They thoroughly hugged each other and exchanged loud kisses on both cheeks.
“I’ve been told that you could help,” the woman whispered in her ear.
“Let’s have some coffee and chat,” Giselle responded in her regular voice. “We haven’t seen each other for so long.”
Cupping the mug of coffee in her hands, Giselle observed the usual routine as it played out; the woman, who quietly introduced herself as Charlotte, took a family photo out of her bag and slid it across the wooden surface of the table. Giselle instantly recognized the man in it, who stood next to Charlotte and two young boys, twins. Such was the deal if anyone wanted to have an actual conversation with her. Without a photo, in which she could clearly see both people next to each other, the conversation wouldn’t even happen.
“My husband is in Montluc. Have you seen him?” The usual urgent whisper. Giselle carefully nodded. “He was arrested for smuggling people out of the Occupied Zone.”
“The Jews. Yes, I saw his file. I typed it, that is.”
Charlotte’s expression brightened a little, smoothing out creases of worry over her forehead.
“My husband is a very good man.”
“I believe it.”
“I’ve been told that you help get some people out—”
Giselle interrupted her with a resolute shake of her head. “I don’t help anyone with anything. I’m a regular secretary who likes to chat with her old friends about her work. For instance, I know that they will be handing over criminals like your husband to the Germans according to the latest orders from the Occupied Zone. They will be transporting them in a regular passenger train next Wednesday, 9 a.m., in the last car, which they always save for criminals. He will be spending most of the trip in the bathroom, suffering from bouts of dysentery. Neither our gendarmes escorting them nor the Germans – bien sûr – will come near it. The stops will be usual.”
“Is he sick?”
“Not yet. He will be, just in time for departure. I’ll personally see to it.”
By the time Giselle finished, the woman across from her was nearly beaming with joy.
“That’s more than enough. We do have people; they’ll make use of this information to get him off that train. I don’t know how to thank you enough, Sophie!”
“Don’t mention my name to anyone. I’d take that as gratitude.”
“Can I pay for your coffee at least?”
“That’s quite all right. But I do appreciate the offer.”
Charlotte hugged her once again before leaving. Giselle watched her walk with renewed vigor to the door and returned to her reading, her face glowing, as though illuminated from inside by a lucid, ardent fire. These little acts of defiance against the Vichy, against the Boches, against the corruption of the human soul itself, always ignited that passion in her eyes, carefully concealed from the rest of the world by the deceiving lenses of her spectacles.
“Another former classmate, Mademoiselle Sophie?” Jean-Pierre asked half-jestingly, pouring more coffee into her mug.
“What can I say? Lyon is a popular city nowadays, I suppose. Everyone flocks here.”
“True, true.”
If he didn’t actively participate in the resistance, at the very least he made sure that the ones who did had a safe meeting place. The people of Lyon, after all, had this remarkable quality about them; they simply ignored what they didn’t wish to know, and it worked just fine in this case.
Yes, Lyon nowadays was a very popular city, and “Sophie” was a very popular girl.
Berlin, October 1942
The late October dawn was breaking outside, cold and unsettled. Kamille stayed in her bed a little longer; the thought of getting out from under the warm covers was loathsome to her. Everything in this country was cold; the morning air, coming out in transparent clouds with each breath; the brass, narrow bed in which she slept; the marble floor of the hospital where she worked; but most of all, the people. The people chilled her to the bone, starting with nurses and the clipped way in which they conversed with her, irritated that she still understood so little, and finishing with the grocer’s wife, who had once implied that she was more than certain that Kamille was a French spy and that she would eventually get to the bottom of it. After all, her cousin worked for the local Gestapo.
“Don’t pay attention to the old hag,” Inge told her, waving off all of Kamille’s concerns. “She has nothing better to do.”
Inge took her in, relying more on practical, rather than humanitarian, reasons. Major Decker had sent Kamille to the Berlin Rotes Kreuz armed with a request for placement together with the rest of the foreign workers in its dormitory. Inge, one of the nurses with a lively, mocking face and a cigarette which never seemed to leave her full, seductive lips, decided that two ration cards were better than one and that her husband Ernst, who was flying his Messerschmitt somewhere on the Eastern Front wouldn’t be coming home any time soon, had invited Kamille to stay with her. The apartment was too big for her to live alone anyway.
They bonded right away, only like wives waiting for their husbands from the front can. Inge taught Kamille German in the evenings, and Kamille gladly reciprocated by helping her new roommate fashion “French” dresses out of Inge’s old ones.
“Ernst will go mad when he comes back and sees me in one of these!” Inge would say, bursting into hoarse, sensual laughter. She often reminded Kamille of Giselle.
The usual morning propaganda was pouring out of the state-sponsored black radio in the kitchen. Kamille shivered against the chilly air and snatched the thick, cotton-stuffed robe from the Viennese chair that stood next to her bed, working her way inside of it while still under the covers. She lay like this for some time until she felt warm enough and only then flung her legs over the edge of the bed, putting her feet into warm woolen socks and then inside slippers. The floors were always unbearably cold in the morning.
