by Sharon Maas
All she had to do was confess.
But how would he take it? How would he react to the knowledge that she had tricked him, led him on in the beginning, practically made a fool of him? That was the part that worried her. She left him listening to the BBC and kneeled before the stove while considering the best way to break her confession. It had to be done subtly, wisely, taking his feelings, his reactions, his pride into consideration and choosing her words carefully. She would need to guide him into understanding, give him something to hope for, live for. She rattled the grid, so that ash fell into the container tray below. It was quite full, needed emptying. She removed it from the stove, swept up the ashes that had fallen to the floor tiles surrounding the stove, added them to the tray and stood up.
‘I’m just going down to the cellar to empty this and get some more coal,’ she said as she passed him.
‘Don’t bother – it’s so dark down there. I’ll do it in a minute – this is interesting,’ he said.
‘It’s all right, I can do it.’ She walked past him with the tray, out the door and into the cold stairwell. She switched on the light and made her way down into the cellar. There, she emptied the ash tray and filled a bucket with coal nuggets, made her way back upstairs. She replaced the tray in the stove and poured more coal onto the glowing embers.
The BBC report was over. Von Haagen stood up, walked to the table and poured them both a glass of gewürztraminer. He set the glasses down on the side table beside the bigger armchair.
‘I got some ham today,’ he said, walking towards the kitchen. He returned with a plate on which was a sizeable side of ham, and a knife. ‘Sorry, no bread available. But I did find some crackers. They’ll do.’ He placed the plate on the table next to the wine.
‘Time to get cozy,’ he said, and walked over to the gramophone. He lifted his briefcase from the floor to the dining table, rummaged in it and removed an item. His back was to Sibyl; she could not see what it was.
‘What have you got there?’
‘A surprise,’ he said. He waved a square of cardboard at her; the jacket of a record. He removed the record from its jacket and put it on the turntable. Soon deep crooning, almost guttural and deeply sensual tones filled the room: ‘Lili Marlene’. Sibyl closed the stove door and looked up in astonishment.
‘You have a record of it?’
‘That’s right. I got it in Freiburg the other day. It’s sung by Marlene Dietrich. Marlene, singing about Marlene, for my Marlene. What could be more fitting? Come here, you.’
He stretched out his hand; she took it, and he pulled her to her feet; he waltzed her to the armchair, plonked himself down and pulled her down to his lap.
‘Did you know that Marlene Dietrich moved to America? Gave up her German citizenship? Changed sides? There’s even an English version of ‘Lili Marlene’. All the soldiers listen to Radio Belgrade, on all sides.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Sibyl.
‘Probably a good decision on her part. History will adore her for it, and hate Germans. We will be the scum of the earth. When they find out what Himmler has done…’
He shook his head; but he had provided the perfect opening for her proposal. She stroked his hand.
‘Wolf. Why don’t you do that too?’
His head jerked away. His voice was stern.
‘Do what?’
‘Change sides.’
‘You mean, defect? Join the Allies? Commit treason?’
She detected a note of outrage; it wasn’t working. His Soldatenstolz, his soldier’s pride and sense of loyalty, his very Germanness was too deep. She’d have to backtrack, approach this from a different angle. He was not to be turned…at least, not yet. She had planted a seed; she must let it grow. Soon he would understand that after the war, being German would be a shameful thing. History would condemn his Fatherland for plunging the world into such horrors. And if it was true, what he had told her about concentration camps – well, surely that was even more reason to defect, to stand on the side of the victorious Allies; the side of righteousness! It would take time, but she would convince him. Slowly, steadily, she would bring him to her side, coax him into treachery. Make of him an ally. She knew exactly how. She stroked his cheek, kissed his forehead, then his lips. She spoke softly, winningly.
‘I meant, join the winning side; it seems the Allies are going to win. The Russians are two steps from Berlin: you heard it on the BBC! What then, Wolf? I mean, with us? Surely it would be a good idea for you to reconcile with the idea of Alsace being French again? Think of it. What does it matter, if Alsace is French or German? We can still live here together. We can still make it our home. It doesn’t have to be German, does it?’
