by Alan Furst
Next, to the central police station, the Préfecture, on the Île de la Cité. At the door, Chantal steeled herself, this was where one had to go for travel documents and the place breathed a century of sorrows. We regret, monsieur, that we cannot…But look here, the date stamp shows that your eligibility has expired…You need, madame, a letter from the Portuguese consulate. And on and on and on. The vast room had gray walls, hard wooden benches, a worn-through linoleum floor, a crowd of angry, frightened petitioners, and clerks, who hung cardboard squares printed with numbers on a wire stretched above the reception desk so you would know when it was your turn. 38 was being seen now, you had 144. Behind the reception desk was a counter where the clerks would direct you to an office, or send you away. It was a high counter. Chantal, who had brought along a battered old Colette novel, sat on a bench, and waited.
It took more than an hour but, eventually, she was admitted to the office of Inspecteur Principal—Captain, Marcellin. He rose and greeted her; she’d been here often and he was, in his way, welcoming. He was an old cop, with strands of hair across his head, pouches beneath his eyes, and the face of a melancholy hound. He had, some years earlier, fallen on the street while in pursuit of a thief and had injured his knee, and was therefore relegated to work in this hell. At least he had a private office.
Inspecteur Marcellin wasn’t much to look at but his eyes, the eyes of an old soul, fascinated her. Sometimes at night, in a moment of private pleasure, she thought of Marcellin. He wore a pajama bottom, she reached inside the fly, held him, then drew out what she wanted. There was more, but it was that image which caught her imagination, and she found herself repeating it, she liked it so well. Why? What was it with this man? He was married and had six children, had never flirted with her, and she was sure the fantasy would never come true but neither did it go away. Chantal had a rough friend who lived a daring life and had once said of a would-be suitor, “He’s handsome enough, but no news from down below.” Well, with Marcellin, there was news from down below.
“It is good to see you, madame,” he said. “How has life been treating you?”
“Well enough, considering how things are. And you, Inspecteur?”
“I don’t know…I carry on, as best I can. But it’s a hard job, pretending. All of these people”—he nodded toward the waiting room—“come here seeking permits: to stay in France, to reside in Paris, to work, to leave Paris, and they believe the state will help them but I know it will not. Of course I can’t say anything, I have to play my part, the neutral civil servant.” For a moment, anger flashed in his eyes, then it disappeared.
“Difficult, I think, very difficult.”
“It is, because I am on their side. These fugitives…it was hard enough in the thirties but, since the Occupation…Jews, Spaniards who fought for the Republic, Poles, German intellectuals, Russians, Serbs, they all find their way to Paris with hope in their hearts, all of them, men, women, children, all of them in flight, most of them doomed. And then, when I read the newspaper, there’s a name I recognize, yet another suicide.”
“I know,” she said gently. “My friends and I do what we can.”
From Marcellin, a nod of appreciation. “Yes, but we all have to be careful, I hope you understand. The exit visa, which brings you here today, is subject to review, first by my superiors, some of whom are good friends to Vichy, and then by an office at German headquarters, the Kommandantur at the Hotel Majestic. I assume that one day I will be found out, and then…” He shrugged.
“We try, Inspecteur, not to ask too often.”
“That’s true, but don’t stop asking. The flics here have to do the Germans’ dirty work, so helping you is my way of telling them to…” As if in illustration, he turned his swivel chair to face a typewriter on a small table. To one side of the machine, a row of assorted rubber stamps, ink pads in red and black, and a franking device that, when squeezed, impressed an official seal on a document. Next the card, labeled PERMIS DE SORTIE—permission to leave, which he slid into the typewriter, then worked the roller bar until he had the dotted line he needed.
Chantal stared at the table, The tools of life and death, she thought.
The inspector said, “The name?”
Chantal had memorized the details because, according to what the members of the cell jokingly called the Code Mathieu, it was better not to write things down. Memorize, then destroy the notes. “Jean Dubois.” She spelled the last name slowly, then said, “He is, or was, a corporal in the French army.”
