“Are you sure? None at all?”
“A few. They looked fine.”
In the streets he saw everything: that little girls, massed in uniform, smilingly sang: “When Jewish blood flows from the knife, then things will go twice as well” and nobody said a word. She had taught him how to see the gaps between things; before, he had only seen what lay solidly before him.
“Don’t you think we should go to Wuppertal and see if there’s any news?”
“Who would know?” she said. “Do you imagine Father Salomon will still be there?”
“You mustn’t give up hope,” said Nicolai.
She did not reply. No news came of Ilse. Lore no longer spoke of France, though her unspoken questions remained written upon her face. Sometimes hers was the stillness of extreme exhaustion. At other times when her thoughts oppressed her she became hectically busy and sewed half the night, remaking old clothes. She made clothes for Sabine, mended piles of linen for Magda. She read stories to Sabine and taught her French, gabbling away in it. She wanted to teach him, too, but he did not care to learn because these frenzies frightened him. During air raids, she was the calmest of them all. She confided that the bombardments directly overhead were a relief; during them she could not think.
Sabine, who would be five in May, had begun to take notice of the world outside her little self. She cried helpless tears because animals died and because people ate them; she herself was guilty of it. She wept because her friend had a dress that was the wrong shade of red, an angry red, and she only liked the happy kind. She suffered bitterly from the unfairness of her life, that she was born a child yet others came into the world fully grown. She could not be convinced that she would ever grow up or have the powers that they did. When Sabine could not be consoled, Lore took her on her knee and soothed her. The two of them sat by the hour on his father’s old rocking chair.
“Hoppe, hoppe, Reiter!
“Wenn er fällt, dann schreit er—Fällt er in den Graben, so fressen ihn die Raben
“Fällt er in den Sumpf—so macht der Reiter PLUMPS!”86
And on the last word down they went—her soft bright curls falling forward until they nearly touched the floor. Up and down, on and on, neither of them able to stop.
THIRTEEN
Marseilles, November 1942
The thunder of boots marching on the cobblestones jackknifed Ilse awake. She knew this sound. The French police never ventured into the Vieux Port at night for fear of being ambushed. She could not breathe properly. The boots stopped. Fists pounded on the door. It was five in the morning. The hair on the back of her neck was sticking straight up with terror. The heavy tread on the stairs would be Paul, the barman, coming down. German voices shouted in French that Renée was under arrest. The boots went upstairs. The soldiers trampled through every room. The ceiling shook. Ilse stood, frozen, in her nightgown in the middle of the room. Her teeth were chattering. Faintly, above the noise in the house, she heard hammerings on other doors further along the street.
She was a little girl in Wuppertal standing in the hallway with her eyes tight shut while the Gestapo searched their house on the Landsweg. Men shouted, doors slammed and boots marched on. Her feet were very cold but she was not scared. In a moment, when she opened her eyes, her mother would be standing there, her arms also folded in silent defiance and on her face a look of utter contempt. Mutti had to keep her eyes open because she needed to see everything. There was no knowing what a thief might slip into his pockets while nobody was looking. There was no telling what a wicked man might place among your things to trap you.
“Madame, how did you acquire your furniture and tapestries?”
This German, shouting, spoke very elegant French. Renée’s reply was muffled. Ilse opened her eyes. She started breathing through an open mouth, pinching her nose, because otherwise a bad noise would come out. Shock stuck her feet to the floor, closed her ears, made her feel dizzy and sick. She could not make out what Renée was saying. Because she could not still her hands sufficiently, it took a long time to dress. She put on the brown suit Renée had had cut down to fit her. She stood up, unbolted the door, pulled back the curtain, crept down the corridor with the blue roses. When they came for you, you had to be ready.
The kitchen was full of soldiers; head down she went past the sitting room, glimpsing between the blur of field-grey uniforms a streak of pink silk that was Renée’s dressing gown. She closed Renée’s bedroom door behind her, climbed up on a chair, took the suitcase from the top of her wardrobe and searched for warm underclothes, night things, her new tweed jacket; she chose a black wool dress, rummaged through a dozen pairs of evening shoes for something warmer. She found a pair of bootees, fur-lined. It was always cold in the cells. A bottle of perfume. She found makeup, put it in. There was a warm scarf somewhere, gloves. She remembered her silver hairbrush and mirror, scoured through her handbags for money, not knowing where to look, wishing she knew.
