Rope-soled sandals were on offer, with canvas-repaired leather shoes whose laces were of dyed Red Cross parcel string waiting for the owners to pick them up if they had the cash or something with which to barter. Buttons, pins, some even rusty, were with thread and needles and the unravelled, rewound wool from worn-out sweaters and skirts. Much of it had been gleaned, no doubt, from Vittel’s citizenry, either by purchase beforehand or placed on consignment. Squares and lengths of cloth were in another shop; in yet another, the flea-market leftovers of a nation down on its luck and desperate for cash since potatoes alone were at 600 francs per kilo if available on the black market.
But women did love to shop. Even without the wherewithal, they could still peruse, and it did alleviate the boredom, yet all who looked at him as he threaded his way among them seemed to say, ‘How could you people do this to us,’ and then. . . then, ‘It wasn’t me, damn you, but am I next?’
‘Where can I find the Senegalese, mademoiselle?’ he asked. She had the look of the embittered.
‘Behind the church. They did it, didn’t they? Those bastard blacks took turns while one of them held her down.’
‘Then they stabbed her to death to shut her up,’ said another.
‘They’re sex-starved,’ yet another went on, suddenly turning on him. ‘They’re not allowed to use the brothel that’s reserved for the guards, so they keep an eye out and try to buy it if they can.’
‘The officers go into town, Inspector,’ said another.
‘Caroline begged those blacks not to rape her, Inspector, but they couldn’t wait, could they? What they had thought for sale wasn’t, so they took it anyway.’
‘She didn’t scream because she couldn’t.’
‘Soap,’ said one in another line. ‘She had a bar of Lifebuoy to sell or trade, but they shoved it into her mouth.’
‘Chocolate,’ said another. ‘Hershey’s Milk. Two bars.’
‘A fortune they didn’t even think to steal when they were done with her.’
‘They’ll be shot if caught, so you and that partner of yours had better watch your backs.’
‘Cracker Jack Nut Candy Popcorn,’ said yet another. ‘Garden seeds. Packets and packets of them.’
‘She must really have wanted something from them but they couldn’t have understood her French—was that how it was, Chief Inspector?’
Her brown eyes had the look of the disgusted. ‘Your name, please?’ asked St-Cyr.
‘Madame Élaine de Charbonneau, formerly of Paris Mondiale Radio, but originally from Hartford, Connecticut. A Vassar graduate, not that it matters here, and with a doctorate in Elizabethan Literature from Cambridge. My husband was killed during the Blitzkrieg, the Ardennes breakthrough. Where were you when that was happening?’
Running away with all the others?—so many still had to ask it. ‘Madame, I’m sorry you lost your husband.’
‘Are you?’
The firewood compound was well behind the church and separated from it by a treed area, the barbed wire of the fence running along the rue Charles Garnier, that of the architect of the Paris Opéra. A habitué of Vittel, Garnier had brought everything together here in 1884 and had built the original casino and its theatre, for he had designed the one at Monaco. Out went the old baths, in came those with their wonderful mosaics of tile and walls of white marble. Byzantine, oh for sure, but of Caracalla too, Vittel was then very much on the map as one of the preferred destinations of la haute et grande bourgeoisie urbaine.
But then, during the fin de siècle, from 1890 to 1910, they had what was called the Crisis, as the market for spa-goers became saturated and many Vittel regulars drifted to Baden d’Outre Rhin and other such places. A complete reconstruction was called for, with eight new hotels, fifteen villas, the racecourse and stables, a new promenade, two bottling plants and such for the sale of the waters. All well and good except for the intervention of that war to end all wars, but then. . . then la Cité Blanche, the White City of 1920 to 1936 ushered in the concept of the man of action. Fencing, swimming, physical education, tennis, golf, but concerts, too, and gambling of course. No longer were the waters to be taken simply for their healing powers but for toning and cleansing the psyche as well as the body. Art Deco became the norm, but throughout the years Bouloumié’s original concept of open vistas across the landscaped park was kept.
Yet no one could have envisaged it as a prison, or even, for that matter, as a hospital for wounded soldiers.