As Marcellin, using two fingers, typed the name, he said, “He’ll need demobilization papers, you know.”
“He will have them,” Chantal said. “Those come from a Vichy office in Paris.”
“And his age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Height?”
“Five feet three inches tall.”
“Eye color?”
“Brown.”
“And I suppose he is of French nationality.”
“He is.”
“Address?”
“That would be twenty-two, Rue Marcadet, in the Eighteenth.”
Marcellin worked away, then said, “And now, the photograph.”
Obtaining this had not been easy, requiring Père Anselme to bring Sgt. Gillen to the Samaritaine department store in Paris, where a Photomaton booth, much used for photographs that would be attached to official documents, was available to the public. In such photographs, the right ear had to be visible.
The inspector rolled the card out of the typewriter. Using a brush and a small jar of paste, he fixed the photograph in the box provided on the card, then slipped the card into the franking device so that half the impression was on the photo, the other half on the card, making it impossible to exchange the photo for another. This technique annoyed the forgers, as it demanded extra work.
Marcellin held the card up for inspection, then chose a stamp and applied it to the card, followed by two more—thock, thock, thock. Next he signed, with a steel-nibbed pen dipped in a bottle of ink, the bottom of the card. As he handed the card to Chantal he said, “Now it is official, Corporal Dubois may leave Paris. The permis only says he can leave, to stay somewhere he will need a separate approval. And if he wishes to cross into the Unoccupied Zone, he will need an Ausweis.”
“Yes, I know,” Chantal said. “That has to come from the Kommandantur.”
“I trust you are able to obtain the permission—perhaps I have a fellow knave over there.”
“I would wish, but we must handle it…another way.” She smiled, You know I can’t reveal that kind of information.
Marcellin returned the smile and said, “You are discreet, madame…”
“Yes, in all things, I am discreet.” She wanted to press her hand to her mouth—how had she let that slip out? Merde!
Perhaps the far edge of one of Marcellin’s eyebrows lifted slightly. The tiny gesture thrilled her. No, you mustn’t! she told herself. In answer, her mind produced the favored image from her nighttime fantasy. She’d better, she thought, change the subject. “Tell me, Inspecteur,” she said, “how long must we be oppressed by these people?”
Marcellin leaned back in his chair. “If you read history, the answer to that question is troubling. The Ottoman Turks held their empire for three hundred years, and there are plenty of other examples. It would seem that once a nation gets its fangs into another, it’s very hard to make it let go. Conquest, you know, for some it is a kind of drug.” He paused, then said, “But I mustn’t ramble on.” He stood and offered his hand. She held it briefly: a cool, dry hand, the skin smooth and hard. A lovely hand.
“Then I’ll say à bientôt.” I’ll see you soon. “But not too soon,” Chantal said.
“Whenever you might need me, I’ll be here,” he said.
—
A woman on the station platform at Beaumont-sur-Oise, waiting for the afternoon train back to Paris, watched as a young man, aided by an older woman, prepared to board the third-
class car.
Oh, this is sad to see, she thought. Yet it wasn’t all sad; the good side of human nature was there as well. Here was a wounded French soldier, walking with a crutch, a bandage around his throat, helped by his poor mother, who held his arm as they climbed the steps into the car. Standing just behind the pair, the woman said, “There, there, take your time, the world will wait for a wounded soldier.” The mother turned and smiled. Chantal wore a dowdy little hat, a church hat, while an old, black leather handbag rode her forearm, a symbol of staunch membership in the lower bourgeoisie.
When the train reached Paris, the woman said, “May I help you, madame?”
“I think we can manage.”
“Poor boy, I hope he will mend soon.”
“Thank you, madame, he is young, he’ll come through it.”
At the Gare de Lyon, the pair had to change for a local that went to Orléans, and there, on the platform, was a contrôle, a young policeman and an older detective. “Your papers, please,” the detective said.
