by Simon Toyne
The man in overalls glanced over at them at the mention of the name.
‘I have to give it to him personally,’ Marie-Claude insisted, ‘and I’d like to ask him some questions about how he knew my grandfather. They were in the war together.’
‘In that case, you will need to make an appointment.’ Madame Roche picked up a clipboard and handed it to her. ‘Write down your details and the nature of your request on the form and we will submit it to the residents’ committee. They will contact you with a time and a date, if your application is successful.’
Marie-Claude looked at the form. ‘How long will that take?’
‘They normally get back to you with a decision within seven working days.’
‘Seven …! But we drove here specially. We’ve been driving all day. I brought my seven-year-old son with me because he wanted to meet his great-grandfather’s old war buddy.’
Léo looked up with big, incredulous eyes at her blatant lie.
‘What is this place?’ Solomon asked.
‘A private care facility.’
‘What kind of care?’
She gave him a moment of silence as her answer before turning to Marie-Claude. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but we have very strict protocols in place here, specifically for the well-being of the residents.’
‘And you can’t make an exception for a little boy who has travelled halfway across the country to shake the hand of the man who fought beside his grandfather in the war?’
‘No exceptions.’
The man in overalls took some forms from a stationery cupboard and did his best to feign ignorance of what was going on, but Solomon could tell he was listening.
‘Is there any way you could get a message to Monsieur Adelstein?’ Solomon said. ‘Purely to tell him there are people here who would like to talk to him about Josef Engel, about Die Schneider Lager, about Die Anderen.’ He spoke to the woman but his attention was on the man, watching for the tiniest hint of a reaction to any of the names. He reacted to all of them.
‘As I said before,’ Madame Roche replied, ‘we have strict protocols regarding resident interaction. Now if you wish to formally apply …’
‘No,’ Solomon said, grabbing Marie-Claude’s arm and steering her towards the door. ‘It’s OK. Thank you for your help.’
The moment they stepped outside, Marie-Claude twisted out of his grip. ‘What the hell was that?’
‘We were wasting our time in there. The only thing that woman was going to give us was a form.’
‘And you fibbed,’ Léo said, his eyes fixed wide at the memory.
‘It was only a tiny fib – and it didn’t work, which means it doesn’t count. What do we do now? Fill in dragon lady’s form and hang around for a week?’
‘We wait,’ Solomon said, heading over to the picnic table.
‘For what?’
‘For a creature of habit to show up. Why don’t we sit and eat some of those fine snacks you bought at the petrol station.’
‘Can we?’ Léo asked.
‘I suppose,’ Marie-Claude said. ‘Anything’s better than getting in that car again.’
She fetched the bags of snacks from the car and was handing out crisps and fruit when the side door opened and the man in black overalls appeared, fitting a cigarette into his mouth.
‘Creature of habit,’ Marie-Claude murmured. ‘But how did you know he’d come here for a smoke?’
‘I could smell smoke on him in the office and I spotted nicotine stains on his fingers. Anyone who smokes enough to stain their fingers can’t go too long without a hit and I spotted the ashtray on our way in. Stay here. I’m going to have a little chat with him.’
Solomon stood and moved over to the man, smiling the whole way. ‘You know him, don’t you?’ he said, studying the man’s face. ‘Otto Adelstein.’
‘I might.’
‘You know him and you like him too.’
The man took a deep pull on his cigarette and blew out smoke. ‘He’s no bother, not like some of them. Tells good stories.’
‘Stories about Die Schneider Lager? About Die Anderen?’ Solomon caught the flicker of recognition in the man’s face. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Renan.’
‘What kind of work do you do here, Renan?’
‘Bit of maintenance. Bit of chaperoning. Whatever needs doing.’
‘Does it pay well?’
Renan shrugged. ‘It’s OK.’
‘Ever do any guided tours?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s not that kind of a place.’
