by Sharon Maas
He’d given her the choice. He could have requisitioned a lovely mansion in one of the idyllic villages on the mountainside, in Natzwiller, or Schirmeck; she could have moved there, and they could have been together all week. Or she could stay in Strasbourg and have a weekend marriage.
It was not a difficult choice. Fortunately, he had not noticed how quick she’d been to choose the latter. He’d assumed it was because she liked the shops and the cafes and gossiping with the other wives who lived in the city; a mini Paris, as it were. As if Strasbourg could ever come close to the City of Light!
He didn’t know it was because of him. She couldn’t let him know. She hid her revulsion, played the dutiful wife. She couldn’t let him know how much it still haunted her, that day back in Colmar when he had asked her to stay longer, the same day he had proposed she come with him as his personal secretary to Strasbourg.
The five days between the weekends – they were given over to recovery, short respites between what was, in her view, three consecutive nights of legal rape. Friday, Saturday, Sunday.
As for her day-to-day relationship with Kurtz: nothing had changed, or very little. He had insisted that now, as his wife, she must address him as Dietrich, but that was all. She could easily have still called him Herr Kreisleiter, or referred to him as such when speaking of him to others (which happened seldom enough), for her role was still that of a personal assistant rather than a wife, and conversation between them continued as it always had: he asking her to do this and that, and she complying with his wishes. Occasionally, when reading an ‘interesting’ article in Der Stürmer, he would recommend it to her to read as well. And of course, he told her which visitors to expect that weekend or where he might be taking her on Saturday night (to the officers’ club, to the Edelweiss, to some colleague’s home) and what kind of behaviour would be expected of her there: If Frau Schneider asks about your family, leave the answer to me; her husband is in the Gestapo and the less they know about your family, the better. There had already been awkward questions pertaining to her family that she had managed to evade, and leave to him. Why had they not attended the wedding? Were they perhaps anti-German? And the wine, the wine: would it be possible, perhaps, to get a friendship price on the wine?
One can get used to everything, Marie-Claire had learned. It was possible to shut off one’s mind to disgust and revulsion. Many women had done it before her. Many women had been married to monsters; throughout history, ordinary women, just like her, had married beasts, and somehow survived. She too would survive. She had never thought of herself as docile before this, but there it was: she was that. Exposed, and conquered. The Marie-Claire of the past: she had been a mirage; what use now, her beauty, that practised sophistication and superiority? All gone. Consumed by the beast.
And, as it turned out, not even a baby to look forward to. Three months into her marriage a gush of blood and tissue had ended the pregnancy. Just when she had started to look forward to having a little one to distract her from the horrific reality of being married to Dietrich Kurtz, just when she had put her heart forward into imagining what it would be like: a little person, all her own; the child would be her family, her only family, replacing the one she had lost. But now she had lost the child.
And lost the only friends she had. Gertrud, Ursula, Klara and Erika were long gone, left behind in the flurry of hasty wedding preparations that had excluded them; of being whisked off to Strasbourg by an over-eager Kurtz. Yet she did not lack for women in her life. Ursula and co had been replaced by new, updated, more mature, more sophisticated editions: Helga, Gudrun and Ingeborg, the wives of her husband’s closest colleagues, had replaced the rue Stanislas ring of confidantes. Or tried to. Or were still trying to.
They were all in a similar position to herself: left alone during the week while their husbands did whatever they did up at the camp. They were all younger women, like herself, with the exception of Gudrun, who was past thirty and looked it. All, like her, married to older men of power. Unlike her, they were all ethnic German and, at least seemingly, women who relished their roles as the other-halves of men of Nazi power.
There were other young German women in Strasbourg, married to Wehrmacht officers and SS functionaries. There were older women, too, women in their thirties and forties and even fifties, women with long-term marriages, frighteningly superior: Frau Baumgärtner, Frau Schneider, Frau Habsburger; she met them at the social events Kurtz dragged her to every weekend, and at church, him claiming to be a devout Catholic, and church being obligatory for Catholics of a Sunday.