“Yes, of course. I have them right here,” the mother said, snapping open the metal clasp of her purse and bringing out two permis de sortie authorizations and two identity cards.
The detective had a glance at the cards, looking up from each photograph to see that the faces were the same. The detective’s eyes now settled on Sgt. Gillen. “Have you your demobilization certificate, my boy?”
The mother said, “Here it is.” She brought out the document and handed it to the detective.
“Seems to be in order,” the detective said. Then, to the sergeant, “Are you feeling any better?”
“Oh yes,” the mother said. “He is healing nicely.”
The detective’s eyes changed. “Can he not speak?” he said.
“A wound in the throat,” the mother said. “The doctors say his speech will return. In time, they say it will.”
The detective looked them over. Chantal could practically see his mind working and her heart started to beat hard. Then people in the line behind them, afraid of missing their trains, shifted their feet, someone cleared his throat, others mumbled—What shall we do? In its way, the crowd was confronting authority. The detective had just about decided to pursue the matter, then he saw the faces of the people in line, pleading faces—most would have to wait hours for another train if they missed their connections. Yes, he could have made the pair stand aside while he checked the other passengers, but the idea wasn’t appealing: the wounded soldier with a crutch, the caring mother. Oh the hell with it, he thought. He handed the documents back to Chantal and said, “Very well, you may go ahead.”
The pair moved slowly along the platform, Chantal holding Sgt. Gillen’s arm in a grip like a vise. She feared tricks: the detective calling out, in English, “Good luck, soldier” or “Say, you’ve forgotten your hat,” so, no matter what happened, her English fugitive was not going to turn around.
—
The Paris/Orléans local left twenty minutes late. Chantal and Sgt. Gillen took seats in a compartment in the second-class car—third class was jammed, not a seat to be found, passengers standing in the aisles, so Chantal paid the conductor the difference when he came to punch their tickets. The Mathieu cell preferred third class, where German travelers never ventured, they all rode first class. Chugging along at a leisurely pace, saving coal, the local rattled down the track beneath a sky of wind-blown clouds.
Chantal relaxed, relieved to be in the countryside, to be back in France, she thought, for Paris was its own nation. At the Étréchy stop, she looked across the track to see passengers returning to Paris with their treasures. You were lucky, if you lived in the city, to have family or other connections in the country, as they could buy food from the paysans: ham, sausages, cheese, and more. One couple stood guard over a lumpy burlap sack that likely contained potatoes, and almost all the Paris-bound passengers had bundles and large suitcases.
In the compartment, Chantal and Sgt. Gillen had joined an older man and two young girls, perhaps fourteen and twelve, who looked like sisters, which left one empty seat. Just as the train pulled away, a face appeared in the glass panel above the door to the compartment, a tubby gent with a little mustache entered, tipped his hat, said good afternoon, slid a good-sized suitcase into the luggage rack above the seat, and sat himself down with a contented sigh. And he was, evidently, in the mood to talk. “Headed for Orléans?” he said to Sgt. Gillen, who was in the opposite seat.
“That’s right,” Chantal said, polite but brusque, and not inclined toward conversation.
“Going there myself. I’m a traveler in dry goods.” He pointed to his suitcase on the luggage rack.
There was no response—the passengers knew a pest when they saw one. The salesman appeared not to notice—if nobody wanted to speak with him he would continue the conversation without them. “Yes, it used to be a good business, but now it’s hard to come by any decent fabric. Still, one must do one’s best, eh?”
Silence. Sgt. Gillen looked out the window. The salesman was undeterred. “I see that you were in the military. I didn’t serve myself, bad back, from hauling a sample case about. But I admire those who did, like yourself.”
Chantal had to intervene. “It is difficult for my son to speak, monsieur.”
“Too bad! Nothing like a good war story to make the time go by. Where are you folks from?”
