“Panzer outfit?” The captain looked at me steadily.
“Yes, sir.” I named Hirschbiegel’s unit.
“What do you have to do with panzer officers?” One boot heel rocked back and forth on the floor.
“The lieutenant and I are billeted in the same hotel.”
“I see.” He opened the inner door; in the interrogation room, the corporals were on their feet and ready for action. “We didn’t get them all yesterday,” Leibold said with a thin smile. “All the same, I’m satisfied.”
I felt as though an iron clamp were closing around my throat. I lowered my eyes, ostensibly to turn to a clean page in my notepad.
“Be careful,” the captain said.
The floor of the room seemed to sink. I pressed a pencil with two fingers. It would snap soon; I could feel it. Finally, Leibold went into the room. I followed him and took my usual place.
They brought in the barber.
He’d been beaten—there was an open wound over his right eye. They set him down on the chair. Leibold had his particulars read aloud: Gustave Thiérisson, residing at 31 rue Jacob. Proprietor of a barbershop.
He hadn’t looked at me yet.
“Have you had your shop for a long time?” Leibold began.
“Le salon, vous l’avez depuis longtemps?” I asked him softly.
Gustave straightened himself. His handcuffs clinked. It wasn’t his appearance that shook me; it was the hopelessness in his eyes. He stared at me.
At last he said in a cracked voice, “Propriété de famille.”
“Family property,” I said.
“And do you have a license to operate a printing press in your family property?”
I hesitated a moment too long. “Say it!” Leibold snapped.
I pressed my knees together and interpreted. The barber was about to speak, but they didn’t wait that long. And this time, the captain didn’t let me leave.
They struck Gustave in the face. He didn’t cry out; he groaned and waited for the next blow. They let his pain subside and then beat him some more, throwing him to the floor, kicking his soft parts. Leibold didn’t interrupt and asked no questions. He let them take their time. Eventually, they hauled the barber back onto the chair and opened his trousers. One of them put on a glove. Gustave gazed at me in bewilderment. Blood dripped from his eyebrow. He watched the glove approach his genitals. The corporal seized them. Gustave screamed wildly and twisted around to escape the other’s grasp. His shoulders were yanked back. The one with the glove let go only when Leibold gave the sign. Gustave’s body shuddered and twitched. He continued to scream, but as though from far away. Gradually, the screaming turned to whimpering. A rivulet ran down his trouser leg and dripped onto the floor beside his shoe.
“From now on, I want precise answers,” Leibold said. “Say one word I don’t like and we do it again.”
I translated. My armpits and back were damp with sweat.
Leibold continued: “Are you the owner of that printing press?”
I asked the question in French and added, in the same breath, “Dis-le vite!”
Leibold scrutinized me but said nothing.
The lacerated face, the broken nose. Gustave admitted to owning the press.
“There’s a woman who works in your shop,” said the captain. “What’s her name?”
I translated. Gustave raised his head a little. Our eyes met.
“What’s her name?” Leibold repeated. The corporals got ready.
“Dis son nom!” I shouted at the barber with exaggerated ferocity.
“Chantal,” he replied, his voice barely audible.
“Chantal what?”
“Joffo.” He stopped. “Elle n’en a rien à foutre.”
“The woman had nothing to do with it,” I said.
Leibold’s eyes went from me to the prisoner and back. “That remains to be seen.” He carried on with the interrogation.
Shortly before noon, the barber lost consciousness. The corporals tried to waken him by throwing water on him. When that proved useless, Leibold had him returned to his cell. They dragged his unconscious body out of the room; his feet thumped against the floor.
Away from the others, I sat down in the courtyard and had a smoke. I saw Gustave, his open wounds. One more session like this and he’d tell all. I sucked frantically on my cigarette.
“You should get more sleep.” Anna Rieleck-Sostmann stepped out of the shadows.
“It’s just the heat.” My smile was unsuccessful.
She sat down, thrusting her legs into the sunshine. “If I can help you, I will.”
“You think I need help?”
“You know this barber, don’t you?” She leaned her head back.
My frightened look said it all. “What makes you think that?”
“Don’t play games with me.” Rieleck-Sostmann shooed a fly away from her forehead.
“I got a haircut in his shop once.” This statement was supposed to sound casual. She laid her hand close beside mine. “Have you said anything to Leibold?” My finger touched the back of her hand.
“Why should I?” She took a cigarette out of my packet. I gave her a light. “You’re perfectly capable of doing yourself in without any help from me.” She blinked as a spark flew too close to her eye.
“Please, Anna—”
“I’ll have some time today, I think. Shall we say six o’clock?” She gave me a sidelong glance. “Don’t forget your bag under the desk.” As she spoke, she stood up and left.
For several minutes, I stared at the patch of sunlight as it reached my boot and then my calf. My leg got very hot inside the leather shaft. I didn’t move until one of the corporals ordered me inside.
16
I washed myself, scrubbing my feet and knees with the rough washcloth, even using the coarse soap in my hair. I avoided looking in the mirror and poured ice-cold water over my head by way of a final rinse. A short while before, the door had shut behind Rieleck-Sostmann. I was making an effort to erase the past hour from my memory. The powerful thighs, the flushed throat. I sprang out of the bathroom and tore three pages off the calendar. Then I put on the good uniform, bought a bottle of cologne from the toilet attendant, and daubed it on my throat and temples.
There wasn’t a star in sight, and hardly any civilians in the street. I walked out into the evening haze and encountered the usual mixture of officers and enlisted men sauntering about, looking for pleasure. Once, I thought I heard steps behind me, but the sidewalk was empty.
I went straight to rue Faillard, no detours. When I reached the building, a fearful feeling came over me. My hands were damp; I ran my fingers through my hair twice before I pressed the doorbell. Once again, the concierge remained a phantom behind a curtained door. Only a cough revealed that someone was in there.
I whispered Chantal’s name loudly into the stairwell; no answer. I climbed up to the flat and waited in front of the door. She could have been delayed somewhere, I told myself. At the end of half an hour, I was certain she wasn’t coming. It took me a long time to get the door open, but it scraped over the floor again at last. The flat seemed musty and unfamiliar today. Only the pillows and sheets were reminders of last night. I found a bottle of wine in the kitchen. Without turning on a light, I sat down on the ship’s sofa and drank. Later, I poured myself some of Hirschbiegel’s cognac and I drank it in big gulps.
When both bottles were empty, I opened the window and paced around the flat, oppressed by my own helplessness. I felt sick, spit up the burning liquor, and made a dash for the exit downstairs, stumbling on the smooth steps. My boot heels were intolerably loud. I ran past the concierge’s booth, headed toward the river, and didn’t slow down until I was walking on the stone pavement of the bridge. I saluted as I passed two SS sergeants and made my way through narrow side streets, avoiding the vici
nity of rue Jacob.
A clock was striking ten when I reached the black gate that opened into rue de Gaspard. Darkness everywhere. I entered the narrow street. The junk dealer’s shop was boarded up, as if he had left it forever. I reached the bookshop and sat down on the big rock to catch my breath. Sweat ran down over my eyebrows. Suddenly, something in the darkness made me leap to my feet. Was the shop under surveillance? Were they already waiting out there in the dark, ready to strike at any moment? How foolish to come here! Dangerous for Chantal, as well. I reached the top of the steps in one bound and knocked on the door. It opened with a squeal, making me jump. The shop bell failed to ring. Only then did I notice the broken glass. Even though I could see things only in outline, I could tell when I walked in that they’d done a thorough job. Cases had been tipped over; hundreds of books strewed the floor. By the flickering light of a match, I contemplated the devastation and then spun around suddenly, blowing out the flame. Had something moved in the street? I stood still and listened for several seconds. In the end, I cleared a passage for myself and reached the counter. The ledger lay in pieces at my feet. Files, pictures, and folders were scattered about. The storeroom in the rear of the shop was in the same condition. They’d thrown the whole stock of books into a heap on the floor. My efforts exhausted me; I sat down on the book mound and took off my forage cap. I cursed the circumstances that had thrown me together with these people. Whatever I did would put them in danger. I accused myself of having informed on Chantal. Hadn’t I forced the barber to say her name? Would I be facing her tomorrow at her interrogation?
No sound of any kind except the rustling of paper. My cap slipped off my lap and fell to the floor. I groped for it and discovered one corner of a carpet that was covered with books. I straightened up. By the light of another match, I inspected the floor. Stamped on it; it was hollow. I pricked up my ears, but all was quiet in the shop. I found a candle and lighted it. Then I started raising the empty, overturned bookshelves and stacking the books against the walls. Slowly but surely, I cleared everything off the carpet, then stood at one corner, grabbed a handful of the dusty fabric, and pulled it back. With the toe of my boot, I looked for an edge or a dip in the floor. The air in the room was stuffy, so I took off my uniform jacket.
The notch in the floorboard was barely noticeable, even when I held the candle over it. Wax dripped onto my hand. The boards were smooth, except for one splintered spot, as though something had been attached there. Searching the room to see if there was anything I could use as a lever, I noticed a poker leaning on the wall behind the cast-iron stove. The handle was strangely thick, and the shaft tapered only slightly. I put the candle on the floor, jammed the flatter end of the bar into the floorboard, and put all my weight on the other end. There was a long, drawn-out creaking; it felt as if something was on the point of snapping. Suddenly, the trapdoor came free. A small crack opened. I remembered how I’d been dragged down there weeks before. I put my foot on the first step and cautiously began climbing down. Reaching the packed-earth floor, I held the candle high and turned in a circle. Rough brick walls; against one of them, a rack with potatoes and apples.
“I’m aiming right at your heart,” said a voice from the darkness.
I sprang back.
“Stay where you are!” he cried out.
“Joffo?” I blew out the candle. No answer. “I’m alone.”
“Why should I believe you?”
I reached for the matches. The box slipped from my hand, and I felt around for it on the damp floor. Soon the candle was burning between the bookseller and me. His face was filled with anxiety.
“How long have you been down here?” I asked.
“They came so suddenly, I couldn’t get away,” Joffo replied.
“Does the cellar have another exit?”
“No.”
“How did you intend to get out?”
“I tried. The trapdoor was too heavy.”
“You might have suffocated.”
“No.” Joffo held the pistol in the light. “Not while I had this.” He started climbing upstairs. “They’ll be back.”
I followed him. “Where’s Chantal?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
We were standing side by side. He closed the trapdoor and pulled the carpet over it. “You won’t see my daughter again, monsieur.”
“I’m not to blame for what happened!”
Joffo put the poker back in its place. “I’m going to have to abandon my books,” he said. “You are to blame for that.”
He blew out the candle and led me past the counter. We felt our way to the door. Before I left him, I told him about the barber. I didn’t mention the torture. Joffo stooped and picked up the door handle, which had been torn off. It made a cold sound.
“Don’t try to find us, monsieur.” He looked back at his devastated world of books. Without saying good-bye, I slipped away, pausing a moment beside the rock on which I’d seen Chantal for the first time. I tried in vain to remember what she’d been reading then.
17
That night, I extirpated all Geman traces from my clothes, underwear included. Brand names were eliminated. Imprints were rendered unrecognizable. Even the numbers on the soles of my shoes—their German size—had to go; I dug them out with my knife.
The next day, I asked Leibold if I could discuss something with him. We weren’t standing in our usual spot by the window overlooking the garden. This time, we were in his office. “I’m a corporal in the Wehrmacht,” I said, “and for that reason I request to be transferred back to my old unit.”
“Don’t you like working in rue des Saussaies anymore?” Leibold’s tone remained friendly, but I sensed he was lurking behind it.
In recent weeks, rumors of an Allied invasion had encouraged the French Resistance forces to intensify their efforts considerably. Every day, dozens of arrestees came through our department; the questioning of a prisoner was often a mere preliminary to his execution by firing squad. I admitted to Leibold that I was finding the interrogation sessions hard to take.
“These people are enemies of the Reich!” the captain replied, stressing each word. “If you were at the front, you’d have to kill such enemies with your own hands.” In the silence, we could hear a truck drive past. “Is that what you want, Corporal?”
The sun painted a hard-edged cross on the whitewashed wall. I stared at the patch of light behind the captain.
“I’m requesting a transfer,” I repeated. My voice sounded strange to me.
“You’ll be informed of my decision.” He bent over his desk.
That same day, I translated the interrogation of two Frenchwomen who had broken into a prison camp in order to see their men. When I left the typing room late in the afternoon, Rieleck-Sostmann was conversing with an SS lieutenant. He told her that the barber they’d detained had died of his injuries.
“Greece, if you’re lucky,” Hirschbiegel said. We were sitting side by side on his bed. “Maybe Romania. Do your best to get to the mountains.” He was kneading his pink hands between his knees.
Outside, a lovely fall afternoon was under way. The sky gleamed behind the rooftops of the buildings across the street. The air was cooler.
“Romania?” I tried to remember the map of the Balkans that my major had brought from there. Remarks were scribbled in pencil on the map: “Partisan Corps ‘Josip’” or “12th Partisan Division”; it seemed that the war in the Balkans was being fought against bandits.
We fell silent; neither of us had mentioned Russia. Why should Leibold shrink from sending me there?
“Don’t you want to see her again before you go?” Hirschbiegel asked.
“They’re gone,” I said. “They probably went to the country.”
“So rue Faillard goes unused.” The lieutenant sighed. “What a shame.”
We drank cognac.
“Let me hear the song one more time,” I said. Hirschbiegel scooped some brilliantine from a jar and rubbed it between his hands. I stood up and went over to the shelves. “Next April, I’ll surely be somewhere other than Paris.”
When I found the brown record sleeve, he said, “A mistake. I’m sorry.”
I pulled out the record. It was in two pieces.
“I sat on it.” Hirschbiegel’s eyes were apologetic.
“Do you remember the melody?” I held the two halves together. “How did it go?”
The lieutenant was rubbing pomade into his hair. “It was just a pop song,” he said. “What’s the difference?”
I read the split title. “Avril Prochain.” I couldn’t remember the song anymore.
Shortly thereafter, we were strolling in the direction of the Seine, preceded by the scent of Hirschbiegel’s violet water. The sky cooled off above the green-and-yellow plane trees, and it was growing dark very fast. I inhaled the soft air. The few clouds were brownish smudges. In the surrounding buildings, men dressed in sweaters lounged in the windows of the upper floors. A café was just opening; the garçon hadn’t yet finished sweeping out. The sounds of various kinds of music came from all directions. We could hear fiddling in the distance, trumpet notes, a German song. An all-female group was playing in the restaurant across the street. We ambled over there.
Hirschbiegel fell for the petite violinist, a French girl right out of a picture book, who conducted the tricky entries with her bow. The violist was her opposite: robust and well-nourished. Her instrument rose and sank on her bosom with every breath she took. At the end of the waltz, the cellist gave me a sad look.
Hirschbiegel chewed a piece of French bread. “Why don’t you introduce us to the ladies?”
“All four of them?”
“The matron at the piano will be sent home,” he cried, laughing.
After a few glasses, he forgot the lady musicians.
April in Paris Page 10