all be taken for the swab and locked up if failing to have a proper licence.

  Maybe one hundred and fifty sat about. All ages from sixteen to seventy. Fur coats and fur-trimmed hats on some, and money there; blankets made into overcoats on others, the church not large, its interior d’après Louis-Philippe perhaps. Relax! he wanted to shout at them but knew it would only lead to an immediate exodus and that it would be best to say, ‘Stay put or I’ll blow my whistle.’

  ‘Vipère!’ muttered one under her breath, ‘Cobra!’ another, ‘Couillon!’ yet another, she hastily crossing herself as this ‘asshole’ searched over the lot of them, noting family medals on some: a bronze for five children, a silver for eight, a gold for ten and how the hell else were they to feed the kids these days?

  Madame Marie-Léon Barrault, stepsister of Ciment Morel’s wife, was sitting at the far side nearest to the open door of the confessional. The woman had already had her turn. At a nudge, the daughter, a child of eight, rose to silently protest but was hurriedly given the firmest of shoves.

  Reluctantly dragging off her toque and flinging her braids about in rebellion, she crossed the intervening space. Timidly the door to the confessional was drawn shut. A copy of this morning’s Le Matin was clenched in the mother’s fist. Tears were splashed, the head bowed, the woman blurting, ‘Why did that have to happen to Madame Guillaumet or to any woman, Inspector? I only did as she asked. The taxi I sent her to was then stolen. Stolen! She’s going to die, isn’t she? Her children have no father because he’s in a prisoner-of-war camp. Her children …’

  Marie-Léon looked away towards the confessional and said, ‘Please, God, spare her.’

  The child or the Trinité victim? one had to wonder.

  ‘Father Marescot knows the name of my husband, Inspector, as he does those of all of us here. Always he asks if I’ve done anything for which my husband would be ashamed. My René-Claude. My Claude!’

  ‘Allez-y doucement, madame.’ Go easy, eh? ‘Whisper.’

  ‘Haven’t I had enough of whispers? Une roulure, une salope—isn’t that what others are saying about me, Henriette most of all?’

  A slut, Morel’s wife was calling her but … ‘Calm down and tell me where your husband is.’

  ‘In Poland. At Stablack.’

  To the east of Danzig. A Stalag. A camp for common soldiers. ‘And Madame Guillaumet’s?’

  ‘The Oflag at Elsterhorst. It’s … I think she said it was near Dresden.’

  ‘That’s close enough but given your differences of home and address and husband’s rank, how is it that you …’

  ‘Our differences of class, Inspector? Of course we didn’t walk the same paths, but found ourselves with the same needs and social worker.’

  And wouldn’t you know it, the parasite. ‘Denise Rouget?’

  Was it so surprising? ‘Oui.’

  Again she looked to the confessional, as others must now impatiently be doing. ‘Annette,’ she hissed. ‘Annette, God has listened long enough! Father, there are others waiting.’

  ‘Let them wait, my child. Please don’t interrupt!’

  ‘Annette, don’t you dare say anything you shouldn’t!’

  ‘Trust is sacrosanct, Madame Barrault, belief absolute.’

  ‘Father, please!’

  They waited and they waited. And finally the child, subdued and ashen, emerged to look first at her mother and then at this Kripo.

  It had to be said, but had best be given with a sigh. ‘Come on, then, and I’ll give the two of you a lift home.’ Louis would be certain to realize that his partner, being the gullible one, had made a mistake about the woman and would never let him live it down.

  The Trinité victim was no better, no worse, and when this one from the Sûreté gave her a nod, Aurora Aumont switched off the light and softly closed and locked the door.

  ‘She has said nothing yet, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘But will she live, Matron?’

  ‘Only she can tell us. Now if you will excuse me, my shift has been over for some time and I must get home.’

  ‘A moment, please.’

  Must he be insufferable? ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Noëlle Jourdan.’

  ‘I’ve told your partner all I know.’

  ‘Of course, but we often work independently. What happened to that girl’s mother?’

  Why was he asking such a thing? ‘She died when Noëlle was five years old.’

  ‘And ever since then the father has raised her?’

  ‘It was that or the sisters. Ah! he was behind her letting the press in, wasn’t he?’

  A nod would suffice.

  ‘Then it’s as I have thought. My one concern was always that the girl could be intolerant at times, particularly with those who had been attacked by these … these monsters of the streets and needed our every consideration. When cautioned, Noëlle was careful, though not solicitously so, you understand, and as a result I was forced to have reservations, but only in that regard.’

  ‘And the mother?’

  ‘Noëlle never spoke of her. “She’s dead,” was all she would say if asked. To have no memories, no photographs is not good, Inspector. There’s a vacuum in that girl’s life that desperately needs to be filled.’

  ‘And the father, did she say much about him?’

  ‘Only that he was constantly in pain and that she had to look after him. Always she was on about the cost of things and how difficult it was to find enough to continue, yet she always seemed to manage. Never late, usually here before six in the morning or six at night. A willing worker who not only knew she needed the job, but sincerely wanted to become a fully qualified nurse and did everything she could to demonstrate it.’

