“I think you have made a mistake. My name is Liebert. Madame Monique Liebert.”
“Teddy, surely—”
“That’s enough. You’ve made a simple mistake—and now, if you would kindly—”
The thin dark man in the beret said, “You’re upsetting the lady.”
She saw the once-well-known face, puzzled now, indignant, closing the sliding door, Ferdy walking off down the corridor.
“A mistake,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Anyone can make a mistake,” said the man with the beret, but the fat woman said, “He went on too long. It was a pick-up. Men … they’re all the same.”
They were all silent for a while, then slowly the others began to talk again. She tried to sleep, then she read for a bit. They came around to check papers, and although she had nothing to fear, I am Monique Liebert, a traveler in cosmetics, the restlessness was still there. It affected her bladder. She would have to go to the lavatory. She dreaded that Ferdy would be in a compartment close by, where she must pass. She tried to think, Had he gone away to the left or the right?
When she hurried down, it seemed safe enough, but then when she had come out and was halfway to her seat, she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Teddy, look, what is this?”
She tried to move on, shaking him off, saying angrily, “I don’t know who you are, monsieur, but if this is an attempt to introduce yourself, you have not succeeded.”
“We don’t need introducing, we know each other … very well. You know how well, Teddy.”
She had reached the compartment door. “There are police on this train. If you don’t remove your unwelcome attentions …”
His hand touched her elbow, touched her, in that particular way. He said, in English, “Making conversation, when we ought to be making love … You know me, Teddy.”
“I don’t know what language that is, but I don’t understand it. And take your hands off …”
She slid open the door, was safely inside. He stood outside, but didn’t attempt to come in.
“Oh dear,” she said, sitting down again. Her knees trembled.
“He’s not still at it?” said the fat woman. She shrugged. “Men will try anything. That’s how I met my husband. Certain he was, he knew me from somewhere or other. I didn’t believe a word. But of course he got round me— he still does.”
Only half an hour till Paris, unless the train was delayed again further. She didn’t even try to sleep, but kept her spectacles on, burying herself again in La Grande Meute.
The train drew into the Gare St. Lazare. The great thing, the essential thing now, was not to hurry. How many times had she been taught, how well she knew, don’t hurry. To hurry is to draw attention. And as well, flurry doesn’t make for a cool mind.
She didn’t hurry, but walked purposefully, calmly. She saw, as she had dreaded, that it was a day when the Geste were looking at papers. She flooded her mind with details of her cover story, all the little frills that went to make it seem real: Cousin Mathilde has terrible asthma and often when she can’t manage I go to help her. … I’m worried about Uncle Benoît because his lungs have been troubling him, you always worry about consumption in the family.
Ferdy may be behind, he may be watching for me, may be very near now. I shall not look around.
She went into the lavatories, and was surprised at how she was shaking. As if I didn’t have enough anxieties without Ferdy too. Someone had written on the cubicle wall, misspelled, “Money has no smell, a Jew has.” She felt sick.
Back on the platform again, she looked around casually. There was no sign of him. She wondered if she should do a detour on the Métro, just in case. But why, when she was so exhausted?
Daniel waylaid her as she came into the vestibule of her building. He was jumping from one stone stair to the other, two at a time. He looked a candidate for a sprained ankle.
“Ssh,” he said, looking behind him and then over at Mme. Dastien’s room. “Are we alone?” He came up close to her. “Madame Liebert, do you know what a Boche is?”
She had been caught out once—saying solemnly, “It’s a slang, rude name for Germans.” This time she said, “No, what is a Boche?”
“He’s a lean German pig, fattened in France, salted in the Channel, and tinned in England. Voilà!”
She was so tired that she went to sleep almost at once. She had thought she was hungry, but there was nothing in the apartment and she could not bear to go out. The restaurant nearby had been closed for the last two days because of insufficient stocks. She was invited tomorrow to Olivier and Annick’s. She would eat well there.