He was silent for while. Took a sip of his wine. She waited.
‘I suppose not. But we would be ostracised. You would be hated as a collaborator. Our children would be outcasts.’
‘I think people would get used to us. And we would just teach our children to be strong, even as outcasts. If the parents are strong, the children are strong. I think we should start planning ahead.’
‘It’s is all I dream of. Making a home with you…living in peace. Starting a family.’
‘Me too. And I do want to stay here, in Alsace. Alsace is my home; my birthright.’
‘Alsace is a bloodbath right now.’
‘But after the war it will be cleaned up. We can do as you said: buy a house here, settle in. Build a life of peace.’
He sighed in ecstasy. ‘Children. I want children. Lots of them. Six or seven.’
She chuckled. ‘Six or seven? That’s too many, Wolf!’
‘I was an only child – I longed for brothers and sisters!’
‘We can have a few children, just not six or seven!’
She held up three fingers. ‘Three! That’s how many. One of each, and then one of either. Two boys and a girl or two girls and a boy. Oh Wolf!’
But his body had stiffened. He did not smile, nor even meet her eyes. In fact, he was pushing her away, and his face was grim, scowling.
‘Wolf? What’s the matter, Wolf?’
He pushed her to her feet; she stumbled. He did not help her find her balance. He strode across the room to the table. And in that moment realisation dawned.
Three. The number three. Thee fingers.
She had held up three fingers, like the English.
The Germans, when counting on their fingers, started with the thumb. So did the French. They had taught her this in training. She had completely forgotten.
He had seen it immediately. Seen her for what she was: a spy. In an instant, Marlene collapsed and all there was left was Jeanne. She knew what he was doing, there at the table, at the briefcase.
In a trice she had grabbed the knife resting on the plate next to the ham. Grabbed it and lunged across the room, knife in hand. His back was still turned to her: he seemed to be hesitating; was that a shudder? That little jolt of his shoulder – was it a sob? But she could not afford to hesitate. His back was turned; it was a cowardly thing but there was no time for scruples now. She had to do it. She had no choice. Plunging it into his back would not kill him but it would wound him, wound him enough to, to perhaps, talk? Explain? Kill? Could she do it? Would he listen, once wounded? Could she save it all? A cry, a stifled sob, escaped her lips as she rushed to him, arm raised, knife poised to attack.
But in that moment he swung around and grabbed her wrist, twisted it, forced it open. She cried out in pain, and the knife dropped from her fingers.
‘Cheat! Hypocrite! Liar,’ he snarled.
‘No, no, Wolf, it’s not true! I love you! I was going to tell you everything! I was going to…’
But he had let go of her hand and in his he held his Luger, aimed at her.
Her hands flew up above her head. He cocked the pistol. It clicked as he released the safety catch.
‘Please. Wolf, Wolf, listen to me. Don’t do this. Please understand. I changed. I was going to…’
> ‘How could you? I loved you. I love you.’
And with those words his hand whipped backwards, the barrel aimed at his own head and a split second later, that head, that beloved head – which just minutes ago she had clasped to her breast and stroked and kissed – exploded, erupted into a red burst of blood and brains and bone and the body beneath it collapsed to the floor, and all that was left was the piercing scream splitting her throat. A scream that seemed to go on forever until at last, exhausted, it spluttered into a low moan of agony.
Covered in blood herself, slivers of brain and splinters of bone all over her clothes, Sibyl finally stood up and stumbled her way down the stairs, out the back door, across the courtyard and over to her own home. The home that had never been a home.
Chapter 52
The Kripo came later that day. Sibyl was in no state to be interviewed but her grief was so palpable, her devastation so complete, they did not stay long; the coroner’s verdict of suicide would not be contested. It was obvious.