Then Renée came in. “I have five minutes to dress,” she said. Her eyes looked dead, she seemed bewildered. “They’re taking La Petite too.” Ilse made her sit on the bed, took off the dressing gown, helped her to put on underclothes and stockings. She was limp with shock.
“But why?”
“Someone denounced us, for harbouring deserters.”
She dressed her warmly, twined the familiar pearls round her neck.
“Quick! Hurry!” An officer appeared at the door.
Ilse knelt on the bed, pretending to fiddle with the clasp of the pearls, whispered in her ear, “Tomorrow. I’ll come tomorrow. To get you. It’s all a mistake. You must take money, do you have money?”
She nodded. Then Renée stood, seemed mentally to shake herself, let Ilse help her into her coat. She drew on gloves, picked up her handbag.
“Adieu, my lovely one,” Renée said. She took Ilse in her arms and put her mouth very close to Ilse’s ear. “Raymond will look after you,” she whispered.
Then the officer had her by the arm. Renée shook him off, picked up the suitcase. They looked at each other.
“Tomorrow, I will see you tomorrow!” called Ilse, following.
“Au revoir, ma fille.” They kept each other in sight to the end. La Petite Louise was waiting in the street. She looked very small, head down, not looking at anyone. Then the soldiers marched the two women away, slamming the door in Ilse’s face.
The house fell silent. Ilse put on her thin wool jacket. She put the picture frame in the small case, with the depleted jewellery roll. Everything she possessed could fit on top except, of course, for the bicycle. She went back into Renée’s room, began to tidy it up and pulled the counterpane straight so everything looked just as it had before. She opened the cupboard door, put the hangers back, smelt her scent, tidied her shoes, hung her clothes straight.
She sat on the side of her bed and remembered the German soldier who had spent many days in the room at the top. Was he the deserter? His name was Hans and he was a simple soul with a round red face. La Petite had made him coffee, had laughed at the enormous size of his feet and hands; he was not the first they had sheltered. Ilse thought that Renée had given plenty of money to the local gangsters, that she had treated the Germans nicely and that she expected and deserved protection. Misery squeezed a tight knot inside her. Falling to her knees, she prayed with all her strength for Renée to be saved.
Paul led her through Renée’s kitchen and to the sitting room. The barman put his massive shoulder to the heavy armoire and shifted it across, screeching along the tiles. The painted plates wobbled on their stands. This, then, was the entrance to the secret cellar. She saw a door with a flush-fitting bolt, which was red with rust but had been oiled, for it moved with ease. Steps led down into the darkness. He handed her a torch and a bottle of water and half a baguette.
“Don’t wander about down there, you’ll get lost. Just wait.”
He closed the door. She listened to the heavy scraping as he shifted the cupboard back into
position, shutting her in the dark.
The steps were steep, made of rough stone, the cellar echoed away beyond and beyond. She switched on the torch; it wavered across the walls. As far as she could see, the walls were part stone, great square blocks of it, part bare rock. Crystalline patches on the ceiling glittered in the beam. It stank of damp. The ceiling was high here, low elsewhere where it looked more like a cave. The place stretched out and on into further, darker places; the labyrinth extended under the whole of the vieux quartier. Over to one side, hundreds of crates were piled up. She sat on one of them. She clicked off the torch to conserve the battery. It was so very dark. Her feet were freezing. The chill struck up through the floor and right through the thin soles of her shoes and so from time to time she lifted first one foot, then the other. Soon she climbed higher, lifted both feet onto the crate and sat, hugging her knees, with the suitcase safe beside her. Her thoughts drifted away. A faint scraping sound roused her: rats. When she put the torch on, the rodent scuttlings died away. She used the light to keep the monsters at bay, letting it sweep from side to side.
