The Collaborators
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Janine demurred at the knife.
‘He’s far too young. He’ll cut himself.’
‘Nonsense!’ said her cousin. ‘Me, I was carrying daggers and knuckle-dusters at his age!’
This reference to his criminal past, far from offending Louise, provoked her into peals of laughter. But she went on to say, ‘Janine’s right. He’s too young for a knife.’
Pauli said, ‘Maman, it’s not all a knife. It’s got all kinds of things.’
He demonstrated, pulling out one after another a corkscrew, a bottle-opener, a screw-driver, a gimlet.
‘I can’t cut myself with these,’ he said earnestly. ‘If I promise not to open the blade till I’m old enough, can I keep it? Please, maman?’
He fixed his unblinking wide-eyed gaze upon her, not beseeching, but inviting her to retreat before the logic of his argument.
As usual, there seemed nothing else to do.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Only, Pauli, I’ll decide when you’re old enough, you understand?’
‘Yes, maman.’
‘Then promise.’
‘I promise,’ he said solemnly.
‘Janine, are you sure? He’s only a child,’ protested Louise. ‘You’re far too soft, I always said.’
‘Except when you said I was too hard,’ retorted Janine.
This small crack in good will was smoothly papered over by Hélène, who said, ‘Isn’t it lovely to see them opening their presents? I just long to have children of my own, Janine. You’re so lucky to have this beautiful pair.’
She sounded as if she meant it and Janine found herself warming to her. Soon they were deep in domestic conversation, while Madame Crozier busied herself being the perfect hostess, and Boucher and Monsieur Crozier talked nostalgically about the great cyclists of the thirties. One thing that no one mentioned was the immediate past or the foreseeable future. The Paris - indeed the France - that lay outside the door might not have existed. Christmas, always a game, was being played with extra fervour this year.
Only a child to whom all play is reality could not grasp the rules of this game. Pauli ate his dinner silently, and drank his wine and water, and looked after his little sister who still found it hard to discriminate between nose and mouth. And all the time he hardly ever took his eyes off Michel Boucher. But Janine knew, and the knowledge wrenched her heart, that it was his father he was seeing.
And now her own father, as if catching the thought, broke the rules too and said quietly when Pauli had taken his sister to the lavatory, ‘Any news of Jean-Paul?’
Janine shook her head. Boucher said, ‘That man of yours not turned up yet? That’s lousy. Have you tried the Red Cross?’
‘I’ve tried everything,’ said Janine dully. She listed all her channels of enquiry. Hélène put her hand over hers and squeezed sympathetically, while Boucher snorted his opinion of civil servants and bureaucracy.
Then Louise came in with brandy and chocolates and the subject was shelved.
When the time came for the visitors to go, Janine showed them out. After he had put Hélène in the car, Miche came back to the shop doorway and kissed her in a fairly cousinly manner.
‘It’s been great today,’ he said.
‘That’s good, Miche. And it was lovely having you and Hélène here.’
‘Yeah. Surprising too, eh?’ He laughed. ‘I saw your face! Thing is I’ve always liked your dad. He’s been good to me over the years, more than the rest of you know. All the family I’ve got, you Croziers. It was meeting Hélène that made me realize a man needed a family. So when I started doing well enough to get round Auntie Lou, I thought, what the hell. I can put up with her funny little ways.’
‘I’m glad, Miche. You and Hélène are really serious then?’
‘Do me a favour!’ he said. ‘I’m too young to be really serious. But serious enough. Look, Jan, none of my business, but about Jean-Paul, if you like I’ll have a word with my new boss, see if he can help.’
‘Your new boss. Who’s that, Miche?’ asked Janine suspiciously.
‘Doesn’t matter, if he can help, does it?’ laughed Boucher. ‘And if he can’t, then it doesn’t matter either. I’ll be in touch. Hey, what are you doing on New Year’s Eve? Fancy going to a party?’
‘I don’t think so, Miche,’ said Janine. ‘I’m not really in the party mood at the moment.’
‘No? On second thoughts, you probably wouldn’t enjoy this one anyway,’ he said with a grin. ‘Cheers, kids. Pauli, you look after your mother now. Wiedersehen!’
And as Janine frowned her displeasure, he smiled, shrugged and said, ‘When in Rome, sweetie, do like they do in Berlin. Leb’wohl!
8
So the year drew to its close. Winter like the Germans came swiftly, hit hard, felt as if it was here to stay.
‘I’ll tell you something, Günter,’ said Major Zeller. ‘I never thought it would be so easy.’
‘Victory, you mean?’