Oncle Yves supplied the missing information: yes, his niece Marlene Schuster, von Haagen’s dearly beloved fiancée, had been with him when he had turned the gun on himself. He had been severely depressed due to the inevitability of German defeat. Fräulein Schuster could not have prevented it; it all happened too quickly and she was plainly shattered by the event. He himself had gone across to ascertain what had happened after her arrival home; he had then reported the death to police headquarters. That was all.
On further questioning he admitted to removing a side of ham and a half-full bottle of gewürztraminer from the scene; charges of theft were made and later dropped.
Sibyl went into hibernation, refusing to leave her room for any reason but the bathroom and toilet. She sobbed beneath the eiderdown, her head usually buried in a pillow, or else she slept, falling into coma-like slumber that could last all day or all night. Margaux came once the snow was adequately cleared. Jacques was with her. She did not respond to either. A week passed, and another and another.
And then came the day that Oncle Yves refused to indulge her a moment longer.
‘You are getting out of bed today!’ he scolded. ‘You are getting dressed and coming with me!’
He forced her out of bed. He pulled clothes on to her, even while she protested. He dragged her down the stairs, pushed her arms into the sleeves of her sheepskin jacket and her feet into her boots. He hauled her out of the front door and along the streets to the main square of Colmar. It was crowded: filled with laughing citizens, cheering and singing the Marsellaise, rejoicing, dancing citizens crying France is free! Alsace is free!
Earlier that day army tanks once more had rolled through the streets of Colmar; the citizens, peering from their windows, had at first doubted what they saw. Had the Boche returned? Whose tanks were these? But slowly the news spread and they emerged from their cellars and poured into the streets, singing and cheering. The tanks were French!
Sibyl watched as the overjoyed people ripped banners and flags bearing the swastika from the town hall and all the buildings; she smiled to see them trampling over discarded swastika flags, hundreds and thousands of them. Soldiers of the Free French marched by, now and then grabbing a girl and hugging her and dancing with her, and singing, and cheering, and more singing; bottles of Alsatian wine passed from hand to hand, lips to lips. Bells from all the churches rang out in joy; people, strangers, clutched each other, danced. Someone grabbed Sibyl and swung her around. She smiled; at last, she laughed.
Later, they watched as a group of citizens walked the streets and wrenched the German road signs from the walls; and nailed new French signs at every street corner; obviously improvised, painted on wooden slats until proper signs could be made. She watched as the hated Gerechtigkeitsgasse sign was torn from the wall of her own lane, and the new sign Rue des Géraniums nailed on in its stead.
On February 5th the last of Colmar’s German troops retreated over the Neuf-Brisach bridge, the bridge Jacques had tried and failed to demolish. Once the Boche reached the other side they blew up the bridge themselves.
On February 9th, further north from Colmar, the last German forces retreated over the Chalampé bridge. That bridge, too, they bombed behind them. It was the final act in the drama of the annexation of Alsace.
The Allies crossed the Rhine anyway. On March 7, 1945, US forces captured the railway bridge at Remagen, which German troops had tried, but failed to destroy, one of very few bridges across the Rhine still standing. And it enabled thousands of Allied troops to cross the river and make their way east, to the discovery of horrors that equalled those of war.
* * *
‘My darling,’ said Margaux when Sibyl finally turned up on her doorstep. ‘What took you so long?’
She released the woman she regarded as a daughter. Sibyl shrugged, smiled; she still struggled with words. But then Margaux was Margaux again, talking ninteen to the dozen and rustling up a hearty stew.
‘The last of the rabbits,’ she said. ‘It’s a good thing the war is over. Excellent timing.’
She glanced up at the clock.
‘They will be in soon, and starving,’ she said. ‘They are all clearing the snow over at Madame Boucher’s. They can’t wait to see you.’
‘Who are they?’ asked Sibyl, already weary – and wary. ‘Is Jacques among them? Is he coming?’ She couldn’t face Jacques. Not yet, and not now, with others around. Maybe never. Margaux made it sound as if an entire village was about to descend on them.