But it was the women of her own age that Marie-Claire hobnobbed with. Women with whom, under other circumstances, she’d have enjoyed shopping trips and the weekly Kaffeeklatsch. But these days there was nothing to shop; the shelves were almost bare, even in Strasbourg. The women tried to make something of the bleakness life offered; they put a brave face to the world and laughed at their current situation, because, of course, when Germany won the war it would all be different.
She met with them during the work week, when she was left alone in the sprawling fourth-floor flat of the art deco apartment building in which she now lived. She hated it. It was all so modern, so sterile, so without character! The very antithesis of Château Gauthier. But they all admired it and came to visit once or twice a week, or she went to their homes, and she had managed to get into the swing of their chatter so as not to stand out as snobbish or boring or taciturn, and they sat in cafes and, sometimes, when the husbands were home at the weekends, went to dinner parties. She had adapted and now fitted in. Marie-Claire was now an expert at adapting and fitting in.
And then there was Silke, a young woman with whom she’d struck up a conversation quite on her own during a ‘cultural evening’ they had been invited to. She and Silke had met in the ladies’ room during a pause in the musical programme; Silke had admired her dress, she had admired Silke’s earrings, and they’d taken it from there. Now she and Silke met several times a week, mostly at Silke’s home in a purpose-built apartment building just three blocks away, for, as a mother of two-year-old twins, Silke had less leisure time than Marie-Claire. Silke’s husband was a fairly high-ranking Nazi in the Strasbourg administration headed by the Gauleiter of Alsace. Marie-Claire met him, Silke’s husband, once: his name was Klaus and, unlike her own husband, he was close in age to his wife and was not only good-looking but had a charming personality. Which made Marie-Claire wonder.
She speculated, but hesitated to ask out loud, what Silke – and for that matter all the other Nazi wives – thought of the weekends. What did their husbands do to them? How did these marriages work? Did the other wives dread the weekends as much as she? Was this the lot of every married woman? Did love ever play a role? Certainly, every marriage was different, but Silke’s was of particular interest because her husband was young and good-looking and charming, and worked in Strasbourg itself. Finally, she summoned up the courage to ask.
‘How did you and Klaus meet, Silke? Did he court you for long? You seem… er, quite happy with him?’
Silke laughed gaily. ‘Oh, Klaus and I have been in love forever! We were childhood sweethearts; we got engaged when we were eighteen and married when we were twenty-one. We’ve always been hopelessly in love. He’s such a dear!’
That seemed to answer her question. And it was a fact that Klaus did not work up at the camp, which meant he did not bring home a veneer of mental grime for Silke to dispose of. Silke, she conjectured, was one of the lucky ones. If only she, Marie-Claire, had chosen more wisely, been less discriminating, she, too might have married a halfway decent man… but it was too late.
Dietrich Kurtz had made of her a shadow of herself. But she had made this bed, with her own hands, and had to lie in it. Literally.
Forty-Nine
Victoire
In retrospect, Victoire remembered the telephone’s ring as being unusually shrill. Perhaps it was only a false memory, but the fact remained that it made her jump, and sh
e dropped the bowl of soup she was carrying to the table, and it fell to the tiled floor and broke into many pieces, and soup spilled all over the floor. And why had her heart started to wildly thump? It couldn’t possibly be because of the wasted soup?
She was alone at home; she had to answer it before it stopped ringing, so she stepped over the mess on the floor, which wasn’t going anywhere, and hurried into the hallway to grab the receiver in time. Jacques’ words fell over each other, rushed through the wire, a detached volley charged with a worrisome solemnity.
‘Hello, Victoire. I’ll make this quick. I’m on my way down, calling now from Colmar. I met your maman, she’s driving me up. I’m calling an urgent meeting, this evening at eight, at Papa’s.’