Among the Senegalese, the Bambaras, originally from Mali, had been the backbone of African bravery in the Great War. Sergeant Senghor, with his Croix de Guerre with two palms, had to be part Bambara. And the rest of his parentage? wondered St-Cyr. Was it of the Serer, the Mandinka, or Wolof, these last being sensitive to every nuance but known as the black Corsicans because one moment’s gentleness and good humour could be fiercely followed by the opposite.
Six of them were splitting logs they’d sawn to firewood size, the compound fenced in to prevent theft, the gate open but under a guard that had obviously attracted considerable attention.
A brisk trade was in progress, the Oberfeldwebel, the sergeant-major, his rucksack open, quickly ducking the profits out of sight as Wehrmacht razor blades, boot grease, notepaper, black bread, matches, meat and potatoes, and even items from the Russian Front were whisked away in exchange for cigarettes, chocolate, soap, and chewing gum. Canned condensed milk, too, and pork and beans.
‘Inspector. . . ’ blurted one middle-aged British woman, aghast at having been caught dealing.
‘Actually, it’s Chief Inspector. A word with the woodcutters,’ he said in Deutsch to the Oberfeldwebel. ‘I won’t be long and you can carry on here as usual. Ach, nothing said and no one the wiser.’
‘Verdammter französischer Schweinebulle,’ cursed Ewald Reinecke. ‘Alles raus, schnell machen!’ Get out of here fast.
They vanished.
‘Papiere, bitte,’ he said with a smile, the facial scars of battle stretching. ‘Den Passierschein auch.’
The letter also that was to have been signed and stamped by Herr Weber. Merde, but the Germans loved their papers. ‘Liebe Zeit, Oberfeldwebel, I only want a few words.’
‘Gut, now give.’ The stumpy fingers were snapped, the Schmeisser that was slung over the left shoulder gripped.
One hundred francs were found—fifty would have been too little. Hermann would have simply handed over a thousand just to pin the salaud down later if needed with a little blackmail.
Again the fingers were snapped, and again. ‘One pays for everything these days, doesn’t one?’ said St-Cyr with a sigh.
‘But that provides for my corporals here and allows you ten minutes without the necessary documentation, mein lieber Oberdetektiv. Please use the shed and keep out of sight. We’ll call you when your exit is clear.’
Hermann should have dealt with him. Hermann wouldn’t have taken any of his humiliating Quatsch!
They weren’t happy, thought Kohler, still closeted with the three of them from Room 3–38. They were definitely hiding something. Becky Torrence kept touching the edge of Brother Étienne’s abandoned cloak and then gripping it as if she couldn’t stop herself.
Conscious of the girl’s nervousness, Jill Faber, the saucy one with the grey eyes and jet-black hair, finally broke.
‘All right, I did trade with the Senegalese. One pays off the guards at the wood depot and those boys look the other way. Marni and I often went together. She would talk it up with the guards and watch out for things like Weber or any of the officers while I went in to deal with the others.’
‘Jill’s better at it,’ said the redhead.
‘And doesn’t mind that they’re blacks?’
‘Niggers? Why should she? They’re men, aren’t they? Sometimes a gang of us would be trading, sometimes only Jill.’
They glanced at one another.
‘Weber knows of the trading post. He must,’ offered Jill.
‘It’s one of the
ways he finds things out, so he lets it happen,’ added Marni, watching him closely now.
‘He has informants among you, has he?’
If Herr Kohler felt he’d trap them by playing dumb, he’d best think again, thought Marni, but she’d give him an innocent glance, would finger the back of her left wrist in doubt and then lean forward a little before letting him have it. ‘We don’t know who his informants are, Inspector. How could we?’
‘They change,’ said Jill, spreading her hands on the table and moving them slowly toward him. ‘He keeps getting new ones.’
‘And when Colonel Kessler was Kommandant?’
She’d best smile a little whimsically, thought Jill, and let him see that light in her eyes so as to keep him from getting at Becky. ‘It was better then. There would only be one German corporal and the Oberfeldwebel with the glasses, or no guard at all.’
‘And you, Mademoiselle Torrence, did you ever join in?’
‘Me?’ yelped Becky, dropping her gaze as she gripped the edge of the brother’s cloak. ‘I don’t do trades. I. . . I can’t.’
‘Because they’re blacks?’