‘No, not Jacques. Jacques is very busy these days. But – well, you’ll see!’
She saw. They came, and among them were three unexpected faces, two familiar, one quite new.
‘Maxence!’ cried Sibyl, throwing her arms around Jacques’ father, but then, ‘Marie-Claire! Oh Marie-Claire! How wonderful to see you!’
Marie-Claire came forward and hugged her.
‘I am a widow now. And my mother has finally forgiven me.’
‘Yes. She has paid penance enough. A daughter is always a daughter,’ said Margaux.
A stranger came forward, holding out his hand in greeting, a man of unbearable thinness, his eyes sunken into the hollows of skeletal cheeks, clothes hanging on to a basic framework of bones.
‘Meet Hanner,’ said Margaux. ‘Hanner Koch. He is Victoire’s protégé, one of the waifs and strays she is always collecting – she takes after me in that. But this one is German.’
‘I have heard all about you,’ said Hanner in broken French, ‘and I could not wait to meet you. I was hiding in the forests and this kind girl found me.’
‘Hiding in the forests? In this weather?’ She spoke German; his French was terrible.
‘Well – someone helped me. He refused to speak German even though I think he understood me. He only spoke French. He hid me in a castle and then led me through the forest to a kind of wooden hut. There was a little stove, and logs. And dried fish. And then Victoire here found me. The man brought her. She is his sister.’
He placed an arm around Victoire and pulled her forward.
‘Il est beau, n’est pas?’ said Victoire, planting a kiss on his stubbly cheek, and indeed, the deserter, for that was what he was, showed signs of rugged handsomeness once he was fed back to health. Hanner obviously had a story to tell, one of survival and rebellion. She would hear all these stories – in time.
‘Lucien is alive,’ said Margaux then. ‘He is in a prisoner of war camp in Germany but will soon be released. And Maxence and I are to be married. Jean-Pierre has finally filed for divorce – he wants to marry his mistress, who is now a rich widow. It is complicated but we will get there in the end. And then Maxence will recover the vineyard he once lost, and we will run the vineyard as partners.’
Hiding behind Maxence was a diminutive person Sibyl had not noticed at first; a woman. She came forward, holding out her hand; in her other hand was that of a child.
‘I want to thank you,’ said Grete, ‘for arranging for my rescue. Yvonne an
d I are now safe but we were in grave danger. We had nothing to do with that bombing, nothing!’
‘I know that,’ said Sibyl, as she hugged her. ‘But it was not me who arranged your rescue. It must have been Jacques.’
‘I have heard of this Jacques,’ said Grete, ‘But I have not met him yet. I look forward to doing so. He is quite famous now – a hero of France.’
‘I know.’
There was one more person to greet. Elena, who had kept to the back of the room as Sibyl was welcomed. Finally she came forward, arms held out, and Sibyl fell against her with a sigh of deep satisfaction.
‘We must talk later,’ Elena whispered into her ear.
* * *
After dinner they talked, just the three of them, Sibyl, Elena and Margaux.
‘Acrobat says we must return as soon as possible,’ said Elena. ‘He will send a plane for us. The trouble is the landing field is deep in snow. As soon as we have cleared it we must get ready to be picked up.’
‘But I don’t want to go back!’ cried Sibyl, ‘I need to stay here!’
‘You must, we must. It’s a matter of demobilisation. Our job is over; we need to be officially signed off. Official Secrets Act, thanks for your sacrifice, and all that. Our work is done.’
‘Then I will go and come back. It’s not nearly done for me!’
‘You mean…Jacques?’
‘Among other things. But Jacques – Margaux, it will take time before I can face Jacques again and we can both digest what has happened, and talk. It’s not easy. I would prefer – to wait.’
‘Wait for what? The sooner you put the past behind you the better, Sibyl. That episode with your German soldier – it was an aberration. It was not real.’