“I’m sure it wasn’t your doing,” Giselle spoke, pressing his hand slightly. “You said it yourself; it was a complicated operation.”
“The others lived though.” There was audible resentment in his voice.
“Is that why you gave it up? Your whole practice?” This time it was Giselle’s turn to scowl in disbelief.
“No.” A detached, impenetrable mask had replaced the vulnerable man she had seen for a split second. “I gave it up to join the SS. The Führer promised us revenge... And it’s not my fault that Fritz died. He would have lived, had those overzealous French nationalists not thrown him out of the window. Not my fault. But I can finally avenge him now. Ja, the tables have turned at last...”
He was saying something else, but Giselle moved her hand away gently, deep foreboding settling on her after learning his greatest secret, seeing him for what he really was and realizing with brutal clarity that there was no salvation for him anymore.
Marcel’s hand dropping hers brought her back to the reality of the cold basement room around her.
“You’re getting married then?”
“Yes. In May. He says May has some special meaning for them, the SS.” Giselle shrugged with a bored expression.
“You know, you women are strange creatures with a very short memory,” she heard Philippe say. “Not that long ago you swore to kill him, but as soon as he dropped down to one knee, you forgot everything.”
“He never dropped to one knee,” Giselle replied with a lopsided grin. “And I never forget anything, Philippe.”
26
Kamille stopped on the threshold of Charles’s former study, her heart swelling with emotion at a sight that had never been common when her husband was still alive. Violette was sitting next to Jochen at his desk, biting the end of her pencil in deep concentration, as he patiently explained to her how to solve a math problem. Violette had never been good with numbers, but somehow he managed to tutor her so well that the girl’s grades had improved noticeably, within just two short months. Charles, in contrast, had always prohibited his daughter from even entering “the sacred territory” of his study, leave alone “wasting his time” teaching the girl something that she would have no use for, in his eyes at least. Watching the two, Kamille smiled, recalling how one day Jochen had effortlessly comforted Violette, when he found her sobbing over her unfinished homework.
“Monsieur Maître will call me stupid again.” She sniveled, wiping her face with a sleeve.
“What nonsense! You’re not stupid at all,” he replied with a reassuring smile, pulling her homework closer to take a look at it. “If you don’t understand something, it only shows his failure as a teacher, not yours as a student. Now, let’s try to solve this together, shall we?”
There was something bittersweet about it: that Violette had grown to love a mere stranger in a few short months more than she ever loved her own father. She didn’t even cry when Kamille had sat her down and announced the news of Charles’s death as gently as possible. Violette only pondered something for a moment and inquired if that meant that they could finally get a kitty. Her father was strictly against any animals in the house, citing that he didn’t need any fur on his clothes, or any fleas from creatures that were infested by them.
The atmosphere of the house had visibly changed with the appearance of the uniform-clad lodger in their home.
“Can Monsieur Jochen be my Papa since my real Papa is dead?” Violette asked Kamille on the way home from school, a few days ago.
Kamille found herself at a loss, not knowing what to reply to such a straightforward question.
“Chéri, it’s not so simple…” she started but didn’t know what arguments to add.
“Why not? He loves us, and we love him.” The little girl expressed her thoughts on the matter with the frankness that only children could afford. “Why can’t you marry him?”
“He’s a German officer, Violette. It’s against the law.”
“It’s a stupid law then.” Her daughter huffed and didn’t utter a word the remainder of the way home.
What would happen to her little girl if Jochen disappeared soon, Kamille thought, feeling tears welling in her eyes again.
“If Wünsche only speaks a word, I’ll be transferred to the front,” he had confessed to her last night, when the two lay in bed, both unable to sleep. The metaphorical sword that was hanging above his head after Marcel’s escape was still there, and Giselle’s lover’s silence only made the dreadful anticipation even more agonizing. “It’s because I didn’t hand over the prisoner when he demanded him. They think it made his escape possible. It’s because I refused to go along with his wishes…”
“Don’t blame yourself.” Kamille hushed him, diving under his arm to press herself to his body, clinging to him while she still could. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He’s a monster, that man. You only acted like an honest man, and an officer, someone for whom human life still means something.”
He was quiet for one very long minute, stroking Kamille’s soft hair, deep in thought.
“Will you write to me if they send me to Africa?” he asked at last.
Kamille nodded, swallowing her hot tears before he could feel them spill on his skin.
All these thoughts crowded her mind while she greedily watched these precious moments of a life that could change very soon, while her daughter was still happy with a father, whom she considered Jochen to be despite all the “stupid laws”; while she still could meet him from work every evening and melt into his embraces despite the cold that he brought with him from the outside; while she could still bring him tea, just like she did now, and simply admire him silently, the man who had turned her whole world upside down and made her feel loved – for the first time in her life.
Sensing her gaze, Jochen lifted his head and smiled at her. He leaned to kiss Violette on top of her head and asked her if she would give him and her Maman a couple of minutes alone. Violette nodded readily and collected her notes and a textbook, solemnly promising him to try and finish everything by herself.