Inge greeted her with her usual cheerful “Bonjour! Comment ça va?” to which Kamille replied with her usual “Guten Morgen. Alles gut, danke,” and the two proceeded with their meager breakfast of two eggs and toast and some meaningless morning chatter.
She was no closer to discovering Jochen’s whereabouts than when she had just arrived in Germany, but at least she was regularly sending her coded letters to Augustine, describing the general situation in the city and reporting the mood of the population and, more importantly, that of the troops. Just like their compatriots in France, wounded soldiers in Germany were more than chatty, particularly when they encountered a pretty French nurse. Their eyes grew wider at once, and they would tell her anything she wished to know. Having a German husband seemed to gain their trust with envious ease, even though some of them expressed a certain disappointment that there was a husband, to begin with.
“It’s because you’re so French,” Inge would laugh at Kamille’s embarrassed complaints about yet another Heinz asking her out, once he got better, of course. “I’ve told you so many times not to wear all those skirts to work, but you don’t listen. So, don’t complain that they start lusting after those French skirts of yours.”
“But these are my most modest clothes,” Kamille would reply, confused. “In Paris, they’re considered almost prudish.”
“And in Germany, they’re considered…” Inge would suppress a giggle and shake her blonde head. “Anyway, what are you complaining about? Getting asked out? Germany is a country of women now. You should be happy.”
“I’m here searching for my husband…”
“I’m here without a husband too, so what? It doesn’t mean I don’t miss certain things. I’m twenty-five; I feel lonely from time to time.”
“You sound just like my sister.”
“Your sister sounds like a lot of fun.”
“She was.”
“What happened to her?”
“The Gestapo.”
Inge looked at her long and hard, then lit another cigarette. “It’s a city of women and the Gestapo. They
kill our own kind too.”
9
Lyon, November 1942
It was a gray November day, dreary and thick with mist. Wet newspapers, with bold-lettered headlines announcing the landing of the Allied forces in French North Africa, littered the ground together with dirty, yellow leaves, crushed under the wheels of heavy military cars. German soldiers pulled their heads into their shoulders, shielding their faces from the gusts of wind and piercing glares of the civilians who surrounded them – a faceless, hostile crowd, silent though visibly discontent. The troops swept through the Free Zone only three days after the “allied invasion,” spreading like a pool of filthy oil on lovely green seawater, finally shattering the illusion of the independently-governed Vichy.
The SS troops arrived in Lyon together with the Wehrmacht, eighty people strong, with the chief of the newly established Lyon’s Gestapo as their leader, who now stood in the very heart of the Place Bellecour, a subtle smile playing on his face – SS Obersturmführer Klaus Barbie. His promotion was due to his “extraordinary skills” as cited in a report to his Berlin superiors. The truth was that Barbie’s former commanding officer Daimler was so terrified of his subordinate’s “skills” that he was ready to write just about anything in that report just to be rid of Barbie once and for all.
The crowd stared. Klaus rubbed his hands together, eager to get to work. Above his head, the sky wept softly, for France, for freedom, for the hope lost.
Giselle observed the Germans as they strutted around her working place like they owned it, shuffling through files lazily, opening and closing cabinets, exchanging remarks with each other and grinning at the secretaries. All of the women were ordered to gather in the prison’s superintendent’s office; the superintendent himself, an imposing man with a stocky built and an impressive belly, stood rigidly at attention while the SS decided what to do with them all.
“We’ll take five women with us,” one of the officers finally spoke in French, counting the first five women who were unfortunate enough to stand close to him. Giselle was the fifth. “The work will be the same. The pay better.”
The officer then motioned them outside, and they waited in the drizzling rain while the Germans were busy carrying boxes of files out of the prison to their respective cars – signature Gestapo black Citroëns. Giselle eyed the cars with intense attention; last time she got in the backseat of one such car, a certain Jürgen Sievers took her to one of his infamous interrogation rooms where his men carved and burnt their threats into her skin.
The drive was short and uneventful. They stopped in front of the Hotel Terminus which stood next to the Perrache railway station. A strange choice of headquarters, Giselle noted, but she kept her thoughts to herself like she always did of late. Their new German bosses left them for another good hour in the hallway, where they had already lined one of the walls with chairs which seemed strangely out of place – red padded velvet. Just like everything else, they most likely commandeered them from the restaurant downstairs. One of the women took knitting out of her bag and started working on a child’s scarf. Another two were chatting quietly with each other; Giselle opened a book she had in her bag and began reading.
At last, an orderly with a bored expression invited them into one of the rooms and put their personal information into separate files.
“Wait outside. Herr Obersturmführer wants to talk to you, one by one,” he informed the secretaries, motioning them towards the door.
In the room which the Germans had turned into their main office, everything was still very French and gave off a feeling of hospitality that one could only find at the best hotels in the country. Everything – starting with the gleaming parquet floors, to the walls, hung with blue toile de Jouy; the beautifully-carved oak furniture; the wrought-iron balcony outside; the clock with the bronze ornaments on its face; and the crystal lamp hanging down from the ceiling – radiated the feeling of reputability and peace.
