by Sharon Maas
‘So, then, nobody speaks fluent German? Niemand spricht Deutsch? That’s very strange.‘
He scanned the faces, pale, anxious faces staring blankly at him from the three rows of chairs. His gaze came to rest on Marie-Claire.
‘But, Fräulein Gauthier – I believe you are the exception? Didn’t we speak German together earlier this morning?’
Marie-Claire squirmed in her seat. It was true. It had all happened so quickly since meeting Grötzinger on the Mairie’s doorstep this morning. As they entered the building he had made some small talk, and then nominated her as his messenger, telling her to go through the entire building requesting that the staff gather here in the assembly room. There had been no time for the usual early-morning gossip and exchange of news, or even of greetings. It had been all, ‘Vite, vite, we’re having a meeting’.
But: he had spoken to her in German. She had understood, replied in kind, and this had revealed her to be one of the bilingual members of staff.
Now, she mumbled, in German: ‘Yes, I do speak a little, but…’
‘Well then. I hope this does not mean you would be disloyal to the administration of Colmar. It will all be much better if we have the cooperation of everyone. So, now: anyone else? This is the perfect chance for you to retain your employment. We need bilingual staff. Please raise your hands if you are eligible.’
Marie-Claire looked behind and around her. Pale, stony faces stared back at Grötzinger. Not a single raised hand.
‘Well, then, I will have to interview you all one by one. First of all, though: which of you is the mayor?’
Involuntarily all heads turned to look at Monsieur Tailler, who sat in the middle of the first row; he was a pleasant, grey-haired but balding man in his mid-fifties. He had once been a jovial, pot-bellied charmer of a fellow, a popular mayor, but the last years had wiped the joviality from his face and demeanour and written lines of worry into his face. He had aged ten years in two. Now, after a short pause, he raised his hand.
‘Stehen Sie auf, Herr Bürgermeister!’
Obediently, M. Tailler rose to his feet.
‘So, I see you do understand German,’ said Grötzinger, in German. ‘What a surprise. And yes, that was ironic. Now, Herr Bürgermeister, I want you to address your colleagues, or should I say former colleagues, and tell them that as of today they are all expected to speak German; German is now your native language as Alsace is now a part of Germany, just as it was before the previous war. The province was stolen from us in an act of despicable, not to mince words, legalised looting as a punitive territorial measure imposed by our enemies in that fraudulent document known as the Treaty of Versailles.
‘Now that Alsace is back where it belongs, in German hands, certain measures are imperative in order to sustain loyalty and patriotism among the people. Later on I’m going to distribute a small booklet with the most basic words and useful phrases, and they must take it from there. They must inform their fellow citizens.
‘Also, a German teacher will be sent to each village to give classes for those unfamiliar with the language, and to help others perfect it. Alsace is now a part of the German state of Baden, and full integration is required. All the schools will of course be re-programmed. The children will be taught in German and the German school curriculum will be introduced. There will be a short adaptation period, after which speaking French will be an offence that will incur a fine. Furthermore, all citizens of Alsace must now adopt German names and register them here next week once we have got the system running. Also, all male citizens of Alsace under the age of thirty-five must register in Colmar for potential active military duty.’
Nervous shuffling went through the gathering; this order would affect all the men present except the mayor himself; and all the women certainly had husbands, sons, brothers who might now be called up.
Grötzinger had by now warmed to his topic and forgotten entirely the original purpose, the weeding-out of non-German speakers in the gathering. Clearly, this was a man who liked the sound of his own voice, a man who saw himself as something of an orator, inspired, perhaps, by the German Führer himself.