‘At the Maison des Collines? Why there, Jacques? Why not here – surely…?’
‘I’ll explain tonight. I’ve got to go now.’ And he was gone.
Victoire replaced the receiver. In retrospect, she remembered a cold hand of dread clamping round her heart. Perhaps just another false memory. That’s how Juliette would interpret it. Juliette didn’t believe in unscientific things like intuition, or perceptions that came from anything other than known facts. But Victoire did. Which was why she spent the rest of that day in a state of dark disquiet, nervous energy that resulted in her cleaning up not only the debris of spilled soup and cracked bowl, but the entire kitchen until the floor and surfaces gleamed, and then launching herself on the farmyard stalls, cleaning out all the rabbit hutches and the chicken coop.
She wondered if Maman would come home first, before the meeting at Max’s home. Maman now worked as much in the little Colmar office and shop as here in her home office, meaning that Victoire saw less and less of her during the day. She often worked into the night, and was then distracted and not accessible for general conversations about the war, about the family, about anything except the business she was holding together. It was as if she had poured heart and soul into the propagation and sale of wine – and to the drinking of it. Luckily, Maman held her wine well and was never actually drunk. It was all distraction, plain to see.
Now, Victoire decided to pour herself a glass of Pinot Noir. Now that she was sixteen Maman had relaxed the rules a little bit; permission had been granted. One glass a week, on Saturdays. Today was a Thursday.
At seven o’clock Maman had not yet arrived home and so, unable to contain the tenterhooks that prevented her from sitting still, playing her clarinet, reading a book, she made her way over to the Maison des Collines, hoping that Maman and Jacques might already be there and the meeting could be brought forward. But no such luck; Maman’s van was not in the courtyard.
The Maison was a second home to Victoire, and so, with just a quick rap on the upper half of the kitchen’s split door, she entered. The kitchen was cold and empty.
‘Coo-coo!’ she called. ‘It’s me!’ and walked through to the salon. There they were, Uncle Maxence and Tante Hélène, the latter ensconced in a comfortable old settee and knitting what looked like yet another woolly hat, and Uncle Max kneeling before the Kachelowa, feeding it with kindling. Though the autumn had not yet properly arrived, it grew cold of an evening, and the cosy warmth was always welcomed.
Uncle Max looked up as she entered, and a broad smile lit up his face.
‘Victoire!’ he cried. ‘How wonderful!’
He rose to his feet and approached her with open arms, folding her into one of his legendary bear-hugs, the kind of hug that seemed to wrap itself round you and made you want to nestle there forever, all burdens lifted from your soul. Even when her father had lived at home, it had always been Uncle Max who provided this sort of immersive all-embracing sense of fatherly protection, safety. Now, after the many hours of nebulous worry, an ill-defined anxiety that had nibbled away at her spirit and finally – she now realised – stripped her bare of her inherent buoyancy, his hug seemed like a safe harbour.
He seemed to sense her disquiet, for he released her from the hug, took hold of both her arms, held her at arm’s length from him as he inspected her face.
‘What’s the matter, chérie? You look as if the dog’s eaten your dinner!’
‘I don’t know – I thought you might? Haven’t you heard from Jacques?’
‘From Jacques? No, of course not. I never hear from Jacques. What’s he done now?’
‘That’s just it – I don’t know. But he called me at home and said I should come here at eight – he and Maman are coming too. He seems to have something to tell us.’
‘I haven’t heard a thing – how could I, without a telephone. Did he say what it’s about?’
‘No, not a hint. But I have a bad feeling, Uncle Max. I don’t know why.’
He chuckled. ‘You and your feelings! I would say we don’t indulge in unfounded fears or premonitions. Come, sit down and let me get this fire going. By the time they arrive it should be nicely warm.’
Already half of her burden of dread lifted, Victoire moved over to Aunt Hélène, bent down to exchange kisses and greetings and drew up a smaller chair.