Chantal’s first instinct was to ignore him, but that was, she realized, a mistake—making it seem that she did not wish to speak to a social inferior. She knew this type of personality—it could not tolerate such a slight and would want some form of revenge. “We are from Paris,” she said.
“A delightful city,” he said. “Yes, Paris…I myself am from Lyons but I often visit Paris…what brings you to leave such a delightful city?”
Nosy! “There is an excellent doctor in Orléans, I am taking my son for a consultation.”
That seemed to mollify him. He said, “Mm,” in answer, then stood, reached up to his suitcase, unlocked it with a tiny key, probed inside, and brought forth an orange. This was a remarkable sight, no one in the compartment had seen an orange since before the war, and the two sisters were wide-eyed as they gazed at it. Producing a multi-blade knife, he took out his breast-pocket handkerchief, folded neatly into three points, shook it loose, and spread it on his lap. When he began to peel the orange, the powerful scent filled the air. “I’m on the trains every week,” he said. “All the conductors know me.” He loosened a section of the orange and, using the point as a fork, popped it into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, then said, “They tell me stories, the conductors, about what goes on…” He shook his head. “If you knew…well, all sorts of people traveling about lately. All sorts, it’s hard to believe.” He speared another segment of the orange, saying, “Some of them, I’m told, wanted by the authorities.” For the salesman, that last word had some considerable weight. “Even English soldiers on the run! Imagine!” He paused to eat the segment and wiped his lips with his fingers. “Quite a substantial reward, if you snare one,” he mused. “Thousands of francs.”
Chantal felt Sgt. Gillen stiffen by her side.
“There may even be one…on this train,” the salesman said. “Could be…could be. Right, soldier boy?”
Sgt. Gillen stared out the window.
“Seems like he doesn’t hear me.” The salesman returned to his orange. In the compartment it seemed very quiet. As he ate, the salesman now stared at Sgt. Gillen, the stare lasted a long time. He finished the orange and put the peels into the ashtray on the arm of the seat. “Well, time to…” He rose, pushed the compartment door open, looked left and right, then walked away down the corridor. After a few minutes, the older sister whispered to the younger, then stood, and left the compartment, going in the same direction the salesman had taken. Chantal knew that this led away from the WC at the end of the car, so where had the salesman gone? To do what? She told herself to be calm, but she wasn’t. She began to feel threatened and r
eproached herself for having an overactive imagination but the feeling didn’t go away. As the train crawled along a sweeping curve, a long moan from the whistle. Nearing the next station, it meant. The older sister now returned, sat next to the younger, and the two began an urgent, whispered exchange.
In the corridor, the conductor called out, “Étampes. Next station Étampes.”
Chantal stood and retrieved a small suitcase from the luggage rack while Sgt. Gillen, following her example, rose and propped the crutch beneath his arm. “Bonsoir, tout le monde,” Chantal said—goodby everybody, pushed the door open and held it for Sgt. Gillen. As the train rolled to a stop on the platform, the waiting passengers, edging in front of each other, gathered where they knew the steps would be. Chantal preceded Sgt. Gillen and gave him a hand as he descended to the ground, then she looked up and down the platform, found the station house, and headed in that direction, which meant they had to pass by the car they’d been traveling in. Glancing up, she saw the salesman, staring down at her from the window, his face puckered with rage as he raised a small, white fist and shook it at her.
“Fooking bastard,” Sgt. Gillen said.
Chantal shushed him.
As they neared the station house, the two sisters went past them, almost running, the older sister holding the hand of the younger, who was biting her lip as tears rolled down her cheeks. Chantal watched them as they went past the door of the station house and disappeared around the corner.
“What’s gone wrong?” the sergeant said.
“The salesman frightened them.”
“He never spoke a word to them.”
“But they knew what he was. And they were afraid of him because they’re on the run. The older girl followed him on the train, probably saw him talking to the conductor. In a certain way, talking.”
“On the run? Where are their parents?”
Chantal shook her head, slowly, a gesture of sorrow. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know.”