Men of Snow

by John R Burns

  ‘So why did you stay?’

  Proustain, sitting opposite, had lifted his hands and pulled a doubtful expression, ‘I am greedy. I love to be surrounded by so many beautiful things. They are examples of our culture, fine examples I think. I could never imagine being anywhere else. I am fulfilling a duty, an important one. The rest of my family knew I would not leave. Their decision to go was based on that assumption. They knew me well enough. And I thank your Fuhrer for his noble gesture towards our city. He could have blown Paris to pieces, but he didn’t.’

  ‘It was a little easier than that,’ Franz had said.

  ‘Of course, Yes. We seem to have capitulated rather quicker than last time.’

  On this occasion Proustain seemed tired and a little unsteady.

  ‘It’s where a society puts its emphasis. The French never seem to be able to make up their mind.’

  ‘We want all of it,’ the old man said, ‘and yet we either allow too much freedom or not enough. It’s ironical, an historical irony that some of the fiercest fighting the French have ever been involved with was in killing their own countrymen. The Royalists of Brittany were massacred at the time of the Revolution. Whole communities were wiped out. It was our civil war, always the most bitter.’

  Franz momentarily thought of his later visit to Chantelle. She would be preparing herself like a gift being neatly, colourfully wrapped. Not once had he fully opened it and this afternoon would be no different.

  ‘Would you like another look around?’ was Proustain’s unexpected invitation.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ was Franz’s wary answer.

  The old man sighed, peering over the top of his glasses, a worried frown appearing for an instant before he said, ‘As you wish, whenever you like.’

  Franz waited, trying to calculate his next approach.

  ‘I suppose it’s what you consider art to be worth,’ he then mentioned, ‘and what kind of society can produce the greatest examples.’

  ‘But your great nation is hardly older than I am.’

  ‘A young country wants to prove itself.’

  Proustain smiled and said, ‘Germany certainly has a lot of energy.’

  ‘I suppose that means arrogance.’

  ‘Not at all, I’d call it confidence.’

  ‘You have to be sure of yourself.’

  ‘And are you captain?’

  ‘Of my country, yes.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That is why I am here in this capital city of yours.’

  ‘And I’m sat here trying to plead our case.’

  ‘The cultural capital of Europe,’ Franz went on.

  ‘I don’t think you can so easily produce great artists, writers, musicians. There is no formula. And I think it’s the same for science. Politics and armies are different. If you put enough resources into them then anything is possible.’

  ‘But art needs its patrons.’

  ‘And you think society can replace them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because an artist has to have the freedom to express himself. In the end I don’t think your idea of a society can allow such freedom without it being undermined by such expression. There has to be risk. There has to be opposition and difference.’

  ‘And you think what’s here in this apartment of yours is an example of that?’

  ‘To some extent I do,’ was Proustain’s answer, his tone again uncertain.

  ‘So did you ever wish to become an artist?’ was the only thing he could think of to say.

  Proustain carefully placed his hands on the arms of his deeply padded chair and said, ‘I once tried to write a novel.’

  ‘You were fortunate to have the chance.’

  ‘You mean be rich enough to have the time to try.’

  ‘Or find the right patron.’

  ‘I suppose that was my brother. He was the one who had inherited everything.’

  ‘But your brother died.’

  For a moment Proustain’s eyes flickered, ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Our rapid success here depends on information and you French are very good at giving it.’

  ‘You mean the number of traitors we seem to produce.’

  ‘Yes they are traitors. There are thousands of them.’

  ‘We even round up the Jews of Paris for you.’

  ‘That is less of a surprise.’

  ‘To me it is, a saddening performance.’

  ‘Dreyfus lives on.’

  ‘More than I realised.’

  ‘So what happened to your novel?’

  ‘It came to an end after two chapters. It was then I realised I had nothing I desperately wanted to say or anything of any difference to what I had read already. It was a miserable experience. That is one of the reasons I so much admire those who have their own voice and can create their own world.’

  ‘So the inheritance was passed on?’

  ‘Shared with my eldest sister.’

  ‘Who now lives in New York.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So who do you mean when you said the rest of your family went south?’

  ‘I presume you know that as well.’

  ‘I would like to hear it from you.’

  ‘My younger sister, two cousins, a nephew and...’

  ‘Two nieces.’

  ‘You see,’ Proustain complained.

  ‘But you stayed on, the curator of the family museum.’

  ‘As the eldest, and I think the one who cares the most. Will it be safe?’ Proustain suddenly asked.

  At every one of their meetings Franz had been waiting for this question, but this was the first occasion when the old one had tried.

  ‘That depends on several factors,’ was an answer that he enjoyed giving.

  Proustain stiffened slightly and said, ‘I would have thought Herr Captain that was more your decision than anybody else’s.’

  ‘That is because you have no idea how things work in our army.’

  ‘I’m presuming you’re the only person who knows about the apartment and has the influence to keep it that way.’