‘What kind of a place is it?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I can guess, but I’d rather see for myself. Here’s what I think, Renan. I think you and Otto are friends and you’ve heard him talk about all those things I mentioned and you know he’d love to talk to someone else who knows about them too. I also think you don’t get paid nearly enough for the work you do here and I’d be willing to pay handsomely for a guided tour of this facility that included Otto Adelstein.’
Renan sucked the last bit of life out of his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. He looked up to check where the cameras were pointing. ‘How handsomely?’
‘Handsomely enough that you’ll let my two friends come too.’
Renan shook his head. ‘Men only, I’m afraid – no women no kids. It’s one of the rules. Women get hassled by the residents, it causes too many problems.’
Solomon glanced back at Marie-Claude and could imagine how she would take that news but he couldn’t see a way round it. ‘OK, fine. How do we do this?’
‘Let’s define “handsomely” first.’
‘Is five hundred euros handsome enough?’
‘Not as handsome as a thousand.’
‘OK, a thousand euros.’
Renan sucked the last bit of life out of his cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray. ‘There’s a delivery gate on the far side of the wall, almost exactly opposite where we are now. If you drive along the main road, you’ll see it. A truck clipped the camera there last week and they haven’t replaced it yet. If you go there now, I’ll let you in.’ He checked his watch. ‘Be there in twenty minutes. And bring the cash.’
81
Madame Roche studied the video screens. She couldn’t see the people any more but their car was there. If they weren’t gone in five minutes, she’d send a security team to escort them from the premises.
She opened a filing cabinet and removed a folder with ‘M. Otto Adelstein’ written on the cover. There was a note in the back of every resident’s file giving details of who to contact if anything unusual happened. Part of the duty of care at Myosotis-La-Fleur was to keep relatives well-informed. Because of the nature of the place and the residents there, they regularly had journalists turning up. Madame Roche prided herself on being an effective gatekeeper and always sent them away with nothing. She found a contact number and dialled it while checking the video monitors again and seeing nothing.
‘Monsieur Hoffmann’s office.’
‘Hello, I’m calling from Myosotis-La-Fleur. May I speak to Monsieur Hoffmann, please. It concerns Monsieur Otto Adelstein.’
There was a brief pause before someone else came on the line, the voice old and breathy. ‘This is Monsieur Hoffmann, is everything all right?’
‘Yes, sir. Monsieur Adelstein is in perfectly good health. However, he just had visitors – a man, a woman and a young boy. They wanted to speak with him and when I informed them of the correct procedure, they left. I thought I’d better inform you.’
‘You did the right thing. What did they look like?’
She touched the screen showing the feed from the reception camera and dragged her finger backwards, shuttling through the footage until the three people appeared again. ‘I can email a picture of them to the address we have on record, if you like.’
‘That would be most kind, thank you. When did they leave?’
‘They’re still here,
oh, one moment.’ She looked up as the three figures appeared from the side of the building and walked back to the car. ‘They’re leaving right now.’
‘And what car are they driving?’
‘It’s a blue Renault Scenic. I took the liberty of making a note of the registration plate. I’ll include it in my email.’
‘Thank you, madame. As usual, your service is beyond excellent.’
Madame Roche smiled and felt a small swell of pride as she put the phone down. She knew she was good at her job but it was nice when other people noticed.
She watched the car drive away then closed Monsieur Adelstein’s folder and filed it away, along with the four hundred other files recording the strictly confidential details of the residents of Myosotis-La-Fleur.
82
‘Why can’t I go in?’ Marie-Claude gripped the wheel and stared at the road in fury.
‘He said women disturb the residents.’
‘What kind of misogynistic bullshit is that?’
Solomon finished counting fifty-euro notes and put the lid back on the shoebox. ‘I think he’s telling the truth.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think all the residents of Myosotis-La-Fleur have Alzheimer’s disease.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘In English, the Myosotis flower is called a forget-me-not. I think this facility is a high-class oubliette, somewhere to put relatives who have lost their minds through dementia. I could smell Donepezil floating on the breeze as well as the ammoniac whiff of old people.’