‘I see some long faces,’ he boomed, ‘what is wrong with you people? Clearly you are lacking both in a knowledge of history and in patriotism. Alsace will always be German; you should be proud of that fact, proud to be citizens of the greatest and most powerful nation of all time. We have already swept through France and won full capitulation. We are all looking forward to a German Europe, a better Europe, a Europe, and indeed a world, led by the most forward-thinking, the most progressive, the most powerful, the most culturally advanced race the world has ever seen. Let us look forward to Europa Germanica – a continent united by a common language, a continent designed to rule the entire world…’
On and on he blustered, becoming more passionate with each sentence, each word. Marie-Claire watched in fascination as drops of spittle spewed from his lips as he spoke, and his face turned as red as gammon, and his eyes narrowed to slits, and his forehead grew shiny with sweat. She suppressed an inappropriate giggle – the man was, really, a caricature of the leader he was quite obviously trying to emulate. But then, this wasn’t a giggling matter. He also, quite obviously, believed in his own bluster – and what if it were true?
Marie-Claire had never quite taken the war seriously up to now. In spite of her mother’s warning words and her father’s actually lived experience in a Paris invaded by the German army, she had somehow managed to maintain the belief that it all wasn’t real; that this was all just an annoying interruption, and life would soon return to normal and she, at last, could escape to Paris. Nobody had been able to convince her otherwise. After all, no bombs had dropped in Alsace. No artillery had taken up positions in the idyllic hills surrounding her home. The nightmare people spoke of – it was so far away, conveyed to them all by disembodied voices over the wireless. Her mother tuned in each evening – illegally – to the BBC but the newscasts telling of the German threat – well, it all seemed so far away.
But now here it was, in tangible, human form; yesterday on her doorstep, today in her place of work. With this spitting, ranting, beast Grötzinger the war had caught up with her at last. And with that realisation the giggle she had tried to suppress turned into a sob, one that could not be withheld, one that, against her will, emerged as an awkward and very audible gulp.
At that very moment the door at the back of the room swung open. A man entered: straight, tall, wearing the light brown uniform – jodhpurs, high black boots, tunic and visored cap – as well as the swastika armband of the Nazi Party. Unlike Grötzinger, this interloper exuded authority. Bluster was not part of his make-up. He strode to the front of the room, nodded coldly at Grötzinger and turned to the captive audience, clicking his heels together and giving the hint of a bow.
‘Guten Morgen, Herr Bürgermeister, staff, of the Colmar Rathaus. I am Kreisleiter Dietrich Kurtz. I apologise for my late arrival but I trust Herr Ortsgruppensleiter Grötzinger…’ here, a slight bow in Grötzinger’s direction ‘…will have brought you up to date with the changes to be made in this Rathaus. Thank you, Herr Grötzinger. I will take over the meeting now. How far have you informed the staff of the changes to come?’
Thus from the moment he entered the room, the Kreisleiter, though considerably younger than Grötzinger, demonstrated his superior rank. The latter did all but grovel – a clear indicator that true authority derives not from age and not only from rank, but from personality. Kurtz exuded authority. Dominance radiated from him like a magnetic force, impossible to resist. Even his outer appearance demonstrated that here was a man not to be trifled with. His uniform – the brown jodhpurs and tunic with a wide belt at the waist – was impeccable, unsullied by even a speck of dust, stiff as if newly starched. His knee-length boots, black as ebony, were polished to a high shine, and even the silver buttons down the front of his tunic, the braiding above the visor of his cap, glistened. Beneath the cap, blond bristles covered
the back of his head, as if he had been shaved down to the scalp and his hair was just growing back. The same blond bristles formed a pencil moustache above thin lips that looked as if they’d never once smiled. His head itself was bullet-shaped, resting on a thick neck only slightly narrower than the face itself, straight up from neck to skull at the rear. A formidable man.
Grötzinger replied in German and they continued in that language.
‘Ahh-ahm – I have tried to identify the German speakers, ahh…’
‘And who are they?’
Grötzinger pointed at Marie-Claire. ‘This young lady, Fräulein Gauthier, for one, has identified herself as a fluent German speaker.’
Kurtz turned to look at her. She quivered under his gaze; it seemed to dissect her, pull her apart into small pieces to assess her worthiness. At last he spoke, still in German, addressing her directly.
‘What are your skills, Fräulein Gauthier? Can you type? Do shorthand?’
Like Grötzinger before her, Marie-Claire could only stutter a reply.
‘Y-y-y-yes, Herr Kreisleiter, I h-h-had secretarial training.’
‘Excellent. And typing – what are your speeds?’
She told him, regaining a little confidence. She had excelled at her shorthand and typing course in Colmar last May, the best in the class, and on the job she’d only improved. She had initially balked against her mother’s decision for her to take up a job, but in the end had seen it as a good thing – a possible exit manoeuvre out of the home and into the big wide world. Colmar was just a stepping-stone; they’d surely need secretaries in Paris, even in wartime.
Without being asked, she added, ‘It was bilingual secretarial training, Herr Kreisleiter.’
‘Indeed! Do you know the Einheitskurzschrift, German shorthand, so that you can take dictation in German?’
‘Yes, Herr Kreisleiter.’
A hint of a smile flickered on the thin line of his lips, and he nodded in approval. ‘Excellent, excellent. I’ll see you later. As for the rest of the staff – who else is fluent in German?’
Unlike Grötzinger before him, he put this question in that language, and this time the response was impressive. Several hands rose, hesitantly, their owners furtively glancing around to see who else had made the admission; to ensure that those who should confess had done so; to ensure that nobody among them escaped the dilemma they all faced: lose one’s job, or work for the hated enemy, a traitor to France.
Marie-Claire suddenly felt deep, hot shame, felt the blood rising to her face and knew she must have turned beetroot red. Why had she done that? Why had she added that last bit of information, as if this was a desirable job she was eager to assume, as if she had not, with those words, identified herself as a collaboratrice, willing, perhaps even eager, to work for the enemy? The words had jumped from her lips almost without her permission; almost as if some subconscious voice within her had spoken out against her conscious will. She hadn’t meant to say them, didn’t want to work for the Germans. Yet she’d now put herself forward, and would have to deal with the consequences.
Kurtz spoke again, in excellent French, his voice an authoritative boom that did not allow for dissent.
‘All those who did not raise their hands may now leave; your salaries for this month will be paid as usual, in full, but for the last time. You are dismissed. In addition, all men who raised their hands may leave except you, Herr Bürgermeister; I’ll see you later.’
Staff, most of the women and all of the men, began to stand up, make their way towards the door, watched in silence by Kurtz. Marie-Claire hung her head. She could not bear to watch this culling of her former colleagues; she knew instinctively that today she had done something that would make her the subject of village gossip for months to come, whispered among the housewives: ‘She always was a bit snooty, wasn’t she? Always thought herself a cut above the rest of us. A bit too ambitious, I always thought. No wonder she wants to work for the bloody Germans. Putting herself forward like that! Her mother should be ashamed of her.’
Her mother. Word would get back to her mother, most definitely: word that she’d made a spectacle of herself, showing off in front of the Germans in order to bag a job working for the despicable enemy. Traitor! Collaboratrice! That’s what they’d all call her, and Maman would be furious.
Just when she’d believed they were about to make peace, she had done this thing. It was one thing to have been selected, against one’s will, to work for them; what she had done was practically to volunteer. She should have bitten off her tongue rather than speak those disloyal words. She noticed one or two women whom she knew to be fluent in German leaving with the rest. That was what she should have done, instead of boasting that she was bilingual; practically begging for the job.
Kurtz was speaking again: ‘The rest of you ladies, you can return to your usual desks. I’ll be interviewing you one at a time for the rest of the morning. Fräulein Gauthier!’
She snapped to attention as he barked her name, and gaped at him.
‘Ja, Herr Kreisleiter?’
‘I’ll be interviewing you first in the former Bürgermeister’s office, wherever that is. Be there in fifteen minutes. Herr Ortsgruppenleiter, let’s go there now. I want to have a preliminary word with you.’