  ‘And I don’t like presumptions. They make everything appear too obvious. This is a complicated business. I think you know how our leaders, especially one of them, wants all the art he can get. He wants to own the largest gallery, the largest museum in Europe. Why do you think we invaded Russia?’ was Franz’s cynical response that had Proustain confused.

  He looked away, his breaths quickening. Consternation seemed to be taking over.

  ‘You play with me I think.’

  Franz smiled, ‘Not at all. Here you have a great responsibility, but I also have my own requirements and that is to do whatever is best for Germany, whatever that might mean. I cannot tell you anything because I do not control this city or any part of it.’

  ‘But you are a cultured man.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ Franz said back sharply, ‘I am a soldier, nothing else.’

  ‘Who is interested.’

  ‘Only the things that make my tasks easier, more efficient. I deal in information. That is my currency, not pictures or mirrors or ornate lamps or Persian carpets and all the rest that you have. You were fortunate it was me and not somebody else.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Proustain tried, his face becoming paler.

  I’m not sure you do, but that at the moment that is irrelevant.’

  There came the chimes from different clocks in some of the rooms. Their clangs and gongs and loud ticks were uncoordinated so it took over five minutes for the hour to be proclaimed.

  Franz thought of the kitchen back home and its old clock on the mantelpiece which sounded out each quarter of the hour before the longer hour itself. It had been a sad, forlorn kind of sound as though beckoning everybody to a perpetual funeral .

  ‘I hope you have an inventory of what you have,’ Franz said as he suddenly stood up, ‘No. Don’t get up. I want to have another look round the place by myself.’

  The di
ning room, the study, the hallway, the bedrooms, the second lounge, all were lavishly decorated with dark reds, blues and greens. Most of the paintings were of French rural scenes or the royal court. Mirrors were in gold embossed frames. Clocks were enclosed by wood carved cherubs. There were floral patterned carpets in every room and highly decorative furniture, two chaise longs in green velvet, a seventeenth century writing desk, a collection of ornately painted serving plates. In the bedrooms there were four poster beds, highly polished wardrobes, a variety of lamps. There was a library with high shelves full of leather bound books with a huge marble fireplace. The corridor was dimly lit with shadows along the embossed wallpaper and large family portraits.

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ he said as came back into the main lounge and sat back down, his highly polished boots reflecting the light from the tall windows.

  ‘I could have explained some of the pieces,’ Proustain tried,’ some of their history.’

  ‘How do you communicate with the rest of your family?’

  The old man tried to smile at this unexpected question, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes you do. It should be simple.’

  ‘We write...write to each other.’

  ‘And the telephone?’

  ‘No. No. I’ve tried but I’ve never managed to get through.’

  ‘And what about your sister in New York?’

  ‘The same with her, just letters when that is possible.’

  ‘So,’ Franz sighed, ‘You think I require your assistance when it comes to looking round your collection.’

  Proustain stared straight ahead, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath as the clocks ticked from every room.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘I am just interested in your opinion.’

  When he finally returned to the office Franz told sergeant Stilich to take Proustain off the list.

  ‘I don’t want him bothered from now on,’ he added’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And if there are to be any searches in that area I want to know about them before they happen. No surprises Stilich.’

  ‘ Very well sir.’

  ‘This is a strictly confidential matter.’

  Stilich had nodded, looking straight at him.

  ‘So what else have we got?’ was Franz’s next question.

  ‘Things seem pretty quiet at the moment.’

  ‘Let’s hope they stay that way because I have another appointment,’ were his last words, ‘If there are any phone calls tell them.....you can tell them what you like.’

  CHAPTER 6

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  ‘Why can’t this, whatever this is, be more serious?’ was Chantelle’s usual complaint that afternoon,’ you think I’m stupid or you think I’m afraid. I am just here you think for your pleasure. You see I know some history. This is the German attitude. Towards the French it has always been so. You treat us, you treat me with no respect. I want you to love me. That’s it. That’s what I want. Is that so bad? But you will say nothing and I want you to speak to me. Speak to me please. I would like to know what you think.’

  Franz smoked his cigarette, flicking ash off his uniform.

  ‘We never make love, never. Why is that? You are perverse. It is not normal. You think I am beautiful. I know that you do. But all you want is to watch, just to look at me, at me naked, at me having to do it to myself. This is all. Many times you have been here. And I am grateful for the presents. I am grateful for the money. To begin with that was enough. And I know I am lucky. I know to have a German officer as my...my friend or whatever you would call it. I want to say my lover, but I cannot because we do not make love. To me that is showing love. But for you, who can tell? I cannot understand your mind. Maybe this is how you always are. Maybe it is you that is a little scared.’

  ‘I can only stay a short time,’ was his response.

  ‘Shit!’ Chantelle suddenly screamed.

  ‘I have to be at headquarters.’

  ‘Or where? Where do you have to go in the middle of the afternoon? What is it? Who is it? So maybe here I start something for you and then you go somewhere else to finish it.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Your German never gets any better.’