She shook her head and glanced desperately at each of the others. ‘I’d. . . I’d be no good at it. They. . . ’ Oh damn, damn! ‘It’s just the way I am.’
This one was their weakest link and the other two were aware of it, but had there been an element of truth in Madame de Vernon’s accusation?
‘They get us extra firewood sometimes, Inspector, and bring us hot water,’ she went on, unable to keep her voice from being brittle. ‘Having a bath is always difficult. Jill or Marni watch out for me and. . . and hand the buckets in, then I do the same for either of them or for Nora.’
They would have to do something to distract him from Becky, thought Jill. ‘The Senegalese installed our stove when we first got here. Nora told them where to put it and how to fix the chimney. She’s really very good with them.’
And wasn’t here to answer for herself. ‘Friendly?’
She would catch a breath and hold it, thought Jill, would make him think she’d been letting those boys fuck her and would give him a knowing look then say, ‘Nora’s easy, Inspector, and isn’t concerned in the least that they’re black. Nora knows how to get along with working men. I didn’t. Not then. I had to learn.’
And if that wasn’t saying something, what was? But not only about Nora.
‘Can I go now, Inspector?’ asked Becky. ‘Herr Weber will be in a rage, but if I don’t show up, he’ll. . . ’
Either Weber was already using her or still trying to get her to cooperate. ‘First tell me if the three of you ever went into that woodshed of the blacks together?’
‘Once.’
It had leapt right out of Becky and now he would want to know why they’d done that, thought Marni. ‘There was a gang of us,’ she said, placing her hands on the table before her as Jill had done. Jill would be looking at him in that way a girl would who wanted things to happen between them.
‘We’d a bet on, Inspector,’ said Jill. ‘One of them tells fortunes but doesn’t need a goddess to intervene and ask a dead relative or friend what can be seen from above or what’s going to happen.’
‘He’s supposed to be very good, better even than Madame Chevreul and a heck of a lot cheaper,’ added Marni, giving him a grin.
Becky was vulnerable; Becky had to be sheltered, felt Kohler. ‘What gang?’
Shit! ‘Mary-Lynn and everyone else from Room 3–54, and us with Caroline and Nora,’ said Jill. ‘Bamba Duclos is known for it, Inspector. A thing like that can’t be hidden for long, not in a place like this where gossip is nine-tenths of everything.’
She had better add something, thought Becky. She couldn’t just sit here and say nothing. Herr Kohler would only become more and more suspicious of her. ‘He. . . he has a little wicker basket from home. It isn’t any bigger than a soup plate and just as deep. There. . . there are all kinds of strange things in it.’
And wouldn’t you know it, she’d been rubbing shoulders with those boys. ‘He shakes the basket, does he?’
Why was it that Herr Kohler now looked at her in the way he did? wondered Becky. Emptying the light completely from his eyes as if he knew the truth about her and was only waiting for her to confess?
She felt herself falling, felt absolutely, totally out of control, heard the breath rush from her and had to shut her eyes.
‘He shakes it, doesn’t he?’ came the reminder, startling her.
‘Oui, and then he. . . he let’s everything settle and. . . and reads the way the things have fallen.’
A juju man in a land of juju ladies.
‘I got a parcel from home that very day,’ said Marni quickly. ‘He had said I would. New underwear. A slip, a pair of nylons I sold within seconds. Six packs of cigs.’
A fortune, but Duclos had probably lugged that mail sack into the camp office and set the parcel out for Weber and the censors to examine.
‘Bamba said Jennifer’s maid would come late that very afternoon and she did, Inspector,’ interjected Jill. ‘He said that Becky wouldn’t have to see Weber for three whole weeks and she didn’t. The Untersturmführer laid off pressing her to cooperate and she. . . she was a lot better for it, weren’t you, Becky?’
They touched hands, the girl blinking away the tears, only to blurt, ‘Then he started pulling me in again, Inspector. I can’t stand it anymore, Jill. I know he’s trying to break me.’
‘Easy,’ said Kohler. ‘Easy.’
‘Sorry. Please forgive me.’
She touched her chest and blanched, looking as if totally ashamed of herself.
