by Sharon Maas
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and followed Marie-Claire into the kitchen, filled now with the calming fragrance of a baking apple pie. Victoire, busy sweeping flour from the floor, looked up. ‘Maman!’ she cried. ‘You were gone for ages – I was so worried! Did they… Oh, hello, Marie-Claire!’
‘Yes, it’s me. And I just wish someone would tell me—’
‘They came to see what’s what here, stomp around, throw their weight around a little and show who’s boss,’ said Margaux, her tone now softer. She looked at Marie-Claire with what she hoped was a reconciliatory expression. ‘We’ve got a German administration now and they’re taking an inventory of all the vineyards and farms. Requisitioning things. Houses and livestock and harvests – and even people.’
‘People? What do you mean?’ Marie-Claire sat herself down on a kitchen chair, hitched up her skirt, and placed her right perfectly formed calf over her knee. Massaging her right foot, wriggling her toes, she stared at her mother with wide-open eyes. ‘How can they requisition people?’
‘Not you,’ said Margaux, holding back a sarcastic (and not so witty, considering the circumstances) ‘thankfully’. She had to stop it. She had to be a better mother. More loving. More kind. Kindness was what would help Marie-Claire the most. A kind mother. A kind mother might diminish that obsession she had with her father.
‘Jews,’ she said. ‘They are looking for Jews.’
‘Well, thank goodness we aren’t Jews,’ said Marie-Claire.
‘But Leah is, and—’ Victoire, drying her hands on a ragged towel next to the sink, began, but stopped abruptly when Margaux, standing behind Marie-Claire, narrowed her eyes fiercely and mouthed, ‘Shut up!’
‘It has to be top secret between us,’ Margaux had told her. ‘Just you and me, and maybe a few other select allies. The fewer people who know, the less chance there is of someone blabbering out of turn. Marie-Claire especially. You know how she likes to gossip.’
‘…and I worry about her,’ Victoire finished lamely now. ‘All right, I’m off. The chickens need to be locked up.’ She left the kitchen through the back door, leaving her sister to Margaux.
Marie-Claire, sitting at the table and carefully rolling down her stocking, said, ‘Well, I do feel sorry for her – I like Leah – but surely she should have left Alsace long ago, when the Germans first marched into France. Everyone knows that now the Germans are in Alsace they’ll do one of those Jew-clearing manoeuvres they’ve been doing in German towns. So Colmar will be Jew-free as well. What a bore. I would have left, if I were Jewish. You just pack your bags and go. She’s only herself to blame.’
‘How can you be so glib about it, Marie-Claire? What about the Zuckermanns, and the Cohns? They are our friends!’
‘Yes, I know, Maman, and it’s a bother, but these things happen in wars. She can still go somewhere else in the south of France for a while and return when the war is over. That’s what people in the Mairie are saying. It’s perfectly all right.’
‘Easy for you to say, Marie-Claire.’
Marie-Claire, immune to her mother’s criticism, only shrugged, and changed the subject. ‘Anyway, you said they requisitioned the wine. Not all of it, surely? Not…’
She gave her mother a conspiratorial smile.
Margaux returned the smile. ‘No, not that. That’s well hidden.’
‘Good,’ said Marie-Claire. ‘Papa will be pleased to know. It was a brilliant idea of his, to build that wall and secret cellar. At least the best wine is safe.’
Margaux bristled. ‘It might have been his idea originally but we all built that wall and helped to hide the wine. We worked as a team, if you remember.’
‘Yes, I remember, and I also remember you calling Papa a fool because he warned that Hitler would start a new war. He said that years ago and nobody believed him. And as you can see, Papa was right. I remember very well how you used to argue that there would not be a war. But Papa knew it, even back then.’
‘You don’t have to bring that up every single time, Marie-Claire!’ said Margaux. ‘We are living in perilous times.’ It was her turn to change the subject. ‘By the way – how did your job-hunting go today? Any luck?’
Marie-Claire shook her head.