‘Who’s that hat for, Tante?’ she said, smiling. ‘I like the colours!’
‘Well, then, if you like it, it’s for you, chérie!’ said Aunt Hélène. ‘I used one of Juliette’s old pullovers for the wool – remember that red and blue one?’
‘Of course! I loved that one! I’ll take it!’
She settled into the chair and proceeded to answer a barrage of questions as to what she was up to these days. There was, of course, little news; now she had finished her Red Cross course, Victoire’s life was once again boxed in by domestic and farm duties.
‘But when the war is over I’d like to finish school and go on to be a proper nurse. Or maybe even a doctor. Juliette said there are quite a few girls studying medicine at the university. But I don’t know if I’m clever enough.’
‘Of course you are, my dear! And a doctor you shall be! You’ll be brilliant – Juliette’s right! But have you heard from her lately? I haven’t seen her all year, not since last Christmas.’
‘I expect it’s not easy to travel up from Clermont-Ferrand,’ said Victoire. Neither Uncle Max nor Aunt Hélène were aware of Juliette’s involvement in the Resistance, and Victoire was aware of the need to protect them from unnecessary anxiety. It was a little white lie she was happy to keep.
Shortly after eight Jacques and Margaux arrived. They came straight through to the salon and immediately a chill settled into the room, despite the Kachelowa’s radiant warmth. Grim, pale faces told the story: something terrible had happened.
Jacques did not bother to beat about the bush.
‘Juliette has been captured by the Gestapo,’ he said. ‘Along with Nathan.’
Tante Hélène’s gasp was almost as loud as Victoire’s shriek and Maxence’s outcry: ‘No!’
* * *
In drips and bits, the story came out. Jacques’ network of maquisards included a kitchen boy at the Black Ox public house in Natzwiller, and a baker in the same town. The entire Natzwiller area was abuzz with rumour and speculation, but in the end it had been easy to piece the story together. Juliette, already under suspicion due to a Nazi officer who had recognised her from Colmar and wondered what she was doing in Natzwiller, had been visited by a Jewish lover without papers. They had been carted off to the local prison at Schirmeck, or perhaps – speculation was rife – even to the camp at the top of the mountain. They were still there, awaiting – what?
‘What? What is the crime? What has she done? What can they try her for?’ Maxence’s anguished questions were pitiful. His fury at Jacques, once it was revealed that Juliette was part of the Maquis network, was relentless.
‘She is your sister! How could you! How dare you put her in jeopardy! Jacques, how could you!’
Jacques maintained a stoic and dispassionate exterior. ‘It was what she wanted. She wanted to be with Nathan. She wanted to fight for Alsace. Nothing I said could have ever dissuaded her.’
‘But w
hat now? What will become of her? Where will they send her?’
‘We don’t know, Papa. Trust me, I am doing all I can to find out.’
‘Can’t you rescue her, Jacques? You and your maquisards? Can’t you break into the camp and find her and get her out? Her and Nathan? I thought you went around bombing places? Surely this is a job for you?’ Victoire wanted to know.
Jacques shook his head. ‘Security there is impossible to get around, Victoire. Guards everywhere, in towers along the fence and marching around the place as if they owned the mountain. The camp’s in a double enclosure of tightly spaced barbed wire, each four metres high. The inner one is electrified. There’s no way we can get in. No way anyone can get out. We can’t even get near, to throw in a bomb or two. It’s unsurmountable.’
‘But what is her crime? Was she caught spying? You said she was arrested in her bed, with Nathan?’
‘That is crime enough, Papa. They call it Blutschande in Nazi Germany – blood disgrace. Any non-Jewish person having intimate relations with Jews is guilty of it. The consequences are extreme – it’s as bad as being a Jew, according to Nazi law.’
Victoire, bent over double, face buried in her hands, let out an anguished cry. Jacques rubbed her back. She flung her arms round him, and sobbed: