Hunting Ground

by J. Robert Janes

For a moment, we stood under the stars. ‘Did he see us this afternoon?’ asked Tommy, still holding on to me.

  ‘I really don’t know, but I left him not twenty minutes ago, and at supper he asked if I’d been meeting someone at the tower.’

  ‘In that case, is your mother’s house safe?’ asked Nicki.

  ‘With him, with them, it’s too hard to tell.’

  It’s Tommy who asks, ‘Can you get us into Paris?’

  Very quickly, I let them know I’d need travel permits from the Feldkommandantur in Fontainebleau, and that these are very hard to get. Every second I’m with them is too many.

  ‘What about your sister?’ asked Nicki. ‘Could she help us?’

  I told them I could only try. ‘For now, check out the farmhouse carefully, and if you stay there, light the stove only late at night. Draw all the curtains. Don’t shine a light, even a glimmer, or it’ll be seen from a distance and they may be watching the place. I just don’t know.’

  Each of them embraced me. Tommy slipped into the straps of the rucksack as I handed Nicki the duffel bag, and he said, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be all right.’

  Tommy kissed me, and I whispered, ‘Please be careful. Something isn’t right. Schiller knows more than he’s letting on.’

  Five minutes … was it even that long we were together?

  I had several good gardens out here, dug by hand, no horse and plow for me. Rabbit and chicken manure were budgeted plant by plant, old leaves and humus worked in, horse manure, too, when I could manage it, well rotted, of course.

  Walking down the long tunnel of my orchard, picking my way through the fallen branches, things come at me hard. Tommy and Nicki, the children, always them, their shouts, their laughter, the little squabbles that were so important to them. Michèle and my sister, even Jules.

  Stepping into the house, I make my way upstairs to find the bedroom in ruins. Rubbish is everywhere, no furniture, no paintings on the walls. Someone has tried to light the fire, but the act of doing must have been interrupted and a litter of cartridge casings for a Schmeisser lies not far from the darkness of the bloodstain he must have left. The sheath of his knife has been cast aside and is empty, and as I stare at it I’m right back in time. There was no sound. The room was in total darkness as I came to stand beside that bed in which Schiller was waiting. Could I do such a thing? Must I? It was seven or eight kilometres through the forest and across the fields to the farmhouse, probably a lot more for Tommy and Nicki since they wouldn’t know the terrain as well as myself.

  My belt came undone. I lowered my trousers, stepped out of them, and dropped the nightgown at my feet. Tommy would understand, but the thought of Schiller was almost too much for me. It was freezing. A hesitant step was taken. He had given me an ultimatum, but would he let the matter go if I climbed into bed with him?

  He stirred. I waited. I clutched the covers I had lifted and listened hard.

  The bastard was asleep.

  Two or three days passed. I can’t remember exactly, but the war of nerves continued, then Schiller was called away and I took a chance.

  The Feldkommandantur was in the hôtel de ville along with all the other civic departments. Guards flanked the entrance, over the top of which a swastika flew. Though it wasn’t yet dawn, everyone was at work since being on Berlin time in the autumn and winter meant getting up an hour earlier in the dead of night. Still, I hadn’t got used to it. They would ask me questions. I would have to have a very good reason for going to Paris.

  Jean-Guy had said good-bye. Lost in thought, I watched as he rode his bicycle down the street and turned the corner towards the school. Rudi would look after him and if not Rudi, then Georges and Tante Marie. I only knew that I had to get to Paris. Tommy and Nicki couldn’t chance waiting long at the farmhouse. My mother would return, and that would only complicate matters further.

  There were no civilian cars. Bicycles lined the avenue in front of the town hall, and I wondered what we’d all do when winter came. Walk, I supposed. Ma foi, I’ll say this of the Occupation, it sure toned up the legs. But contrary to popular opinion, some women grew fat because whenever possible, they ate like bears awaiting hibernation. The cinemas brought this out. Always the most popular films were those in which there was a meal—a banquet preferably, and I thought, I’ll wager the war will set a new style in French films. From now on, they will always show people eating and enjoying their food. Whole stories will be centred around the dining table or out in the garden over coffee and cakes. Some people used to dream about those scenes in the camps. People went crazy dreaming like that.

  An army lorry passed by me, then a black Citroën with two men in the back. What might have been a busy street had the look of desolation. Still it wasn’t so bad there, not yet. There was plenty of food, if not the variety one wanted, and not too much interference, not really.

  I chained my bicycle to a tree and crossed the road. To apply for a travel permit, it was necessary to fill out a form and submit one’s papers. These were then checked by the mayor and, if acceptable, given the forwarding stamp of approval.

  Since most applications were unacceptable, you would have thought the process would have been fast. Long before I got there, the benches had all been filled and a line had formed down one side of the corridor. People coughed, wheezed, blew their noses, or puffed on their fags. Everywhere there was the odour of bad tobacco, stale sweat, garlic, onions, anise, and cheap perfume. Wine, too.

  They shuffled, grumbled, talked of the weather, the harvest, of anything but the war and its Occupation. While some acknowledged me with a nod, others viewed me with suspicion—after all, hadn’t the British run away at Dunkerque to protect their little island and self-interest?

  Most knew of my husband and his mistress, of my rebellious infidelity, so there was this to contend with as well. Others who had been jealous of the house gloated smugly because now I was just like everyone else.

  It was almost noon when I finally sat down in front of the mayor. Alphonse Picard was brusque. Shoving some papers aside, he looked across the cluttered desk. I’d be difficult, he knew. ‘Madame, the Germans, they do not want you to go to Paris.’

  ‘Am I under some sort of house arrest?’

  ‘Ah, no. It’s just that they would prefer …’

  ‘But I must see a doctor.’

  ‘Why not Dr. Rivard?’

  I shook my head. ‘I need to see Dr. André de Verville.’

  He raised his bushy eyebrows, tugged at his moustache, gave a massive shrug at the futility of trying to deal with unreasonable women who should count themselves lucky, then said, complainingly, ‘But why? Rivard is very good, n’est-ce pas? You take your children … excuse me, madame, your son to him.’

  ‘I have a problem. For this, I need a specialist.’

  ‘But … but what sort of problem? Ah, mon Dieu, madame, the Germans …’ He cast anxious eyes towards the door and leaned a little forward. ‘The Germans have said you’re to be discouraged from attempting to leave the district.’

  ‘Then I must go to see them.’

  ‘No! Ah, no, madame.’ He ducked his head to one side and dragged out his handkerchief. ‘Please, what sort of problem?’

  He blew his nose.

  ‘Must I discuss it with you?’

  ‘Oui, in confidence, of course.’ Again, he lowered his voice. ‘Madame de St-Germain, I’m responsible for the conduct of everyone in the district. Please, you must understand, your sister …’

  ‘Janine? What’s she done?’

  Picard shrugged. ‘Nothing, I think. They simply can’t find her. She has “disappeared” like so many and that is reason enough to cause suspicion.’ He cleared his throat, stuffed the handkerchief away, reached for his anise-flavoured lozenges, and got right back to business. ‘Your problem, madame?’

  Nini missing … Dmitry not showing up … I would have to bluff my way through and get into Paris to find out what had happened to her and if she was mixed up in any
thing. ‘I’m still bleeding. As you know, I lost a child during the Exodus. André de Verville is a specialist in such things.’

  Picard expressed sympathy but remained adamant. ‘Well, why not see Dr. Bilodeau in Nemours? It’s much closer.’

  ‘His fingers wander.’

  ‘His what? Ah, I see.’ Pour l’amour de Dieu, was I making it up? he wondered. Bilodeau … Danielle Anjou, Josianne le Belle … other young girls, his own daughters perhaps? Fingers … Paris … Why did I have to choose Paris? ‘Very well, but I must warn you, madame. You are English. One false step and …’ He clenched a fist.

  As he signed the permit, I hesitated, then asked, ‘Are our friends watching my house for someone?’

  Picard’s mouse-brown eyes were filled with sadness. It would have been much better had I not asked. ‘I didn’t hear you, madame. Please, you are to take this along to the Feldkommandant’s office. The colonel will have gone to lunch, but his assistant will stamp and sign it for you. Two days, that’s all I can give you. Please don’t try to smuggle food into Paris. It’s against the rationing. They’ll only think you intend to sell it on the black market.’