‘Nobody’s hiring. The situation is just too precarious. Nobody wants a lowly secretary. I went to the people you told me to and everyone said no. So it looks as if I’m going to have to mope around here again. Unless…’
‘Unless what, Marie-Claire?’
‘Well, we’ve been told there’s a staff meeting tomorrow. You heard what that awful man, the Ortsgruppenleiter, said. We’ve all got to turn up at the Mairie tomorrow. I suppose he’s going to officially fire us all. But there’s a rumour they’re going to keep a few of us.’
‘But you wouldn’t want to work for the Nazis anyway.’
Marie-Claire shrugged.
‘A job’s a job, isn’t it? Why not?’
‘Marie-Claire! I can’t believe you said that! Who in their right mind would work for the Nazis?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Maman. I’m just a secretary. It’s not as if I’d be planning bomb attacks or… I don’t know. To invade England or Spain, or inviting Hitler and serving him wine, or something.’
‘Any kind of collaboration with the Germans is abhorrent. You should know that.’
‘Oh, Maman. You do exaggerate. But anyway, I’m not at all interested, so you don’t have to worry. What I’ve been thinking, on the other hand, is that this is a good time to move to Paris after all. I’m sure I could get a good job there, and…’
Margaux glared at Marie-Claire. ‘You. Are. Not. Going. To. Paris. Get that into your pretty little head. Not before you’re twenty-one and can do as you like. And anyway, Paris is not the Paris of your fantasies. Paris is in Nazi claws now.’
‘Paris will always be Paris,’ said Marie-Claire. ‘It’s a certain… je ne sais quoi. Not even the Nazis can destroy that.’
‘Don’t underestimate the Nazis,’ said Margaux. ‘Pure evil is contaminating. But…’ she took a deep breath and straightened her back. ‘But good will win in the end. And Marie-Claire…’
She paused. Marie-Claire, massaging her left foot, which now rested on her right knee, looked up at the pause.
‘Yes?’
‘I think you and I should call a truce. All this squabbling, all this tension between us – we have bigger things to worry about now, and we all need to pull together as a team, as a family. You and me, we’re not enemies. We’ve got a real enemy at our doorstep and we need to focus on that – together, united. I don’t want to be fighting you as well.’
‘You wouldn’t have to fight me if you’d just send me to Paris,’ said Marie-Claire. ‘But… well, I suppose you’re right. In his last letter Papa said Paris is not what it used to be. You can’t even go out at night because of the blasted curfews and everything is rationed.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to wait till the war’s over. Such a bother.’
‘So then – a truce? You and me?’ Margaux held out a hand. Marie-Claire took it. Their eyes met, and then Margaux gave it a great yank, pulling Marie-Claire to her feet, drawing her close, into a hug. Marie-Claire stiffened, and then relaxed, allowing her mother to embrace her, but not returning the hug.
‘I do love you, you know!’ whispered Margaux. ‘You’re still my daughter, my eldest child, and we need to get along now in these terrible times.’
‘Yes, Maman. We should. But now…’ Marie-Claire wiggled her way out of the embrace. ‘Now I need to go upstairs and get out of these clothes and have a bath. Excuse me.’
She pecked her mother on the cheek, bent down to pick up her shoes, and a second later, she was gone, leaving Margaux alone in the kitchen.
‘Marie-Claire, Marie-Claire, Marie-Claire.’ Margaux slowly shook her head in frustration as she repeated her daughter’s name. She cleared away the rest of the apple pie, and said aloud, ‘Well, at least we called a truce.�
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Eight
Marie-Claire coasted down the last hill before the straight stretch of road into Ribeauvillé, and pedalled into the village. It hadn’t been easy, at first, riding a bicycle wearing two-inch heels, but she had taught herself a trick: tuck the pedal into the ball of the foot, just in front of the heel, and after that everything was easier. Luckily, so far November had been mild, and she didn’t mind the cool air on her bare legs; but winter was just around the corner and one day, reluctantly, she’d have to switch to boots, and they’d be ugly, now that Papa’s supply of Paris footwear had run dry. Once she reached the village, she’d catch the bus to Colmar; another futile day awaited her. This staff meeting was such a useless waste of time. She didn’t have a hope in hell of keeping her job.
Initially she’d fought Maman, who had forced her to find work, but that had been a matter of principle; in truth, she’d welcomed the opportunity to get out of the stifling chateau and away from her mother’s endless nagging and the boredom of being without an occupation. But then she’d grown to love her job, which had brought more and more responsibilities with it. She’d been the only secretary in the Ribeauvillé Mairie who was perfectly bilingual in French and German. Since the declaration of war over a year ago her translation skills had become more and more in demand, and while everyone in Alsace knew some German at least, Marie-Claire was the only one of her colleagues – apart from the mayor himself – who was equally proficient in both: a German-speaking nanny and bilingual schooling in Colmar had seen to that.
Thus had come the promotion to a job at the Colmar Mairie. They had sent her on a four-week secretarial course earlier in the year, so as to bring her bilingual typing skills up to scratch.
And so Marie-Claire was not only the best-dressed woman who worked at the Colmar Mairie: she was also the most-promoted, most in-demand secretary. Her dreams of a possible move to Paris had taken a more realistic turn. Admittedly not the Paris of her long-cherished dreams, not the City of Light that had captivated her those long seven years ago, breathed itself into every cell of her body, held her mind and heart hostage.
Wartime Paris was a shadow of its true self. A German Paris: it didn’t make sense! Paris, adorned with swastikas, its streets patrolled by soldiers! She imagined Panzers on the Champs-Élysées, troops goose-stepping along the rue de Rivoli (Papa had kept her well informed), and shuddered. No, a thousand times no!
But it would not be forever. Whether Germany won the war or not, the spirit of Paris was indomitable and would reassert itself and she, one day, would be there, basking in the limelight (admittedly, of her imagination). That future role was still quite vague, but Papa would see to it. Make sure she met the right people, was seen at the right places, made the right connections. One day she would shine, possibly as the wife of some famous person. Wives were important to important people, and she’d be married to one of those: perhaps a famous writer, or a director of the Opera, or even a statesman. Her imagination knew no bounds.
Arriving at the bus stop in Ribeauvillé, she leaned over her bicycle to lock it. Hopefully she’d not have a long wait, but the bus was very seldom on time and she was resigned to standing there along with several other villagers who worked in Colmar. It really was time she found lodgings in town. If she were lucky enough to find a job, it definitely had to be done before the winter. She knew these villagers; all were friends of her mother, and all enjoyed a little chat early in the morning. Since the invasion, the chat had all been fearful; nobody knew what was happening and, her being a former employee of the Mairie, they turned to her for answers. But she had none. Her answers were curt, dismissive; she knew no more than they did, and her future, too, was uncertain.
On the bus, Marie-Claire sat by herself, brewing in anxiety. She gazed out of the window as the bus trundled through the undulating countryside, curling around hills where the vines were now bare parallel lines hugging their contours.
Just a few weeks ago, these very vines had been covered in plump and succulent grapes: dry, white Riesling and Pinot Blanc, fruity Muscat and Gewürztraminer and light, red Pinot Noir, basking in sunlight as they ripened in late summer glory. And then the harvest; she herself had been out there picking on her mother’s hills; the vendange was her favourite time of year (wasn’t it everyone’s?) and time off work was guaranteed to every employee in the region. It was almost like a religion; in fact, for many Alsatians, the vendange was more than religion; it was a ceremony of joy and great celebration. Now, the triste landscape – for the day was grey with drizzle – was a reminder that joy and celebration were relics of the past, and no one knew what lay ahead. Trepidation nipped at her heart. The Germans had invaded the Mairie – what would it mean for her, her job, her long-term plans?
* * *
Colmar, as usual these days, was clogged with armoured vehicles, jeeps, cars festooned with swastikas. And soldiers, soldiers, soldiers. Soldiers everywhere. When the bus arrived at the stop she descended into the street, pulled at the hem of her tailored jacket (soon she’d have to wear a coat), slung the straps of her handbag over her shoulder and walked the short distance from the bus stop to the Mairie.
A few metres from the heavy front door she hesitated. Both wings of the door were adorned with swastika banners. Two soldiers stood guard; at the moment they seemed to be questioning one of her colleagues, Yvonne Duvall, another secretary. Yvonne was nodding; one of the soldiers handed her back a bundle of papers, and she walked up to the Mairie doors. That was the signal for Marie-Claire to approach, and she cautiously stepped nearer. The soldiers turned to her.
‘Papers.’ A gloved hand held out. She fished in her handbag, produced her ID and placed it in the hand.
‘You work here?’
‘Yes. I am a secretary.’
The soldier inspected the document, handed it to his colleague, who also looked closely at it as if making an internal recording of its details. He frowned as he inspected the photo, looked up at Marie-Claire as if comparing her face to the one in his hand. He then unfolded a paper of his own; Marie-Claire glimpsed a list, probably of names. The soldier scanned the list, looking, apparently, for her name. Once satisfied, he handed her back the card.
‘Very well. You may pass.’
She nodded and was about to step inside when the sound of someone calling her name made her swing around. A car had pulled up right behind her, beyond the pavement.
It was similar to the car that she’d seen yesterday blocking the driveway of her own home – or perhaps even the same one – a long black bulky thing with a small swastika flag flying from the Mercedes-Benz emblem at the crown of the hood. The same driver stood obsequiously holding open the back door… and the same man who had blocked her entry into her home yesterday, now pulling himself up straight, tugging at the hem of his jacket to straighten it, called out to her. In two long strides he was by her side on the top stone stair, his hand held out in greeting.
‘Guten Tag, Fräulein Gauthier! I am delighted to meet you again. Let me escort you into the building.’
The two guards stepped forward in unison, opening both wings of the door. Grötzinger placed his hand lightly just above Marie-Claire’s elbow, and all but thrust her through the entrance.
Nine
Marie-Claire
Grötzinger, standing at the front of the room, looked at his watch. Behind him, in a straight line, their hands linked behind their backs, all with their feet the same distance apart, chins up, blank stares into nowhere, stood five uniformed aides. The Mairie staff sat in uneasy silence, watching, waiting, in several rows of chairs.
Grötzinger coughed, shuffled the papers he held in his hand, looked at his watch again in obvious impatience. He turned around and, in a low but audible voice, said to one of the stiff-backed soldiers behind him, ‘He’s late. I’ll have to begin without him – I have other appointments.’
He cleared his throat, turned back to face the room and then said, in German, while an aide simultaneously transl
ated:
‘As some of you already know –’ here he glanced at Marie-Claire ‘– I am SS-Ortsgruppenleiter Otto Grötzinger, 19th Division, Kommandant in the Haut-Rhin département of Alsace. I would like to announce that, as of today, the Mairie will be run by a German administration of the Third Reich. We will install our own staff who will all be from Germany or at least fluent in German, replacing most of you. The Kreisleiter for the Haut-Rhin district, Herr Dietrich Kurtz, will be joining me any minute now…’ He paused here to look at his watch again. ‘…so I’ll just start with the preliminaries, to get them out of the way. We will be needing a few natives of this locality to stay on as staff, so there are going to be interviews this morning. Please will all those of you who are fluent in German step forward and announce your name. The rest of you may go home; you will not be needed. You will be generously paid your whole November salary, even though it is only mid-November, in lieu of notice.’
Marie-Claire and her colleagues, seated in rows in the assembly room, looked at each other, some frowning, some leaning close to their neighbour to whisper a few words. All shuffled in their chairs, crossed and uncrossed legs, fidgeted with fingers. Nobody said a word. Nobody rose from their seat, nobody stepped forward.
Marie-Claire bit her thumbnail, a habit she had had since her childhood, had managed to curb during the last year for vanity’s sake, but which now seemed to have suddenly returned with a vengeance. Noticing what she was doing, she pulled her hand from her mouth and sat on it, firmly. She, too, did not rise from her seat. No, she would not work for the Germans. It was too high a price to pay for retaining her job. It was out of the question.