  ‘Except for that one mistake.’

  ‘Even now I ask myself why it had to happen and if she could have been forgiven. These times, this Occupation, they’re putting far too much stress on everyone, especially the young.’

  ‘Could the press have known she would let them in?’

  ‘Why, please, would they have been told such a thing and by whom?’

  ‘I’m only fishing for answers. Was she obligated to anyone?’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know. Now, please, I have my son’s two boys and their mother at home. If I’m not there on time, they’ll worry about me.’

  ‘Did Noëlle Jourdan have any friends?’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Either or both.’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know in any case. Because she was a trainee and had a father who was a grand mutilé, the girl was allowed two hours off every other midday when she was on the day shift, you understand. It was little enough time in which to queue up for food and other necessities, but her circumstances would have been known to the shopkeepers she frequented, since most of us must shop only with those who have us on their lists. Sometimes Noëlle could bypass the line-ups, so long as it was done on the quiet. Sometimes she would tell the other shoppers that she had to make a delivery. Her shopping bag would appear to be heavy and their hopes would rise so that they would let her go ahead. At other times she would say her dear papa was having one of his bad times and that she was desperately needed at home.’

  And so much for the Veronal this one must have known was mi
ssing. ‘Are those shopkeepers she frequents veterans?’

  ‘Why, yes, some of them. They must be, mustn’t they? Mon Dieu, how many fought in that last war?’

  ‘Too many, myself among them.’

  ‘My husband also.’

  But had that girl purposely left a full shopping bag somewhere safe outside the flat when she had returned today? If so, there had been no evidence of previous such forays.

  ‘Noëlle always managed a little, Inspector. Indeed, there were those here that I had to caution about being envious. The girl was très jolie. The figure, the complexion, those eyes of hers, the way she walked … They all saw these, of course, and some wanted to think the worst when she would come back loaded with a cabbage or, better still, a few potatoes or a small cut of beef most could only imagine.’

  ‘But did that happen often and did those “veterans” you spoke of help her in other ways?’

  ‘Not often, only enough to engender envy. She always knew the prices and would complain about the inflation, like everyone else. She could be kind, too, Inspector. Once she gave me two eggs for my grandsons; once a chocolate bar they were to share. “Sharing’s something that must be learned,” she said. “It will help them with their mathematics also.” Swiss it was and very good, though my daughter-in-law and I only had the aroma of it and the pleasure of watching as it was shared one square a day for each until gone. Other things, too. Shoes … Where or how she managed to get them, I’ll never know, but when I spoke of their need—small boys will keep growing no matter how skinny—that girl found a way. Five hundred francs they cost me for the two pairs but a bargain. A positive bargain!’

  A sainte. ‘And the means?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Come, come, madame, had she something to give in exchange other than the cash?’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know, Inspector, nor would I have asked.’

  Nothing among the contents of today’s shopping had indicated any advantage beyond being adept at scrounging, but sometimes she had had success, and sometimes she hadn’t. ‘Wood shavings and sawdust …’ he muttered. ‘Where would she have got them?’

  ‘Where but from the maker of the coffins that are used for those here who have no known relatives or names.’

  Those coffins were made of spruce, not oak or mahogany, or teak and walnut—had there also been rosewood and birch? he had to wonder, but would have to wait until he could ask the gerbils.

  Herr Kohler hadn’t just driven them home from the church, thought Marie-Léon. He had driven to place de l’Opéra and had let the car sit a moment opposite the Café de la Paix, which had appeared, of course, to be all but in total darkness, the vélo-taxi stand also, but lots of traffic, lots of coming and going. Shielded torch beams had flicked on and off to save on the batteries few could find even if they had the cash to spare. Cigarettes had glowed, there’d been laughter—that of girls, that of their men friends, all of them out for a good time.

  Without a word, he had then driven to the École Centrale, where Madame Guillaumet had taught night school and in front of which she had stepped into that taxi totally unaware of what was to happen or even that its driver wasn’t the same as she had spoken to earlier.

  He had taken herself and Annette to the passage de la Trinité where the only light was from the cigarettes of the women in that place and the dim blue bulb above the door of a maison de passe. Dieu merci, he hadn’t insisted on taking her to the Hôtel-Dieu to be confronted with the sight of that poor woman. Would he save that for later?

  Now they sat in the car, in the darkness of the rue Taitbout, he having wisely parked some distance from her building, but she had to wonder if he would insist on coming up.

  ‘I don’t condemn,’ he said, but in spite of this, there was a sadness to him that could only mean he thought the worst of her. ‘I just need answers.’

  The ignition was switched off, her heart sinking. Annette sat very still between them and yes, it was as if she could hear her daughter swallowing. ‘Inspector …’

  ‘Annette, there are some things in the backseat that you and your mother could use.’

  ‘I can’t accept them, Inspector. I mustn’t. Please …’

  ‘A few potatoes, some onions …’

  ‘If you give me anything, or even come up to the apartment, Monsieur Aubin, the concierge, or that wife of his will report it. His brother-in-law is a file clerk at the Préfecture.’

  ‘I am the police.’