Time trembled and grew icy, and she woke, knowing her mother’s voice was telling her about a journey she could undertake, if only she could make out the words.
“Mutti,” she said in her head, “I am forsaken.” The timbre and tone of her mother’s voice slowly became clearer.
“I am a Jew,” her mother said. “Absolutely and forever.”
Ilse opened her eyes, very surprised. That was what François had said. She had not been wrong about him, because God believed in the Jews. The land drew the people. It went past the empty stable and took a path to the left. It was the witching hour, phantasms were conjured up out of the blackness in the misty cone of the torchlight. “Mademoiselle l’infirmière,” said the warm voice plaintively, “this medicine is the best one for me. You’ll find it hard to lose me.” But she had. She had lost everyone. Drooping with tiredness, Ilse listened to the voices and clicked and swung her torch mechanically. She had forgotten to give Renée her lipstick. That was why she had gone away looking so white-faced. Renée shook her head, she did not mind. “On vivote,” she said, “on vivote.” Nothing had been forgotten, nothing was truly lost. That was her text: “He who is alone will long remain so.”
“Ilse. Wake up.”
“Thank God for Raymond,” said François. “What a professional.”
She was hoarse-breathed, sleep the ice grains in her eyes.
“Wake up. Come on, wake up. We have to get out of here.”
It was not François at all, but Raymond who kept shaking and shaking her. “The Boches are all over the south,” he said.
As she stood, her bones cracked. She stumbled behind him through the labyrinth. His torch flickered ahead. “The fucking Germans are everywhere. All over the Vieux Port. House-to-house searches. François said to get you out fast.”
“Wait!” Her feet were so cold, she kept tripping. Raymond turned, came back, put his arms round her, tried to warm her.
“You’re frozen, my poor girl. How long have you been in this ice-box?”
“They took Renée, I must go in the morning to see them.”
“To the Gestapo? Are you insane? They’ll just take you as well. Come on, follow as close as you can.” The torch flickered ahead.
“Will the gangsters get her out? The ones who protect her?”
Raymond snorted. “Fat chance. Carbone and Sabiani are in with the Germans. They all are. The brothels and bars go on. They’ll find somebody else to run her place. Traffic in gold and drugs goes on. It’s business as usual for these people.”
His voice was a mist that streamed over his shoulder to flow around her and tug her on. She was in his slipstream. The ground was slippery with unexpected steps and turns, and places where the rough foundations of ancient houses gave way to solid rock. Her thin soles skidded on the wet uneven places. In a high-ceilinged vault, silver flashed from stalactites that dripped and glittered.
She was awake now. “Why have they come here?”
“To fortify the coast. Because of Algiers.”
She had heard on Madame Dumont’s radio that the Allies had landed in North Africa. They had drunk marc, to celebrate. She had not realised that this would bring the Germans south. “But Churchill said it was the beginning of the end,” she said.
“If we don’t get out, it will be.”
Small as he was, he threw a long shadow. They came to a narrower place. He swung his torch to the side.
“Look.”
She saw a series of holes cut out in the side of the chamber they were passing through. Each seemed to contain a shape or box. “What is it?”
“Catacombs,” he said.
Directing the torch at the niche, she saw a skull looking back at her. The rock became stones again and narrowed to a cellar, then a trapdoor shut with a long bolt, which took an age to draw back. She waited, listening to him cursing quietly as he worked the rusty iron back, a millimetre at a time. Beyond were steps going up to a gate. She smelt the salt in the air. It was night as they came up through layers of darkness and a steep incline to the sea. Gravel crunched underfoot. The wind whipped at her jacket. They were somewhere at the other end of the port. Raymond beckoned. Beyond the jetty where the fishing boats lay grinding at one another a dinghy was hidden. He helped her climb in, pushed off, got out oars and started to row. She wanted to put the suitcase somewhere but there was scarcely room for their legs, so she held it on her lap. Her throat was rough and she needed to cough, swallowing incessantly instead to suppress the noise. He rowed with great efficiency, dipping the oars into the dark water without ever making a splash. Something was touching her leg. She felt under the seat. A couple of submachine guns were jammed underneath. The sharp wind made her eyes water. She was aware of the bones of her head, which felt cold and hard.