Herr Kohler was a big man with very strong hands and Becky would be concentrating on those, poor thing, thought Marni. ‘Nora brought the hooch, Inspector,’ she said, forcing herself to fiddle with the top button of her shirt blouse while giving him a look even Brother Étienne himself couldn’t have mistaken.
‘It was just good fun,’ offered Jill, leaning forward again. ‘We laughed for days. Bamba’s got the biggest dark brown eyes and when he rolled them up to the ceiling of that shed, we thought the worst until he flashed us that great big grin of his, knowing he’d caught us out. Then he’d tell whoever’s fortune it was that everything was going to be OK.’
‘Sometimes,’ muttered Becky.
‘And Jennifer Hamilton was with you?’
‘Jen wanted to know if everything in her flat was still there and if it would be safe.’
‘That’s when Bamba told her Thérèse, her maid, was coming for a visit,’ said Marni quickly. ‘He took the longest time with that basket of his and had to shake and shake it before poring over the way the pieces had fallen.’
‘He was worried,’ said Becky. ‘He said things could be difficult for Jennifer and that. . . that she should leave offerings of food in scattered places outside our hotel. We would have to come back again because the little piece of ivory with the holes in it that looked like a miniature game board indicated the trouble needed all of us to work together to conquer it.’
‘The crystal of quartz was upside down,’ Marni went on. ‘Jennifer tried to get him to tell her what that must mean, but he wouldn’t.’
‘It was really weird,’ said Jill. ‘It was almost curfew.’
‘We were still in a huddle on our hands and knees. . . ’ began Becky.
‘The firewood was piled all around us,’ interjected Marni, quickly giving Jill a nudge and silently telling her to let him know she wanted him—anything to keep him from getting at Becky.
Kohler held up a hand to stop them.
‘They were watching us,’ said Becky, gripping the edge of the brother’s cloak. ‘One of those blacks was touching me.’
‘And Jennifer Hamilton, how did she feel?’
She must look steadily at him now, thought Becky. She must square her shoulders and show Jill and Marni that she could. ‘Jen had gripped Caroline’s hand.’
‘Had the ballet dancer alre
ady asked what had happened to Madame de Vernon’s husband?’
She wouldn’t shake her head. She would just let him look at her in that way of his as she tried to shut everything else out. ‘Caroline was thinking about it but. . . but wanted to wait. It. . . it was the first time for all of us.’
‘When?’
‘Just after the Christmas party the British threw for us.’
‘And have there been other attempts to get Bamba to read your fortunes?’
Had he no feelings? ‘Jill took me once more, and once I. . . I went alone, all by myself.’
‘Becky, you didn’t?’ said the others, both caught off guard.
‘Why?’ asked Herr Kohler.
It would have to be said plainly. ‘Because I thought Herr Weber was going to have me deported.’
To a concentration camp.
The ax had stopped, the log that had been split, falling on either side of the chopping block.
Sergeant Matthieu Senghor gave it a moment for he could see that this sûreté was determined.
‘The blond, blue-eyed young American, Chief Inspector. The one called Becky, from Mademoiselle Jill’s room. The timid one. She was nearer to the Chalet des nes than the one who traps. Brother Étienne looked towards her once and then again while talking to Mademoiselle Lacy. Perhaps he thought she was following the ballet dancer, perhaps only watching from among the trees nearby to see where she went, but we didn’t see her go into that place, nor did we see Mademoiselle Lacy enter it either. We didn’t go in there ourselves, I swear it.’
‘I wheeled the brother’s bike away,’ said Bamba Duclos, carefully choosing his words. ‘Always the punctures, always the need for a patch. That thing has to have new inner tubes but those are impossible to get unless God answers the brother’s prayers.’
Hermann would somehow have produced a cigarette to share with them. ‘And no one had asked any of you to meet with that girl?’
‘No one, Inspector,’ said Senghor. ‘The timid one came here three times, though, to see what the basket held. First with several of the others. A dozen maybe, then with only the one, Mademoiselle Faber, and then once and alone. I tried to discourage her. Bien sûr, Mademoiselle Torrence was terrified of being alone with us, but also of something far worse, though she refused to say of what and begged the corporal here to look into her future. Bamba’s grandfather and father were both known for their skill in divination, so the talent and responsibility fell naturally to him.’
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