  ‘And your French stinks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said before noticing the breeze slightly billow the curtains, a graceful movement that seemed in such contrast to her loud, insistent voice.

  ‘This is Paris,’ she went on, ‘This is the city that everybody wants and this is my country.’

  ‘So you keep reminding me.’

  ‘Because you insult me and I have to be a good girl. No. I want to be a bad girl but you won’t let me.’

  Chantelle was sat on the edge of her bed. She always dressed the same for his visits, dark skirt and stockings and high heeled shoes, a white buttoned up blouse with her hair tied back.

  Franz came once or twice a week, usually at lunchtime. His presents were sometimes expensive foods or champagne. On other occasions he would bring stockings, jewellery, shoes. He would always place the unwrapped presents on a table at the foot of her bed. If it was money he would leave it under a glass ashtray placed on the top of a set of drawers.

  ‘It’s you who is supposed to offer me the cigarette,’ had been the first thing she had said to him.

  He had been at the bar of one of the clubs where German officers could meet young French girls and she had come and sat beside him. Eventually having waited for him to say something she had held out her packet of cigarettes.

  The bar was in a cellar in Montmartre, run by a Belgian who handled some of the best looking girls in the city.

  One night instead of drinking back at the hotel with the usual group of officers, Franz had wanted something different.

  ‘I am Chantelle and I am pleased to meet you,’ she had said in a slow, stilted German.

  ‘Thanks for the cigarette,’ he had tried in French.

  She had smiled and again had waited for him to say something else. The scar had been a shadow down the side of his face and his eyes seemed to have been hidden under a permanent frown. To begin with for Chantelle he had been just another challenge, knowing the consequences of any mistakes.

  ‘We don’t have to talk,’ had been her next attempt that first night.

  Now he was sat in his usual seat staring at her, waiting, ready for the afternoon performance.

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  Momentarily Franz was lost to her, thinking about a recent letter from aunt Hildegaard in which she told him she prayed every night for his safety. Anything from home provoked memories of who he had once been.

  He remembered as a child being ill one winter. When he had started to improve they had taken him down to the front room to let him lie on the sofa in front of a well stacked fire. One long afternoon he had drifted in thoughts until his mind had settled on exploring the house in his imagination from top to bottom. It was when he had reached his granny’s room that he stopped. It was empty. At last granny had taken the train she once had told him about with her husband, its journey going through everlasting mountains, or so she had said.

  Then in his imagination he had stepped inside her room and shut the door. It was as if she was still there on the bed taking her afternoon nap. He could smell her odours of lavender and something much deeper. But the bed was again empty, its covers neatly folded back. Then he had become frightened. He had imagined that when he opened the door of her room there would be nothing outside, nothing but grey, endless space. The world had disappeared. He was totally alone. Finally he had worked up enough courage to open the door. There was the light on the landing and he could hear voices from down in the kitchen. He had escaped his own emptiness, back into the world of colour and sound, away from where his granny had gone.

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  ‘You complain too much,’ he finally said to Chantelle.

  The scar was something she longed to run her tongue along. On some afternoons it was vivid red as though it had been made from a fresh cut. On others it was a dull blue and grey like a deep bruise. Never had she had the courage to ask him about it. The scar was part of the fascination, that and the terror of ever failing him.

  ‘I just worry you’re losing interest,’ she replied.

  ‘I wouldn’t be here if that was the case.’

  ‘I don’t want your visits to become a routine, a habit. I looked forward to them so much. I have to take a drink to stay calm or otherwise time passes too slowly when I know you’re coming.’

  ‘Routines can sometimes be necessary, even with sex.’

  ‘I suppose if you like the same things.’

  ‘Which you know I do.’

  ‘I can change things if you wish.’

  Franz had smiled and shook his head, ‘No. I don’t want you to do that. Let us stick to what works.’

  ‘What a terrible way of putting things you have sometimes Captain. You make it all sound like a machine.’

  ‘You’re complaining again. I’m in a hurry so I want you to start.’

  Chantelle had frowned at him and sighed impatiently and said, ‘I have to be ready.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be always ready.’

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘It has to be like that this afternoon.’

  ‘You are incorrigible.’

  ‘Of course, but I’m still waiting.’

  ‘Shit. Shit,’ she repeated before she got up to close the heavy drapes, leaving just enough space between them to let in a narrow shaft of light. On the record player came the usual slow, saxophone jazz. She took another sip of champagne before walking back to the other end of the room.

  It was just long enough for her performance to succeed. There had for him to be that distance or the stripping would be too intimate and the sexual tensions would fail. Chantelle throughout her act had to be untouchable. Space intensified the sexual need. The watching become more important than anything else as she started moving languidly to the rhythm of the music. Carefully, enticingly she took off her clothes, crossing the screen of light and then going back into the semi darkness, unzipping her dress from the side, sitting on the edge of the bed to take off her shoes and stockings. When she stood up her dancing slowed, cupping her breasts after removing her bra then rubbing the palms of her hands over her nipples.