  ‘That won’t matter, not with them. It will only be sauce to the goose.’

  ‘Then start by telling me why you went to confession?’

  ‘Was I sexually intimate with Gaston? Ah, mon Dieu, you’re just like my stepsister and everyone else! My husband is a prisoner of war. I deliberately offer temptation and am lonely, aren’t I? Vulnerable, ah, oui, oui, and am also having a hell of a time making ends meet!’

  Cringing, shuddering at such an outburst, Annette tried to make herself as small as possible. If she’d had magic dust, she knew she would have showered it on herself to vanish, but would have sneezed!

  When Herr Kohler didn’t say anything, Maman knew she must.

  ‘You needn’t worry about my speaking of such things in front of my daughter, Inspector. Annette has had her ears scorched by that priest.’

  ‘MAMAN, I DIDN’T TELL HIM YOU WERE SLEEPING WITH ANYONE OTHER THAN ME. I DIDN’T!’

  ‘Then what did you tell him, petite?’

  ‘I DON’T HAVE TO TELL YOU. THE CONFESSIONAL IS PRIVATE.’

  Oh-oh.

  ‘Hate it or not, private or not, you had best let me in on it. Silence is by far the hardest of punishments, is it not, especially when one is forced to sleep in one’s bed in another room and it is terribly dark and there is no one to talk to.’

  Tears wouldn’t help, but the rain of them couldn’t be stopped. The car would fill up, Annette knew, and then … then this Gestapo who had such a terrible slash down the face, would have to open the door and flush them all out on to the street!

  ‘Annette …’

  ‘Father Marescot says Papa is holding steadfast and that you should also do so and not be tempted.’

  ‘I’m not. How dare that priest …’

  The nose was wiped with the fingers, a hiccup given. ‘You are, Maman. I have heard you!’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Must I confess to you?’

  ‘Most certainly!’

  Again the nose had to be wiped, the Boche trying to find a handkerchief she wouldn’t have used even if taken before the firing squad! ‘You … you touch yourself. At night, in our bed. You catch your breath and … and then you cry out through your teeth so as not to waken me. Sometimes it takes a long, long time and you only sigh; sometimes the sigh, it is given at the last, after the … the tooth-cry and the gasp.’

  Ah, Sainte-Mère, Sainte-Mère! ‘Chérie, listen to me. I only do that because I miss your father. I … I think I still must love him, but no longer know if he’ll feel the same about me.’

  ‘Father Marescot says that what you’ve been doing is a sin and that you’re going to burn in hell. Papa and I will never see you in heaven when we die. Never, Maman. Never!’

  Ach, du lieber Gott, what was the matter with that priest?

  ‘Chérie, have you said anything about it to Agnès or Josiane? Her school friends, Inspector.’

  ‘And neighbours, Maman. No, I haven’t. Not yet.’

  ‘Then don’t. Promise me you won’t. They wouldn’t understand. No one would. They and their parents would only think the worst as some of them already do.’

  The tears were wiped away, the forehead kissed and held. At last Maman said, ‘There, you see how it is, Inspector? For warmth and comfort, Annette and I share the bed her dear papa and I once shared, she to have his pillow always, we both asking God to bring him home and quickly. Since I’m a victim of our streets, I wanted Father Marescot to hear from me that I had done absolutely nothing to warrant such an a
ttack, nor have I ever done such a thing.’

  A breath was sucked in and held by Herr Kohler. There’d been the absences from the house, and certainly the inspector must be wondering about those, but all he said was, ‘And did he believe you?’

  ‘Obviously not. René-Claude was baptized in that church, though not by that … that priest who only came to us in the autumn of 1939 when Father Bouchard felt he had to volunteer again and is now a prisoner of war himself. We attended regularly, as did and still do, my husband’s father and mother. When René-Claude was taken, where else was I to have turned? Days pass, months come and go, a year, two years and now more than the half again and still he’s not home. Inspector, my husband must be well aware of what some of the prisoners’ wives in Paris and elsewhere are doing to combat their loneliness or make ends meet, and when he insisted in a letter that I let Annette take confession after myself, I … I felt he must need that reassurance and said I would see to it, as she has now for almost a year.’

  There wouldn’t have been any argument, not in France. Here a wife was to do as told by her husband, no matter what. ‘Is Father Marescot in touch with the Stalag?’

  ‘He’s in contact with as many as possible. He takes it upon himself as a “special duty,” and has fought this battle twice, he says. First during the Great War, and now again.’

  A fag was desperately needed, but searching the glove compartment only turned up one stick of ersatz chewing gum. Unwrapping it, Kohler found Annette’s hand. ‘Orange,’ he said. ‘It’ll help us think. Let’s share.’

  She had better get the division right, thought Annette. She had better not make a mistake!

  ‘Merci, monsieur,’ came the faintest of responses with a shudder, but the job had been done perfectly, a good sign.

  ‘In the old days, Inspector—the really old ones—there used to be a special early-morning Mass for those who lived in this district and worked the streets. Father Marescot has insisted on reviving it, but also offers one in the late afternoon for those who can’t make the other.’