Giselle noticed a plain-clothed man, who stood so quietly in the far corner, half-hidden by the heavy dark-blue velvet drape, that if he hadn’t raised his hand, with a cigarette in it, to his mouth, she’d never have seen him in the first place.
“Sit down, please.”
Very good French, barely detectable accent. Soft, almost shy smile, wavy dark hair brushed back, tailored suit – he appeared almost nice, charming even. It was when he finally looked her in the eyes, a sly, cruel gleam passing through them for only one imperceptible instant, that Giselle recognized the cold, savage power in them. Only murderers had such eyes, and he was the stock image of a murderer.
She obliged him with a smile and sat where he indicated. He offered her his cigarette case; Giselle took one and allowed him to light it for her.
“Merci.”
“De rien.” He perched on the edge of the desk in front of her. “My name is Klaus Barbie.”
“Sophie Benoît.” She didn’t bother adding ‘a pleasure to meet you’ after offering him her name.
“Well, Mademoiselle Benoît, straight to business then?”
“The man who brought us here said that the work will be the same.”
“It’s not the work that I was referring to.” He let a pause hang for some time, fixing the unblinking gaze of his glacial eyes on Giselle once again. She held it with almost defiant confidence. “You see, we’re new to this town. We don’t know anyone here just yet. You seem like a smart woman.”
Giselle smoked in silence, not showing any interest in what he was about to propose. She already suspected exactly what it would be.
“We need people – good, trustworthy people – who will report to us anything that… needs to be reported.” He gave her a peculiar look, making sure she understood what he meant.
“In other words, you need les corbeaux.” Crows were the official term for those who sold their own kind for the German Reichsmarks. Rats were how Giselle liked to call them.
“Informers,” he offered her a slightly different term. “Don’t get me wrong, I understand very well your national pride and all, but, Mademoiselle Benoît, we aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and you probably don’t do too well with your ration card alone. We pay cash.”
“What would I do with that cash?” Giselle broke into laughter, which sounded almost sincere. “Buy something in the Marché Noir and get arrested by the very people who I work for?”
“Bien sûr no, Mademoiselle Benoît.” He laughed together with her. His laughter came out more natural than hers, which Giselle didn’t like. He could make himself almost much too likable when he wanted, and she knew those Germans well enough to expect the worst from those who looked the kindest. Those were the most ruthless of murderers, and the worst part was that one couldn’t possibly know what – and when – to expect from them. “We can be very lenient to the people who are useful to us, and you have a chance to learn that yourself.”
She wanted to tell him where he could shove his “generous offer” but instead only took a long drag on her cigarette. He was right about one thing; they, the Gestapo, weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and it would be stupid of her to antagonize their chief during their very first meeting.
“I have to think about your proposal,” Giselle replied, at last, shaking the ash into the ashtray which Barbie gallantly moved towards her.
“But of course. You don’t have to agree right away. As a matter of fact, you don’t even have to agree at all. Just come to me when you learn something interesting or overhear something that might be of use to us. That’s all I’m asking of you. No one is making you into a collabo, Mademoiselle Benoît. I wanted to ask you before anyone because I really do need help, and I’m sure that you know of people without whom the good city of Lyon won’t suffer. Crooks, thieves who steal from honest members of society to profit on their hard-earned money… Perhaps, even some of the collaborators as well.”
Giselle’s head shot up. That was certainly something new.
He caught onto her response and grinned a
sweet, boyish grin at her.
“No, you didn’t mishear me. We don’t just favor everyone who announces their alliance to us. Greedy pigs who steal from the Jews instead of obeying the laws of the Aryanization are subject to prosecution, as well. We aren’t all savages as you will see for yourself very soon, Mademoiselle Benoît. We’re mere bureaucrats who do everything by the book. And my department is probably the most boring of all.” He chuckled, lowering his eyes, looking almost like a good friend with a good sense of humor. “Yes, give me the ones who you know aren’t good people. I trust your judgment; you seem like a smart woman. I need smart women. Help me if you can, please? And don’t fret; no one has to know about our collaboration. I don’t kiss and tell.”
Giselle nodded slowly and couldn’t help but grin in reply to his charming and open smile. Merde. He was far too nice.
Paris, November 1942
Jean Dorin finished his shift at the factory as usual, but instead of heading straight home he made a much-needed thirty-minute detour and now rode his bicycle along familiar streets, from time to time feeling the wrap under his arm. A roll of cheese, a bottle of aperitif and three cans of sardines (in olive oil!) – that night the man everyone knew under the nickname of Vicar, due to the permanent look of saintly crookedness around him, no doubt was particularly generous, reselling the “stuff that fell off some truck” just around the corner of Avenue de Vincennes. Jean’s scruffy face was nearly beaming under the meager light of the lamp-posts, which threw off blueish shadows over his sharp, dark features. Brigitte might be so grateful to him for putting such delicacies on their table that she might just do with him what she did when he managed to get her some ox meat for Bastille Day. Jean was very much hoping for the same treatment.
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