Kurtz’s command was absolute. People fell into line when he opened his mouth. They obeyed. They collapsed. She, too, Marie-Claire noticed, had collapsed, and, right now, so did Grötzinger. It was extraordinary. The only other person Marie-Claire had ever met who possessed that gift of authority was her mother, but even Margaux’s inherent bossiness – as Marie-Claire would describe it – faded into mediocrity against the sheer power of Kurtz’s personality. His dominance radiated from him as the pull of a magnet. It was not a question of liking or disliking him, or what he stood for, or which words he spoke: it was him, the man himself, who possessed that domination, and Marie-Claire found it at once terrifying and fascinating. She couldn’t help staring at him. Everyone did.
Ten
On the dot Marie-Claire turned up at M. Tailler’s former office and knocked on the door.
‘One moment,’ came the call from within. She waited beside the door. And waited. After ten minutes, it opened and a red-faced Grötzinger emerged, stripped of his own authority. She stepped aside. He glanced at her and said, ‘You may enter.’ She did.
There were two men in the office. One was M. Tailler, who stood before the bookcase on the wall behind the big oak desk in the middle of the room, removing his personal books, packing a crate that stood on the floor at his feet. M. Tailler turned as she entered, gave Marie-Claire a nod and a half-smile; sadness weighed heavy in his eyes. Marie-Claire wanted to say something, commiserate, make some remark about how terrible these changes were and how upset she was to see him go, but she couldn’t because right there in the chair behind the desk sat her new chief of staff, Herr Kreisleiter Kurtz.
Kurtz did not look up as she entered, did not in any way acknowledge her presence. He was speaking on the phone; or rather, listening on the phone, nodding every now and then while uttering a ja, completely ignoring both M. Tailler and, now, Marie-Claire. Now and then, an outraged das ist ja Unsinn! That’s nonsense! He slammed down the phone, picked up the receiver, dialled again. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ he said, nodded several times while listening intently, the telephone receiver in his left hand. With his right hand, he picked up a rather ornate fountain pen, moved it slowly across the open page of a large ledger, and his eyes fixed on that page, murmuring, ja, ja, as he wrote.
Marie-Claire, uncertain as to what to do, did nothing. She stood before the desk, hands fidgeting behind her back, waiting for her presence to be acknowledged, or even noticed. She watched the hand moving across the paper, slowly, deliberately, the thick fingers like sausages.
She tried to read the words the Kreisleiter was writing, but not only were they upside down, she was too far away. They were neat, though, each letter meticulously penned with surgical precisio
n. Once, instead of ja, he said: ‘Can you spell that for me?’, after which he slowly and precisely copied down what was obviously the dictation of a series of letters. And now and then outrage crept into his voice and he spluttered, Unsinn! Nonsense!
M. Tailler placed a few framed photos into the box. Kurtz still being engaged on the phone, M. Tailler nodded once in his direction, once in Marie-Claire’s, bent down to pick up the box, cradled it to his waist and walked to the door. Once there, he turned back as if to take leave of his successor of the office, but even now Kurtz did not raise his eyes from what he was doing. He did, momentarily, raise his hand from the ledger, though: he gave it a quick flick, as if to say, be gone. M. Tailler was out the door, leaving Marie-Claire alone with the Kreisleiter.
Finally, Kurtz spoke a few words of thanks and dismissal into the phone, replaced the receiver onto the body of the apparatus, blotted the page of the ledger he had been writing on, and closed it. He slowly and deliberately slid the blotting paper into a shallow drawer on the underside of the desk, picked up the ledger and placed it to the left side of the desk, screwed the cap onto the fountain pen and put it carefully in an upright pen-holder, which he placed in what seemed like precisely calculated alignment with the position of the ledger, then placed the telephone in equidistance to the other items on the desk. Each movement was slow, precise, meticulously executed, without a single glance at Marie-Claire.
At last, he was finished. He looked up, straightened himself on his chair as he drew it closer to the desk, placed both hands on the desk in front of himself, fingers and thumbs touching.
His gaze as he met hers was stony and penetrating and Marie-Claire found herself involuntarily shivering, but not from cold.
‘Fräulein Gauthier,’ he said. ‘You may take a seat.’