Léo wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m glad I didn’t smell it.’
‘Men with Alzheimer’s often lose their inhibitions and start being sexually aggressive towards women. They can get violent. I would imagine all the orderlies working here can take care of themselves.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘But what about Léo? Who’d look after him?’
Marie-Claude went silent for a minute. ‘You’re telling me I drove all this way for nothing?’
‘No. Your main reason for coming was to warn Otto Adelstein he was in danger. As it turns out, he lives in a high-security compound, which means he’s probably more secure than we are.’
‘That wouldn’t be hard. That wasn’t the only reason, though. I wanted to ask him about my grandfather too. About the war. About Die Anderen.’
‘I’ll ask him for you.’
‘Not the same. My grandfather’s history is my history too. It feels wrong to learn it through an intermediate.’
‘I don’t see any way round it. However, there were four survivors. If Otto Adelstein has the list of their names or can tell us where to find it, you can still trace the last survivor and talk to him. Pull over there –’ He pointed at a service road leading to a large pair of steel doors set into the wall ahead.
‘There’s a camera,’ Marie-Claude said.
‘Not working, according to my new friend.’ Marie-Claude pulled off and stopped short of the gates. ‘Come back in an hour,’ Solomon said. ‘Go somewhere public, a restaurant or a supermarket. You’ll be safer in a crowd.’
Marie-Claude looked panicked. ‘What if someone finds us, like in the rest stop?’
‘They won’t. No one knows where we are, and Julie Dreyfus is driving this car, not you. Just don’t turn on your phone. You’ll be fine. Trust me.’
She nodded but he could feel her reluctance to leave. ‘What do we do if we come back and you’re not here?’
‘If I’m not here in an hour, call everyone you can think of and tell them everything you know. Call the Shoah Foundation, the press – your friend Amand, if you think you can trust him. Use one of the phones we found in the BMW and ditch it as soon as you’ve made your first set of calls. Keep moving. Use the Dreyfus ID and pay for hotel rooms in cash until you can figure this thing out. Someone wants to keep this secret, so make as much noise as you can, otherwise they win.’ Her eyes glazed in panic. Solomon smiled. ‘Alternatively, pick me up in an hour and I’ll tell you what Otto Adelstein had to say for himself.’ He got out of the car. ‘Léo will look after you anyway. He can spot the bad ones a mile away, right?’ Léo nodded uncertainly. ‘Now go, before someone spots us.’
Marie-Claude put the car in gear and he watched her drive away. When he looked up at the high walls, he felt a hollowness in his stomach at the prospect of walking into confinement. One thing he had not shared with Marie-Claude was the possibility that Otto Adelstein was suffering from such severe dementia that he might not remember anything and the whole trip might have been for nothing. Marie-Claude’s past wasn’t the only thing riding on this visit.
A clunk sounded inside the door as if someone had hit it with a rock, then a small section opened and Renan peered out.
‘You got the money?’
Solomon held out the bundle of fifty-euro notes. Renan took it and opened the door.
The delivery area was large and cavernous, big enough for a lorry.
‘Wear these,’ Renan said, handing Solomon a set of black overalls and a black cap. ‘Put the cap on to hide your hair, don’t talk to anyone unless they talk to you first, and try and ignore the weirder stuff you see in here. The whole idea of this place is to behave as if everything that happens is normal, that way the residents don’t feel confused or weird – even though they are. Our job is to maintain that illusion. I’ll take you straight to Monsieur Adelstein, but the moment he gets upset we leave, understand? Even if all you get to say is “Hello”. I said I’d take you to him and that’s what I’ll do, but I’m not risking my job any more than I need to.’
‘Understood,’ Solomon said, pulling the overalls over his clothes.
As soon as he was ready, Renan moved to another door, tapped in a code and pushed it open into a driveway surrounded by thick, well-kept woodland.