Somewhere beyond Cassis they landed on a pebbly beach. Lucky, Raymond said, that it was a night with no moon. He pulled the dinghy out of the water, left it in an abandoned boatyard. He had arranged a lift for her in the back of a truck going to Toulon. She climbed up. He told her to hide behind boxes of decomposing turnips but the stench made her giddy. She nearly threw up. When he saw that she was not feeling strong, he said he would go with her.
“You’re so kind, Raymond.”
Her teeth chattered still. He rubbed her arms and shoulders to warm her. She pinched her nose shut against the disgusting smell and tried to make herself comfortable as the truck swayed over the rough road. Raymond knew how to find François, who had joined the maquis87 somewhere north of Aix-en-Provence, up in the country of the Massif de Ste. Baume. He had said that she could not go with him, that she was more useful in Marseilles. She had not seen him for months.
“Are we going to François?”
“To Cannes,” he said.
“Won’t there be Germans there?”
“The Italians are claiming that section of the coast. In return for their magnificent contribution to the German cause. Bunch of fucking cowards.”
“I’d better go to François.”
“There’s nowhere safe now. They’re everywhere. Cannes is a resort. Not important strategically. François reckons it will be better for you.”
Deeply disappointed, she sat with her legs drawn up, breathing through her mouth and from time to time gulping down the sour flux. They stopped once and she walked for a moment, leaning on his arm, trying to feel less nauseated. Then they went on again along the winding Corniche. Early in the morning they slipped into Cannes. They went into a big noisy bar called the Taverne Royale across from the railway station, full of early-morning labourers drinking brandy. Raymond ordered two cups of café national. The hot drink cleared her head.
“They took Renée for harbouring deserters,” she said. “Maybe they’ll give her a warning, then let her out.”
“Look, Ilse, she may be a small player, but she’s well known in the Resistance. Information collection and exchange, a
safe house. There’s a printing press in the cellar.”
“But they don’t know that. They didn’t find it.”
He shrugged, drained his cup, called for a petit marc. “Last night, they picked up dozens of our people, men and women. Fighting men. Someone will squeal. We’ll do what we can. You know the rules.”
She had never seen him look so bleak.
“There’s something you haven’t told me,” she said.
“They got the Réseau Alliance.” That was the name of the network based at Cap d’Antibes, linked to the Free French and to de Gaulle. “They were liaising with the English and sent a boat to take our men to North Africa to join the Allies. General Giraud was fine, he got out by submarine. But the next night a second group of officers was embarking. Couldn’t wait to get in the war, right? An informer double-crossed us, we had to change the rendezvous. Had to keep on transmitting. Went on too long. The detector trucks drove right up to the villa.”
“All of them?” she asked.
“Every last man.”
Raymond led her along and down the Rue Carnot to the sea, and they walked up and down the port until she felt better. He had to be gone soon.
“What am I to do here?”
“Nothing. Keep out of sight. Get a job, if you can.”
He gave her a piece of paper with two addresses on it and a book of ration coupons. He brushed away her thanks.
“François will thank you,” said Ilse.
This raised a faint smile on Raymond’s face.
“If you move, leave your address at one of these. Then we can find you. Take care.”
She nodded. They embraced. Then she watched him slide down the alleyways and away, wishing him safe too. Arnaud had links to the Réseau Alliance. Ilse leant against a wall and closed her eyes. She could see the gentle young man holding his broken arm, tip-tapping out his Morse, squinting at a piece of paper covered in letters. It was a double cipher, which meant that the message was safer, but more complicated to send. But nothing could save you if the transmitter signal was picked up, if you went on longer than the maximum of seven minutes. At first she had found herself thinking about the Englishman very often. Recently the memory had begun to seem unreal. She crossed her fingers, like a child, wished Arnaud safe. Perhaps she heard the voices of people because they were dead. This frightened her so much that she began to shake. She moved where she could stand with the wintry sun on her face.
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