“I’ll check everything later before you write it down in your notebook,” he assured her and patted the chair next to him, inviting Kamille to sit down.
He was still dejected and tired but accepted the small porcelain cup of tea out of Kamille’s hands with genuine gratitude.
“I spoke to Wünsche today.” He took a sip while Kamille held her breath, her hands going cold at once. “The good news is that I’m not going to Africa just yet.”
“That’s wonderful!” Kamille pressed his arm, delighted by the news. But then her hands dropped back onto her lap; where was good news, there was also bad.
Jochen nodded as if reading her mind.
“The bad news is that he wants to shoot a man in retaliation. A man, whose only crime was to fly a flag from the bridge several months ago. I am to sign the authorization for surrendering that man into the custody of the Gestapo.” Jochen took a deep breath, rubbing his forehead, creased with the exhaustion and worry of the last few days.
“And then… Then he won’t press for your transfer to the front?” Kamille asked quietly.
“Yes. Wünsche has already gotten what he wanted. He completely discredited the Wehrmacht in the eyes of Berlin and insisted on us handing over all cases of sabotage and terrorism to the Gestapo. That was the reason why he allowed your brother to escape so easily. He wanted to prove to the Kommandant and Berlin that the Wehrmacht are incapable of suppressing terror acts committed against the occupying forces. We are also, apparently, not capable of interrogating them thoroughly. I am to hand over all of the people, who are currently in my custody, to the Paris branch of the Gestapo tomorrow morning. If I refuse…” Jochen didn’t finish, but Kamille understood everything.
“So hand them over then.” She despised herself at how despicable and egoistic it sounded the very moment she uttered the words. But her Violette, her little Violette… How much she had grown to love Jochen
! The same as how much she, Kamille, had become used to him being in the house… And those people were criminals, after all, weren’t they? It wasn’t like they were in jail for nothing. No, she couldn’t lose Jochen over some terrorists. She felt for them, yes, but she was a woman in love, and a woman in love never thinks clearly.
“What if it comes to his mind to shoot them all?” Jochen asked quietly.
“So their blood will be on his hands, not yours.”
Despicable, indeed. But, as long as her fingers were clasped around his forearm, as long as she could have him, this most precious possession of hers in her arms, despicable simply didn’t matter to her.
Marcel kept staring at Philippe helplessly, waiting for him to say something, to come up with some plan like he always did, but the communist remained consumed by his moping, seemingly oblivious to Marcel’s despairing stance.
“What shall we do?” Marcel tugged on Philippe’s sleeve when he couldn’t take the oppressive silence anymore, disturbed only by water, slowly dripping somewhere in the distance.
Philippe slowly let his fingers through his dark mane, his gaze dull and desolate.
“There’s nothing we can do, Marcel.” He released a long sigh, bringing his young comrade to terms with the situation that even he had rendered helpless. “They ran away, they’re armed, and they’re irate and desperate.”
“Wouldn’t you be, if you just found out that the Boches were about to execute your father for nothing?” Marcel grumbled gloomily.
How he wished now that something had gone differently this morning. How he wished that he and Philippe had gone to the Catacombs instead to get their food at the Black Market. How he wished that Philippe didn’t take the boys with him, prohibiting Marcel to show his face to anyone outside, even to the profiteers, fearing that one of them could easily be a Gestapo mole. How he wished Pierre and Jerome didn’t notice the poster with their father’s face, haggard and almost unrecognizable after his incarceration, and how he wished they didn’t have a gun on them, with which they might do something entirely irreversible and foolish that would only get them killed too. And how he wished all of this wasn’t his fault.
“Eat.” Philippe pushed an aluminum plate closer to the young man, not touching the contents himself.
“I can’t eat,” Marcel argued, throwing an almost disgusted glare at the chicken broth with some insides swimming in it.
Philippe had taught him a long time ago that nothing should go to waste in times like this. Marcel was used to the communist leader’s simple cooking, and never questioned anything that was put in front of him, except these last few days had completely killed his appetite.
“You should. A lousy eater is a lousy fighter.” Philippe muttered the unquestionable truth from his days in the Spanish Civil War, most likely.
“Why do you never eat then?” Marcel sulked, but picked up a spoon nevertheless. “Shouldn’t a good leader show his men how to act by example?”
Philippe threw him a glare, but picked up his scratched, aluminum spoon and swallowed a mouthful of broth.
“A good leader shouldn’t lose his men, too,” he said, shaking his head at his own shortcomings. He blamed himself for everything, too.
“You couldn’t possibly catch them once they took off,” Marcel tried to reason with him.
Philippe only sighed again, for words always seemed worthless in situations like this.
A day later Michel Demarche came down to give them money and some wine to keep warm. When both men jumped to their feet to ask him for any news regarding the boys, he only placed a newspaper on top of the table in rueful silence. There were three bodies, tied to execution poles, instead of just one, for everyone to see right there, on the front page. A sinister warning to everyone, who would ever think to go against the regime. And next to them, the SS officials stood with their chief in charge, Sturmbannführer Karl Wünsche in his leather overcoat, a solemn, grim reaper with empty black eyes.