‘Welcome to the land that time forgot,’ he said.
83
The same two gendarmes who had arrested Madjid Lellouche came to his cell at dusk. They asked him to stand against the wall, handcuffed his arms behind his back then led him out into the rough-walled corridor.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Madjid said.
‘Le Petit Bastille in Gaillac,’ the taller one replied. ‘You need somewhere to sleep and our cells don’t have beds. You’ll be more comfortable there.’
‘What about food? I haven’t eaten since I’ve been here.’
‘They’ll feed you,’ the gendarme replied. ‘Free meal, free accommodation. Who says crime doesn’t pay?’
‘I didn’t do any crimes.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ The gendarme pushed him up the stairs and out back where a car was waiting. ‘There’s some journalists out front, so keep your head down,’ the tall one muttered as he pushed him into the back seat.
Madjid did as he was told, keeping low until Cordes was well behind them before rising up to watch the vineyards sliding by. The driver had his window open and Madjid breathed in the loamy, chalky smell of the land. The sun had dipped below the hills and the sky was peach and indigo and heading into night. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spent a working day out of the sun. There were still people in the fields, squeezing the last few drops of light from the day. When the vendange started, they would work through the night and use tractor headlights to see by. He needed to be in Bordeaux by then. Everyone needed extra hands during the harvest and it would be easy to get work.
They wove through the vineyards until the lights of Gaillac appeared ahead, framed in the plane trees lining the road. Madjid didn’t come to Gaillac often and he noticed the slogans sprayed on the trees, the paint new and thick, one letter on each trunk and gradually spelling out a message as the car drove by.
L-A-F-R-A-N-C-E-A-U-F-R-A-N-Ç-A-I-S – France for the French.
And another:
A-R-A-B-E-S-D-E-H-O-R-S – Arabs out.
Madjid leaned forward in his seat. ‘Tonight, at Le Petit Bastille,’ he asked, ‘will I be sharin
g a cell with anybody?’
The driver shook his head in disbelief. ‘You people don’t want much, do you? Free meal, private room …’
Madjid sat back and remained silent for the rest of the trip, hugging his stomach to stop the rumbling sounds brought on by hunger and the acid burn of worry that there were people who would write such things on the trees and no one to scrub them off again.
They drove through the centre of town where people sat at café tables, enjoying the warm evening, their faces lit by flickering candles, and on to the river where the car slowed and pulled to a halt behind a red brick building. A man behind a desk in a dark uniform looked up as they entered through a side door.
‘Monsieur would like a room of his own, if possible,’ the tall gendarme said, ‘preferably with a view of the river.’
The jailer smirked, picked up a key card and swiped it through an electronic reader to unlock the door that led to the cells. Madjid followed him down a corridor lined with metal doors with sliding hatches. Most of them were open and he could see that all the cells were empty, which made him feel better. They turned a corner into an identical corridor. ‘You’re in here,’ the jailer said, swiping his card to open a door halfway down the row. There was a loud buzz, a metallic bang as a bolt shifted and the door opened.
The cell had a narrow metal shelf with a fixed, thin mattress on it, a tiled area in one corner with a hole in the centre that smelled of the sewers, and a small window set high in the wall with bars across it. Madjid was pushed inside and the door banged shut behind him. He slid the hatch open and called after the jailer. ‘Monsieur! They said I could have some food. I haven’t eaten today. Monsieur!’
The jailer ignored him and disappeared round the corner. As Madjid stared into the empty corridor he noticed a pair of eyes framed in the hatch opposite, a tattooed tear beneath the left one.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ Madjid said.
The eyes continued to stare as if the man who owned them was about to curse or spit, then the hatch slid shut with a loud bang that echoed down the hallway. Madjid gently slid his own hatch shut and walked to the bed. He wasn’t going to get any food tonight, that was clear, but he would rather go hungry than share a cell with the man opposite with the hate in his eyes.