‘No. Not victory in the field, anyway. It was always possible that that would be easy. No, the remarkable thing is the degree to which we have got ourselves accepted. More than accepted. Welcomed! I actually feel at home in this city, a visitor rather than a conqueror.’
He paused, then went on, ‘It would please me, Günter, if from time to time as I spoke to you, that you gave a little nod of agreement or let something other than lugubrious doubt light up that gamekeeper face of yours.’
‘Sorry,’ said Mai.
‘You don’t agree?’
‘It’s early days, sir,’ said Mai. ‘You knock a man down, he may be concussed and in shock for a long time afterwards. He may even believe that he didn’t really mind being knocked down. But you’d better wait till he’s fully himself again before deciding if you really want him holding the ladder while you’re cleaning windows.’
Zeller regarded him curiously.
‘Cleaning windows? How quaint you sometimes are, Günter. I do hope you will not put your quaintness forward as official Abwehr thinking tonight. The SD are keen enough to undermine us without giving them ammunition in the Embassy.’
‘I’ll try to remember my manners, sir. I expect in any case I’ve only been invited to hand out drinks to the distinguished foreign guests. Is Monsieur Melchior attending on our ticket, by the way?’
A glittering New Year reception was being held at the Embassy. All the main sections of the Occupying Authority had been asked to submit suggestions for the guest list. Mai knew very well that there was more chance of Zeller suggesting Winston Churchill than Melchior. The major was still being ribbed by officers in those units put on alert for the non-existent midnight disturbances. He was convinced that somehow the SD had been behind the fiasco to make the Abwehr look ridiculous. Mai didn’t discount the possibility but didn’t reckon Melchior would have had the nerve to fool Zeller knowingly.
‘I should prefer not to hear that revolting creature’s name mentioned, lieutenant,’ said Zeller dangerously. ‘I don’t know where he’s been hiding for the past weeks, but when he finally crawls out of his hole, he’s going to wish he’d burrowed down the centre of the earth.’
Going to give him a spanking, are we? thought Mai. But the look on his superior’s face convinced him it would be unwise even to hint he found the matter more amusing than tragic.
That night as he stood in the most obscure corner of the huge reception room in the Embassy, feeling itchy and uncomfortable in his dress uniform, he wondered if perhaps Zeller hadn’t been right about one thing. Looking round the glittering assembly, it was easy to believe that all the richest, most influential members of the Parisian ruling classes were here. Women in elegant billows of silk and satin, necks and bosoms gleaming with gold or dazzling with diamonds; men in tail-suits that actually fitted, some with the medals of other campaigns in other wars pinned proudly on their chests; smiling, dancing, drinking, joking with their conquerors. Could it be that Zeller was right? Could they not only have won the war, but somehow managed to win the peace?
As if summoned by his thoughts, the major appeared. He looked vital, assured, handsome, a true conqueror.
‘Enjoying yourself, Günter? The perfect end to a perfect year, wouldn’t you say? Triumph after triumph! There’s been nothing like it since Augustan Rome!’
‘Remember, you are mortal, major.’
‘What?’
‘Didn’t the Romans use to set a slave close behind the conqueror in his triumph to whisper as he acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, Remember, you are mortal?’
‘Did they? And is that the role you think God’s allocated you?’ said Zeller sarcastically. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. Basically you’re too arrogant a bastard to think of yourself as a slave.’
Mai smiled. He wasn’t about to be provoked into a public row with his superior. That kind of fight was no-contest.
In any case, he definitely hadn’t been picked to remind Zeller of his human frailty that night. God had chosen quite another champion. Mai knew this because, over the major’s shoulder, he could see him approaching. And soon they could both hear his voice, fluting its deflating message.
‘Bruno, dear boy! I thought it was you, so unmistakable from behind! I’m so glad you could make it!’
Zeller swung round to confirm with his eyes what his ears found incredible.
‘What in the name of God are you doing here?’ he cried, bewilderment as yet stronger than rage.
Maurice Melchior raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m having a really delightful time, that’s what.’
He turned round, his elegant silken dinner jacket giving a quick flash of a brilliant scarlet lining.
‘Walter, I told you he’d be here. Bruno, my dear, you know my friend, Walter, of course. But let’s be formal, I know how much protocol matters to you military boys. Lieutenant-Colonel Fiebelkorn, may I have the honour of presenting you to Major Bruno Zeller?’
Mai saw the delight trembling through Melchior’s whole body as he made the introduction. Even clearer was the fury that held Zeller stiff, his fists clenched so tight that the silver signet ring stood out like a weapon. Melchior could live to rue the day he had made the major an enemy.
