The Unquiet Grave

by David J Oldman

  ‘Good point,’ said Tuchman. ‘But does that cover the actions of, say, the Einsatzgruppen?’

  ‘The murder battalions? No, of course not. But that’s war. Trying to apply a framework of law to war has always seemed to me a pointless and hypocritical exercise.’

  ‘An odd point of view for someone in your line of work,’ Tuchman said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I agreed, ‘but you know what they say about those who write the history.’

  ‘All right, let me ask you this. Do you think that it was the belief that what the Nazis were doing was legal that persuaded the majority of the population to go along with what was done in their name?’

  I had no idea what had persuaded the German population to follow Hitler. His oratory...his charisma...? That’s what some have said. But I’d been struck by neither. I hadn’t been there, of course; nor was I German. What I did know was that had I been Jewish I would have taken the Nazis’ dehumanizing propaganda and murderous campaign of liquidation as personal. Which, of course, is exactly what it was. Perhaps Tuchman was capable of more detachment than I. Or perhaps he was better at hiding his feelings.

  But he was waiting for a reply so I tried to formulate one.

  ‘Once they’d eliminated their most vociferous opponents, perhaps you’re right. They silenced the socialists and the communists and anyone else who might have stood up to them. After that, any people left who still disagreed with the Nazis probably thought it best to keep their heads down.’

  ‘All that is necessary for the triumph of evil, is that good men do nothing?’ Tuchman suggested.

  ‘That sounds like a quotation,’ I said.

  ‘Edmund Burke, I think. But it seems to fit the bill in this case. At any rate, more pertinently than when it was used back home before the first war as an argument for Prohibition. I wonder what Burke would have made of that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ I laughed. ‘I suppose it depends on whether Burke was a drinker. Philosophy isn’t my strong suit. I don’t claim any understanding of my fellow man or the nature of the universe.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Tuchman, ‘some things are beyond understanding.’

  I knocked back the last of my beer. ‘Like why we’re having this conversation? Why are we having it, Ben?’

  Tuchman grinned.

  ‘I told you, I’ve got myself into an awkward situation.’

  ‘Julia?’

  ‘Yes, in a way. Although my problem is Claude Pellisier.’

  23

  I signalled the waiter for another round, my mouth still dry. Tuchman wasn’t helping. He waited until the drinks arrived and the waiter left again.

  ‘It was a British initiative. The Commission, I mean. That’s why your people have taken the lead. Claude Pellisier’s name came up in Caen when we started looking into the deportation of French Jews to the death camps.’

  ‘From Occupied France?’

  ‘From the occupied territory and from Vichy. You won’t find many Frenchmen willing to admit it now, but the Nazis didn’t have any trouble finding willing collaborators. In fact, France was the only occupied country that passed its own laws for the deportations. All the Germans had to do was sit back and let the French authorities get on with it.’

  Judging from Tuchman’s expression he had taken French perfidy personally.

  ‘It’s no secret, of course,’ he went on, ‘that a great number of Frenchmen in positions of power were ambivalent about the Nazis from the beginning. Just look at how quickly they were defeated. It’s a sad truth that many of the officer corps simply deserted their men in the face of the German advance.’

  ‘Rather ironic,’ I commented, ‘that the French said of Dunkirk, that the British were willing to fight to the last Frenchman.’

  Tuchman smiled but it was little more than an automatic response. Yet I knew how much truth there was in what he said. The relationship between the British and the French had been an ambiguous one for much of the war. Their capitulation in 1940 had, to say the least, been precipitous and there were those at the time who had preferred to blame the British for leaving them in the lurch at Dunkirk rather than their own High Command and politicians for the surrender.

  That one hundred thousand Frenchman had also been evacuated to England seemed to have been conveniently forgotten. Although perhaps that was just as well; we had ferried them back in short order to ports further west along the coast just in time for the French surrender. Those that weren’t killed found themselves in labour camps or, later, shipped east to work for the Germans.

  ‘To be fair,’ I said, ‘we had our own share of enthusiastic supporters of Nazi Germany before the war. I often wonder if we would have come out of it smelling any better if Britain had been occupied.’

  ‘Don’t sell yourselves short, Harry,’ said Tuchman. ‘The point is, you weren’t. And you weren’t because you fought. There were opportunities to come to a negotiated peace, but unlike the French, Britain didn’t take them.’

  I wasn’t going to argue. At least we hadn’t had to resort to the expediency of rewriting history. Had the French Resistance been able to call upon the number of men who, once the Germans were on the run, came crawling out of the woodwork, brushing off their old medals and uniforms, the battle might have been over a couple of years before it finally was. It all went a long way to explain General De Gaulle’s attitude: a proud man having to paper over the shame of his country in order to instil some of his own pride in a shattered nation. I didn’t find it difficult to sympathize although, like many others, it did stick in the craw to see so many old collaborators stepping up as tardy saviours of La Belle France. But truth has a habit of exhuming itself sooner or later and, in my opinion, in the case of the worst offenders, the sooner the better.

  ‘I understood Pellisier worked in Paris,’ I said.

  ‘Between the wars. When he was trying to make a political career for himself. After the fall of France he took up a post in Caen.’ Tuchman picked up his glass, held it a moment but didn’t drink. ‘First it was Socialists and Communists...trade-unionists and the like who were rounded up. Many of them were sent to the camp at Natzweiler-Struthof. A lot of common criminals, too, although――like the Germans――the French soon found their sort were useful for doing their dirty work. The Milice, in Vichy for example. After they’d dealt with their political enemies it wasn’t long before they turned their attention to the French Jews. And as we were saying earlier, the Germans kept meticulous records and they liked their French underlings to do the same. With what documentation has been found and the corroborating evidence of witness testimonies, we’re able to identify some of the French civilian administrators who were only too happy to assist the Gestapo in Jewish deportations.’

  ‘And you’re certain Pellisier was one of them?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem much doubt about it,’ Tuchman said.

  He wasn’t drinking but I needed one and took a long pull at the glass. It was the kind of development which beyond setting the record straight wasn’t likely to do anyone any good. Myself included.

  ‘I can see that it’s an unfortunate turn of events,’ I said. ‘But Pellisier wasn’t exactly family, was he? And I don’t suppose any of them have any idea of what he was doing. Have you spoken to Julia about it?’

  ‘I was waiting to see how things developed. To be honest, Harry, I’ve only just got involved in Pellisier’s case.’

  ‘Before or after you met her?’

  ‘Before,’ he admitted. ‘Although I’m not sure that’s relevant.’

  ‘Let’s hope Julia agrees,’ I said. ‘What is it you want me to do? Since I’m here, I take it you want me to do something.’

  He smiled with that easy American charm which no doubt left Julia weak at the knees. She may have exhibited a frosty veneer at times, but the war had turned us all upside down and worn thin our social distinctions along with our morals. I wouldn’t have gone as far as to suggest she was to be had for a chocolate bar and a
pair of nylons, but a New York lawyer with charm and looks wouldn’t have had to resort to the American PX, Jewish ethnicity or not.

  ‘If possible, Harry. I’d like you to stay away from the subject of Claude Pellisier. He wasn’t involved in any crimes against the military as far as we can see. Not the British or American anyway. It might be prudent if you can see your way to steer clear of any awkward questions you might have felt you wanted to ask. At least, where Julia and her family are concerned.’

  I got the impression he expected me to protest because he went on quickly:

  ‘I know Penny’s your wife and you’ve this investigation. I understand the Bren gun carrier was knocked out not far from Pellisier’s château. But the man’s dead so it’s not as if he can be brought to trial. Reports will get written and filed away and the chances are no one will be any the wiser. At the moment though, it’s a little awkward. And not just for me personally. You understand, I’m sure.’

  I was beginning to. But just how much I was beginning to was a different matter. What Tuchman knew about my investigation into Dabs’ death and Kearney’s——or O’Connell’s——disappearance was something else again. I didn’t see that Pellisier’s conduct during the war could have any bearing on it, but his collaboration would certainly be embarrassing for Penny’s family and for Maurice Coveney. But what he had said suggested some disingenuousness on his own part. He didn’t want me asking awkward questions yet, according to Penny that afternoon, he was not above asking them himself.

  ‘I have to admit,’ I told him, ‘that I thought you looked a little uncomfortable yesterday evening. I assumed it was because of what Julia said about how long it took for America to enter the war. But it was because the conversation had got round to Maurice Coveney and his wife.’

  ‘You’re right, Harry. But I couldn’t really admit to knowing about the family, not without saying why. Coveney being Pellisier’s brother-in-law.’

  ‘He helped with the identification of the body, didn’t he? There’s no doubt about that, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ Tuchman said with a degree of certainty I hardly shared. ‘Coveney happened to be in Paris with a British Foreign Office delegation shortly after the liberation. It seems while he was there he tried to find out what had happened to his brother-in-law. That was why he was asked to identify the remains found in the château.’

  ‘I’m surprised the body was in any condition to be identified.’

  ‘Photographs,’ said Tuchman. ‘It appears the body was buried initially by German troops occupying the château. Your people dug it up assuming it was a British soldier’s grave then buried it again. The local authorities didn’t seem to have much doubt that it was Pellisier so they re-interred it in the family vault. Even so, they took some photographs as a precaution. Pellisier had a birthmark on his right buttock, apparently. Quite distinctive, like an inverted triangle with one serpentine side. The body had been burned and was badly decomposed but by luck the birthmark was still identifiable. Coveney was pretty confident the remains were Pellisier’s.’

  ‘Call me suspicious,’ I said, ‘but given the body had been dug up more times than a dog’s bone I would have found that a tad fortunate.’

  Tuchman agreed. ‘We do check these things, of course. Nothing is taken at face value. Once the war started going against them many of the people who’d been involved in the deportations and death camps began making provision against future prosecution.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They simply disappeared. They had alternate identities ready and escape routes prepared. Of course, we’ve no idea if Pellisier had arranged anything although that might have been why he was at the château. Picking up personal belongings...? Who knows? It might be that he was simply caught out by the speed of the advance.’

  I was on the point of telling him about the Gestapo officers who had been there with Pellisier, then changed my mind. I wasn’t sure why, perhaps because throughout this business I had been a step behind the opposition and now succumbed to a miserly impulse to keep something back myself.

  The club had emptied and the waiter and the barman were cleaning up. We finished our drinks. Out on the street Tuchman found a taxi and dropped me near my flat.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’ve spoken out of turn,’ he said as I climbed out.

  ‘Not at all, Ben,’ I assured him.

  We shook hands. As I watched the taxi drive away between the rows of rubble that formed my street, its lights swept over the dark shape of a car parked several yards along the road.

  The taxi disappeared, plunging the street back into darkness. No lights showed from the parked car and, turning to the door of my building, I didn’t give it a second thought.

  In the flat, I put the kettle on. I wasn’t tired, having dozed for a couple of hours next to Penny earlier in the day. Tuchman’s revelation that Claude Pellisier had been involved in Jewish deportations complicated matters. On the face of it, my carrier being found on the drive of Pellisier’s château was no more than coincidence, and it would probably explain Coveney’s interest in the matter. But that was on the face of it. As it was, I was not looking forward to Penny finding out that her Aunt Louise’s brother was a Nazi collaborator; worse, that he had helped send Jews to the death camps. I didn’t suppose Tuchman was looking forward much to telling Julia either.

  With Pellisier dead there might be no reason for them to know. Telling them wouldn’t do anyone any good. And yet I felt somehow uncomfortable about keeping it from them; from Penny in particular. Despite Tuchman’s denial, I wasn’t convinced that his befriending Julia hadn’t been a deliberate move. He hadn’t exactly told me that it had been no more than a coincidence but, if that was what it had been, it was one too many as far as I was concerned.

  Deep in thought I didn’t hear a sound until there was a knock at my door. It was well past two in the morning and I was hardly accustomed to receiving calls even during social hours. It first crossed my mind that it was Penny coming back then, somewhat conceitedly, that it might be Ida. Odd how a little sexual success goes to a man’s head; vanity a hungry beast apparently prepared, it seemed, to feed on any scrap thrown its way.

  I had started to open the door before I consciously considered any other possibility, and sensed rather than saw the person standing in the hall. I had completely forgotten the car parked along the street.

  Even after the lifting of the blackout my penny-pinching landlord was still unwilling to spend money on light bulbs for the hallways of a condemned building, and with the door only partly open the dim light from my kitchen was too weak to illuminate the corridor. But, before I could open the door wider, I caught the astringent smell of something oddly familiar, a scent that brought back memories from before the war.

  ‘I know you won’t mind me calling on you this late, Captain,’ said the teasing voice with its familiar Irish lilt. ‘But when you gave me your address, you did say any time. So here I am.’

  ‘So you are, Rose,’ I said, opening the door wide, half-expecting in the weak light to see someone standing behind her. She was alone though and as I stepped back to let her in said, ‘You don’t mind me using your first name, do you Rose? After all, Kearney’s a bit of a misnomer now, isn’t it?’

  She was as stylishly dressed as any woman could possibly manage in our straightened times and I realized I probably wouldn’t have recognized her had I passed her on the street. The scent I had caught was from hair lotion, still clinging to the permanent waves she had curled into the brown lacklustre hair which had made her look so drab. What surprised me most though was how she was made up. Not artfully or excessively, but with a competence that made the most of her features; features until then I’d not realized she’d possessed. She was the girl in the photograph again, older now perhaps, but for those whose tastes ran beyond the bland, one who had grown almost beautiful.

  She stepped past me, taller now too; almost my own height in her heels.

  ‘Now, I’ve heard
you’ve been visiting Ballydrum, Captain. I suppose you were disappointed with the place. Billy always said there wasn’t much to it if you discounted the peat bog. I’ve never seen it myself, but then you know that by now.’

  I shut the door and thumbed down the latch. Rose noticed and appeared amused.

  ‘We’ll not be interrupted if that’s what you’re thinking. Not unless you’re expecting someone else? The girl again? Or the American?’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about me, Rose,’ I said. ‘The girl’s my wife.’

  She raised a pencilled eyebrow. ‘It’s married you are? And living in a dump like this on your own? You’re a man who keeps a surprise up his sleeve.’

  ‘I’m not the only one.’

  She looked over the meagre room, eyes wandering across the battered settee to the kitchen, through the open door to the bedroom. She glanced at the settee again and sat at the table.

  ‘I’ve just made some tea,’ I said, ‘if you’d care for a cup?’

  Her eyes widened and she smiled. ‘Now isn’t that the English all over? They never forget their manners. Even when they’re sticking a gun in your face in some Dublin basement or other.’

  I poured her a cup and she took a little powdered milk.