She dreamed one of her anxiety dreams. A face that was almost Gib’s grew larger, smaller, approached, receded. A voice called from somewhere, echoing down a corridor, calling in French, “Save me, save me!” The person who wasn’t Gib said, “If you could hand over the Diamond Waterfall, you could save yourself and all of us. They’ll do anything for money. They’re only human, they’re only German. Where is it?” She said, “It doesn’t belong to me and it’s in England. I can’t …” He said quietly, “You must, if you want us to be saved.”
“Help me,” she cried. She woke suddenly, thinking she heard a banging on the door. But it was only a loose shutter blowing in the March breeze.
She was busy the next morning, and in the afternoon she went to the hairdresser. It took nearly three hours, another permanent. How she disliked her new looks. On the way back she was caught up in an air raid. What an irony it would be, she thought, if I were in the end to be killed by the RAF.
Passing a piano shop on her way back she had heard someone picking out “Le Premier Rendezvous. “ This song of Danielle Darrieux, from the film which Teddy had seen twice already, oddly and cruelly reminded her of Henri, with whom it could have nothing to do. It was a song heard everywhere. Violin, accordion, guitar, a haunting air, jogging foxtrot, whistled from doorways, through open windows. That first meeting, the heart tired of beating alone—that is me, that was us. She thought, If I survive, if I live to tell the tale, this will be the song that will reawaken it all. She would remember that they had never danced together. Silly, why didn’t we?
Loss of Henri: over the years it had settled to a dull ache, occasionally flaring up into acute pain, like a wound in damp weather. She thought yet again, sadly, It could have been something. For four days we were lovers, and friends. She had still to tell herself, it was not meant to be.
She would dress now to go to Olivier’s, to be certain to be there early so that, leaving, there would be no problem about the last Métro.
It was still light. She looked out from the balcony. A cart drawn by oxen rumbled by, ladened with parcels, going toward the Gare de l’Est. She imagined it to be yet more of France’s good things, on their way to Germany.
She finished her makeup, cleaned her glasses—hateful things. At least she would not need to wear them at Olivier’s. As she sorted her handbag by the door, she thought she heard steps on the stairs. Ah no—unmistakably old Mme. Chevillon.
“Mme. Liebert, Monique dear,” her voice came through the door, before she knocked.
Teddy opened it. “I was just going out …”
Then she saw. Behind the old lady, bounding up the stairs, Ferdy.
“Oh no,” she said, “oh no.” She would have shut the door but Mme. Chevillon stood inside it.
“Here’s a friend of yours, dear, he was looking for you, there I was, taking care of things for Mme. Dastien, she’s had to go to the doctor again for her head, and I saw him come in. When he asked for you, I’ll take you up I said, the exercise is good for me.”
The voice went on. Ferdy had stepped from behind and past her. He was there, inside.
“So I’ll leave you now, dear, old friends have a lot to talk about.”
“What’s this?” she said angrily. “How did you get here?”
“I simply watched you—yesterday. You looked around, but not quite enough.
Hiding in the lavatory indeed—”
“Just get out,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to offer me an apéro?”
“No.”
“Teddy, you might tell me what this is about? What’s all this Monique Liebert nonsense?”
She took a deep breath, “I’ll tell you. I didn’t get out in time. In 1940. And I reckoned to be British might be difficult. After all, the French aren’t at war with the Nazis—we are. I didn’t want to be interned at Porte St. Denis. So, I’m a Belgian woman. It’s as simple as that. You must know people can get papers if they need them. Obviously I’m at risk, but …”
“Our enemies aren’t Germans. They’re Jews and Bolsheviks and Freemasons.”
“I see your politics haven’t changed.”
“Your story, as a story,” he said, “it stinks.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“Look, Teddy. You know me well. We … used … You asked me once to father a baby for you.”
“I must have been mad.”
“What about for old times’sake—we could just …” He pointed to the bedroom. “There—it’s a good double bed.”
She tried a line of attack. “What are you doing here?”
“I come to Paris on and off. I came to be here when our Belgian fascist, Léon Degrelle, speaks. The Place Chaillot on Sunday.”
“Léon Degrelle. Jean Hérold-Paquis. Two of a kind.”
“It doesn’t follow I agree with him. I’m not a collabo. “
“I daresay not. Just an honest attentiste, waiting to see how it goes. Well, it’s not going too well, is it?”
“I’ll take a risk and ask this. Are you a résistante?”
“What if I were—as if I’d tell you. But no, I never did have anything to do with politics. You should know that. I’m just here—and when it’s all over I’ll be Teddy again.”
“We’re back again,” he said, “making conversation, when we ought to be making love.” He put out a hand. “For old times sake—come down to a cafe and drink with me.”
“No. And I was going out. I shall be late.”
“You smell different,” he said suddenly, lunging forward.
“It’s a different scent. I used to use Lanvin. Now I can’t afford it, even if I could get it.”
“No, your skin. You … I could want you more than ever. Teddy, remember …”
“I do—remember. And it’s over. Over. Finished. That was 1934. Now it’s 1944. I’m not the same person.”
He said, “You don’t smell the same. You smell of deceit. Something’s going on. If you’re on some secret mission, if you’re helping your country … Supposing I wanted to help? As long as you’re not working for the Bolshies, I’d like to help. I travel to and fro. I could do a lot. Can you put me in touch with anyone?”
“I couldn’t. And now—I want to go out.”
He had tight hold of her, pinning her arms to her body. He tried to reach her lips, but she shook her head.
“No, Ferdy, no. “ She struggled. It was undignified, she thought, so undignified … mussed hair, his heavy breathing.
“Get out,” she said, breaking free. “Go on, get out.” She itched, with her high-heeled wooden shoes, to kick him.
She said at dinner, “I was late because of this man. I don’t trust him. I shall move apartments tomorrow. Vincent can radio London.”
She returned home unbelievably tired. She wondered almost if the dinner out had been worth it. Walking from the Métro, she thought, If London suggests I go home for a spell, I’ll take the offer. Maybe it’s spring fever, or end of winter tiredness, or Ferdy. I would never ask—but I’d accept …
For a while, overtired, she lay awake. She thought of getting up and packing her few belongings for the move tomorrow. She would miss the Chevillons.
The banging on the door that woke her at four in the morning—she could not have mistaken it for a shutter in the wind.
The man at Gestapo headquarters had a clever face, with deep-set eyes and a firm, not unsympathetic mouth. His voice was gentle.
“I’d much rather talk in English, Mrs. Nicolson. My English is much better. It’s a nonsense we should conduct all this in French. You are not French.”
“For the fifth, sixth time—I’m Belgian. Walloon. French is my native tongue.”
“Belgian. Like this man you said …”
“I wouldn’t know where he comes from. Possibly he’s Belgian. I told you, I never saw him before the other day.” “You expect me to believe that?”
“He picked me up. We … it was not a success. He was impotent, and disgusting with it. I told him so. I’m used to something better. Just because I’m a widow in my forties—”
“An intelligent widow, I suspect. You really think we don’t know this is all nonsense, Mrs. Nicolson?”
“I’m used to something better, as I said. The goods were not delivered. I expressed myself frankly. You’re a man—would you take that? I imagine this person—he even gave me a false name—I imagine he had a motive for vengeance. Hence this tawdry slander, attempt to get me into trouble, give me a fright. Now, please, I’d like to go home. I had a promise of some calico if I reached the shop before two.”
“You talk a lot, Mrs. Nicolson. You have a lot to say.”
“Mme. Liebert, please. Of course I talk. You must be able to see I’m outraged by this. I thought you Germans were to protect us here in Paris—all these fine words nearly four years ago. Now innocent women are—”
“Our soldiers have behaved impeccably, often under considerable provocation. But you are not a French citizen talking to a German officer. You are a British citizen—and I wonder, perhaps more than that? You are refusing to answer reasonable questions from a member of the Gestapo.”