  He walked me to the door, but kept me a moment. ‘My regards to your husband, madame. Perhaps if … if you were to ask him to explain how things are, Monsieur Jules could make you understand. Please don’t give the Germans any reason to arrest you. They would only blame me and then … Ah, what could I do for all the others?’

  I knew that what he had said was perfectly true and happening throughout the Occupied Zone, yet it still angered me, and I said, ‘Besides, there’s the loss of your pension. We wouldn’t wish the family Picard to go without.’

  The threat of losing their pensions is what encouraged so many civil servants to cooperate with the Nazis.

  ‘Talk tough, if you like, madame, but face reality. For the moment, the Germans have chosen to be kind.’

  ‘But not to the Poles, the Czechs, or anyone else?’

  ‘I’m sorry you lost your little girl, but please don’t let that tragedy make you foolish. Talk to your husband. Don’t do anything in Paris until you have first spoken to him.’

  Paris, through the hush of what was the busiest time of day, was somewhat surreal. Bicycles—vélos—were everywhere, their crazy vélo-taxis, too. So few cars and lorries were about, to see one was to experience a moment profound. That one sat lost and alone, far along the Champs-Élysées beneath the chestnut trees like a bank robber’s car with the streams of bicycles passing by or parked side by side in endless rows.

  Here and there, a vélo-taxi nudged out into the silent stream. There were Germans everywhere around Place de la Concorde—all types of uniforms. ‘Tourists’ mostly, for the High Command must have been using Paris for rest and recuperation, but businessmen, too. Lots of French girls fraternizing. Lots of laughter, lipstick, makeup, short skirts even in the cold, silk stockings … Could they still buy those? Later, the girls painted on a beige wash, drew lines up the backs of their legs, or went without. The shoes hadn’t yet become difficult. Later, those things, with their hinged wooden soles, would make them sound like frisky, two-legged fillies if they didn’t fall apart or jam. All the barges had disappeared from the Seine, most of the statues from the streets. The circular cast-iron sheeting of a vespasienne, however, still revealed the boots, shoes, and trouser legs of men standing shoulder to shoulder as they urinated. Some things never changed, but the signboard of its posters exhorted the public to be wary of strangers, to report suspicious things, to save, conserve, and be grateful for the protection of the German soldier. England is the enemy. There were ordinances about the blackout. The curfew now began at midnight, the last trains of the métro were at eleven. Most of the theatres and restaurants closed at ten thirty, otherwise people must stay the night until five a.m. when the curfew ended.*

  I stopped to read a copy of the proclamation of 20 June 1940, badly tattered and weathered. Acts of violence and sabotage were to be severely punished, but none have happened that I knew of. Everyone was having too good a time, or so it appeared. Firearms were, of course, forbidden, but I was willing to bet that a few had been kept. No one was to assist non-German military personnel or civilians who were attempting to escape—were we to help only the German ones, and not those of the RAF and others still on the run from Dunkerque?

  Though this was soon to be forbidden, you could still listen to your wireless, but God help you if you spread news that was contrary to the good of the Third Reich, i.e., the results of British bombing raids as reported over the BBC French broadcast from London.

  No insults would be tolerated. All gatherings were subject to approval. The administration of the state—the police and schools, the banks, too—was to continue under the French as before the Occupation. Failure to report to work or to reopen your shop or place of business was punishable by fines, and imprisonment in the first instance and confiscation in others. Hoarding was to be considered an act of sabotage and subject as such, I guess, to the death penalty. Prison, anyway. The pears I had preserved, the apples, vegetables, even though I had three boarders. The .22 calibre rifle that Tommy and Jean-Guy had used—now hidden in the cellar, in an old piece of pipe; that Luger of Dmitry Alexandrov’s that I had kept, but did the Occupier really need an excuse? Ah, no, of course not.

  Beneath the notice was another. It was signed by General Studnitz, the first, if temporary military commander of Greater Paris, but it applied to the whole of Occupied France. Art treasures were not to be removed from their present places—that was fair, wasn’t it? Transfers of them needed his approval—fair again?

  Those whose value exceeds one hundred thousand of the new francs had to be reported in writing by their owners or custodians—ah, now, what about that? What about that nice diamond necklace you had kept for years in a safe-deposit box since your grandmother left it to you? Things that had been in the family for years? Gold coins that had been stashed away for your old age? Art treasures and valuables …

  The auction was in the Jeu de Paume and, at first, I couldn’t understand how such a thing could happen, for this had been the place of places to see special exhibitions. Then it was crowded with crated and uncrated paintings, exquisite pieces of sculpture, tapestries, and other objets d’art. There were several large collections of Venetian glass, of coins both Roman and more recent. Each crate, each piece, bore a stamp or tag with the name of its former owner and the letters ERR, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the agency for the confiscation of works of art that had once belonged to Jews, Freemasons, and other enemies of the Reich.

  The ERR was my husband’s employer. Those lists Jules had made were being put to use. In loneliness and despair, I walked through several fortunes worth of art. No one stopped me. No one questioned my being there. Perhaps they knew who I was. Perhaps they had been warned to expect me.

  Jules was waiting. Blue-washed, sticking-paper–X’d glass was above and all around us in the greenhouselike walls and ceiling of this former tennis court of royalty. Crowded … Ah, mon Dieu, German officers and senior officials were everywhere, but scattered among them were the art dealers and not just those from Paris and France, but from Switzerland, the Reich, Belgium, Holland, lots of other places—experts who had already sold themselves to the new order or were simply there to take advantage of the situation.

  There were also members of the police, the Sûreté, and the Gestapo, though there were few of the latter at this time, and they kept to themselves.

  ‘Seven hundred thousand francs.’

  ‘Eight hundred thousand!’

  ‘One million!’

  ‘One million, two hundred thousand!’

  ‘Two million.’

  ‘Two million francs, mesdames et messieurs. I have two million going once … going twice … going three times … and sold to the Reichsmarschall.’

  A Teniers oil on canvas, an absolutely gorgeous painting. Sold to the commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe. At two hundred fr
ancs to the British pound, that was only ten thousand pounds sterling, or at twenty francs to the Occupation mark, one hundred thousand of those and a fantastic bargain, especially as the Occupier sanctioned the money and it was worthless almost everywhere but in France.

  Jules accepted the bid from Göring’s chief buyer. It was all so nice, so friendly. Handshakes all round but no sign of the cash. Perhaps that would come later, perhaps never.

  My husband, how could he do this? Göring was the man whose brave pilots had murdered our little girl.

  Barging through the crowd, I knocked champagne glasses aside as I headed for that monster. There was no mistaking Göring even though he’d come in mufti: that bulk, that ham-slabbed face with its pig-blue eyes and skin that was flushed. Maudit salaud …

  Jules grabbed me by an arm. ‘Herr Reichsmarschall, permit me to introduce my wife, the sculptress of that little piece I presented to you.’

  Presented … What was this?

  The cigar was raised but paused as he surveyed me, and what he said or did not say was completely lost, for my courage left and I stared bleakly at his shoes, knowing everyone was watching me now and that I’d betrayed myself. ‘Enchantée, Herr Reichsmarschall. That is a lovely Teniers you have just acquired.’

  How could I have done this? As I watched, the lips began to move, and I saw the dampened end of that cigar as it paused before them, his smile now flaccid, his nod of dismissal curt as he turned away to confer with his art experts.

  As Jules and I hurried from the auction, we passed the Vuittons, and I caught a look of utter hatred from that woman. Outside, Jules was far from pleased. ‘Idiote, just what the hell did you think you were going to do? Spit at him?’

  He hurried me to a cellar office in the Louvre, which was cluttered with priceless things, threw me up against its door, and hit me three times. Blood trickled from my broken lips, but somehow I managed to say, ‘Don’t ever do that again, or I’ll kill you. I swear it!’

  That shook him a little, but he still couldn’t keep anger from him. ‘Lily, these people mean business! Don’t you ever cross them.’