“The soldiers grabbed them before they could even open fire,” Michel said, lowering his head in respect for the dead. “They rushed to their father as he was led to execution. So, the Nazis shot them all.”
Giselle stood in the middle of the reception hall, surrounded by green-gray uniforms and stared blankly ahead, obediently waiting for her new fiancé to bring yet another high-ranking dignitary from Berlin to her for a formal introduction. A seasoned socialite, who had never shied away from similar gatherings, she felt completely out of place here, amongst these men who spoke a language she didn’t understand. They might have been talking about her for all she knew, and she would never have a clue. They all kissed her hand and expressed their “utmost pleasure” at meeting her, but who knew what they really thought?
Smoothing the material of her creamy silk gown self-consciously, Giselle brought the crystal champagne flute to her mouth, grateful that at least alcohol was flowing freely. Truth be told, everything flew freely wherever the Germans were: banquet halls were filled with music and dancing couples, the most exquisite appetizers were carried around by waiters in tuxedos, glasses with the best champagne were knocked off tables with almost appalling disregard, and the same uneaten, half-bitten-into appetizers would be collected by the same waiters to be brought home to their families. They were the lucky ones, who could serve the new masters of the country; they at least could feast on their leftovers. The rest of the country was slowly beginning to starve.
“Gisela.” Karl’s voice distracted her from her gloomy thoughts as he caught her elbow and nudged her slightly towards yet another general in a uniform, almost bursting at the seams around his enormous waistline. “Allow me to introduce you to Herr Gruppenführer Schwartz. It’s due to his interference that we’ll finally be able to set law and order in this country. Herr Gruppenführer, this is my fiancé, Gisela Legrand.”
“So you’re the man who Karl always speaks so highly of.” Giselle forgot how many times she’d pronounced the same phrase today with the same exact smile, offering the general her hand with the same practiced gesture. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. How are you enjoying yourself on our French soil?”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle.” Giselle tried not to cringe when his wet lips touched her skin. “And it’s our soil now, isn’t it, Wünsche?”
The general was too busy winking at his compatriot to notice the glare that Giselle threw him after those words.
“It will be,” Karl agreed with detached confidence. “As soon we rid it of the last partisan forces. But since you granted my office your authorization, I’m most confident that it will happen within the next few months.”
“I granted you full freedom because I know that you’re the best strategist in the whole of the Gestapo. Not counting Gruppenführer Heydrich, of course.”
“Of course.”
Both exchanged polite smiles.
“Sturmbannführer Wünsche told me you’re a writer?” Schwartz switched his attention back to Giselle once again with the same indulging smile that she always despised in people who refused to take her profession seriously. Or literary critics, who sure had a lot to say on her account as well.
“Yes, I am, Monsieur Schwartz. A talentless plagiarist according to “Le Journal,” but my bank account states that the public actually reads my talentless plagiarism, and in rather impressive quantities.”
A subtle but visible smirk curled Karl’s lips upwards at his superior’s look. The man was obviously taken aback by Giselle’s sharp tongue and unapologetic attitude. Giselle replied to her fiancé with a slight nonchalant shrug. He’s not my superior; I’m not obliged to bow to him.
“Interesting.” The General quickly regained his composure. “And what are you working on now?”
“Gisela is writing a novel set in present day France,” Karl replied in a rushed manner, giving her a warning look. “A wife kills her French husband and chooses her German lover instead.”
Giselle brows shot up, but Karl only stared
harder at her, imploring her silently not to argue with such perverted interpretation of her manuscript.
“That is rather… provocative.” Schwartz chuckled nevertheless. “Not Hans Grimm, of course, but… I can see how it can pique the public’s interest. You’ve certainly piqued mine, Mademoiselle.”
Giselle’s smile was almost genuine, even if it was tight-lipped.
“Now I see why Sturmbannführer became so interested in you. But you, Mademoiselle, have certainly chosen a fine future husband as well. He is one of the few men who invariably puts the interests of the Reich above all – something that the Wehrmacht apparently lacked.”
“The Wehrmacht is an outdated organization,” Karl declared, playing with the amber liquid in his glass. “Their time is over. The time of grand battles, sensitive officers burdened with morals and making those grand battles into some twisted poetry of warfare so that the future generations will later write noble stories about them… They’re a thing of the past. The SS is the future; the future of the military, and of the moral health of the Reich, of everything. I assure you that I will prove it to you by my own personal example. Very soon I’ll wipe the streets of Paris clean from that Resistance plague. After we have performed that execution, the people of Paris will understand at last that they should take us seriously, or there will be very grave consequences to any future foolish action.”
“That’s all fine and well, Sturmbannführer. I read the reports, and I am most satisfied with them. But -” The General rocked from his heels to his toes and back as Karl regarded him cautiously. “What about that little newspaper that is the very cause of spreading of all of this cancerous Resistance propaganda all over Paris? And not only Paris; there are reports from several other cities, in which La Libération is being distributed. And recently there were copies found even in the Free Zone.”
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 25