The best thing to do is to think about Henri. Imagine he is here with me. He stands behind me and encourages me. Try to think of the words of a French song. Henri at the piano, try and remember the words. It was so light a voice for a person of such wiry strength.
“Now please be sensible, Mrs. Nicolson. You have known this man for at least ten years. You and he even spent time together in your own country, England, in 1934.”
“The Stavisky affair. January 1934. I was here for that. I can tell you all about the Stavisky—”
“Please do not try to evade the issue with digressions about French politics. A sordid scandal, it was in all the newspapers. I should like you to talk quite soon, Mrs. Nicolson. We are not making very good progress. My patience isn’t unlimited.”
“You just accused me of talking too much!”
“On the contrary. You have merely to tell me about your real self, and about your friends. We know what we know, but we need to know more. And you can tell us.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“Is that the new line? I thought you were Mme. Liebert, who needed to get to the draper’s …”
“I am Monique Liebert, and I shall go to the draper’s. When you’ve stopped this nonsense.”
“These cosmetics you peddle, Mrs. Nicolson. No, on second thought, I shall not bother breaking that thin disguise.” Picking up the cheap suitcase, he upset the contents. He seemed to be doing it as displacement for his anger with her. Then, but too late, she said:
“My samples—how dare you! It’s enough bringing me in here unlawfully, without also prejudicing my livelihood. The scent might have broken..”
“You were very slow to react, for one whose livelihood these are meant to be. Now you overdo it.”
“It’s just as I said. One can’t do right.”
“Pick them up. Now,” he said suddenly, his voice edgy, ugly. “I find you a tiresome woman.”
She was surprised, but somehow not displeased. Kneeling down, not far from his feet, she felt she was given time to recover, time to think. She was blushing furiously as she sat down:
“You have a very high color.”
“I should think so. Bending down, these insults.
And it’s—my time of life. I blush because of that. It’s unexpected. The doctor says—”
Leaning across the desk, he struck her. His hand, with its heavy wedding ring, caught her cheek. She drew her breath in quickly. Wincing. Her heart began to pound.
“That is just to show I am serious, that I am angry with you … that you should think us so stupid. You are a good actress. The real person is more sophisticated, and a lot more obstinate. And that I shall break. Now—the truth about yourself. And your associates.”
“I have nothing—”
He struck her again. She could see that his irritation had now gone beyond his control, and that he was angry with himself.
He said, his voice calmer suddenly, almost coaxing, “Would it surprise you if I told you that not talking is useless? Your SOE, we have penetrated it. Our agents are everywhere. They are there. And so—we know all about you.”
She said in a cold voice, her fear calmed suddenly by an icy anger, “If you know so much, why bother asking me?”
She thought he would strike her again. Instead he moved some papers with an abrupt gesture. “We are neither of us any longer in the mood. I shall go for my lunch, then I shall order a good meal for you. Better than you have been eating. After you have enjoyed it—and please tell the Hauptmann whether you like cognac with your coffee—we shall have a civilized talk this afternoon.”
It was a mistake she was surprised he should have made, allowing her time to think. She decided to make the most of the meal, to give herself strength. She was weak from lack of food, and dizzy. She had not eaten properly since Olivier’s two days ago. Knowing she should beware of the alcohol, she drank the coffee, poured some more, drank half, and then poured the cognac into the cup, and left it.
“I see you have made a good meal. And the cognac—it was good? We have been appreciating the good things that come out of France. And your steak? It was done the way you like?”
“I have nothing to say.”
Half an hour later, he struck her again. It seemed he could not stop. Left right, left right. His face, pressed close to hers, was barely flushed.
“What stupidity. We shall get everyone, everyone. If not at once, soon. Very soon. There are always others who are more sensible. The rewards are great. You don’t seem interested even in considering that. I am out of patience.” He struck her again. “You don’t want rewards. All right, then it will be punishments.”
The Diamond Waterfall Page 66