But as Günter Mai looked at the SS colonel’s impassive face and unblinking watery gaze, he felt a sudden certainty that it had been a far more dangerous day for Melchior when he had made Fiebelkorn his friend.
Across the room, a gorgeous French film star fanned her nearly naked breasts and complained how warm it was. A gallant Panzer officer immediately leant forward, drew back the heavy brocaded curtains and began to wrestle with a window.
‘The black-out! Remember the black-out!’ called someone.
‘The black-out?’ said the Panzer officer. ‘Why bother? There’s no danger up there unless Churchill starts sending trained pigeons from Trafalgar Square!’
There was a burst of laughter which became general as this shaft of Aryan wit was passed around the room and for a while the open curtain was forgotten, allowing the brilliance of the many chandeliers to spill its diamantine glory into the darkness outside.
A crowd had gathered earlier in the Rue de Lille to see the notables arrive, but as midnight approached, despite a rumoured assurance that the curfew would be suspended for this night, most of the watchers had drifted away to their own houses and their own meditations on the dying year.
A few remained, however. Among them was Janine Simonian. She had felt compelled to get out of Sophie’s tiny flat that night. She’d let herself drift but hadn’t been surprised to find herself in the University quarter. She had been brought here first by Jean-Paul. It was here that her eyes had been opened to a world outside the bakery, a world of ideas and imagination, of criticism and curiosity. Finally the memories had become too much and to escape them she joined the watchers in the Rue de Lille.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked someone.
‘It’s a ball, just like the old days,’ was the reply.
At that moment the curtain was drawn back and the spectators could see right into the reception hall. Music drifted out, and laughter. Elegant women in expensive clothes were drinking with attentive men in formal evening dress or colourful dress uniforms. It was a scene of assurance and power; it stated more forcibly than marching troops or rumbling gun carriages that we, here, inside, are the conquerors and will be for ever; while you, outside, are for ever the conquered.
A flurry of snow passed overhead, leaving flakes on her cheeks like tears. The last watchers began to depart. Someone said, ‘Happy New Year,’ but no one replied.
Janine said, ‘Jean-Paul, wherever you are, Happy New Year, my love.’
Then she too turned and walked slowly away from the light.
PART THREE
February—December 1941
Dans une telle situation, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte.
Madame du Deffand
1
If it wasn’t the coldest February in years, to most Frenchmen it felt like it.
Monsieur Édouard Scheffer of Strasbourg sat in the Café Balzac near the Quai de Grenelle métro station and shivered. Not even two thicknesses of overcoat, a Homburg hat and frequent additions to his vile coffee from a gun-metal hip flask could keep him warm. The patron, who valued his custom, was apologetic. He and Monsieur Scheffer had done a few small blackmarket deals in the couple of months since Miche the Butcher had introduced them, so he was sure that Monsieur would appreciate the problem of fuel shortage.
The seated man nodded and thought of his beautifully warm room at the Lutétia. Bruno Zeller would never undertake assignments which involved freezing to death. In fairness it was difficult to imagine Zeller being able to pass himself off as anything other than a German officer, but just now Günter Mai didn’t feel like being fair.
The door opened. Two figures entered. One was Boucher, the other was the girl. Boucher peered down the long shadowy room in search of him. He always sat at the furthermost end near the kitchen door, partly for security, partly to avoid the draught.
Now Boucher saw him. Spoke to the girl. Pointed.
She looked, saw, recognized.
In that instant he could see she’d had no idea who she was going to meet. He’d assumed Boucher would have told her, and he’d been surprised when nevertheless the redhead had confirmed the meet was on. But all that he’d read into this was that the girl was desperate, and desperate people made easy recruits.
She was trying to leave but her cousin was hanging on to her arm. Mai willed him to let her go. If she was forced to confront him now, his cover could be blown and he found Édouard Scheffer very useful.
She was coming. Damn. He signalled the patron to bring more coffee. The girl arrived and glowered down at him.
‘Darling, how good to see you. Not still angry with me, are you?’
She was taken aback. The patron, arriving with the coffee, grinned lecherously, scenting a lovers’ quarrel. Angrily she sat in the chair he ostentatiously pulled out for her.
Mai took out his flask and poured an ounce of liquor into her glass.
‘I don’t like schnapps,’ she said. But he noted with approval that she waited till the patron retired out of earshot.
‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘That’s why I carry cognac.’
She drank, enjoyed, didn’t try to hide it. Or perhaps couldn’t. Not the best quality of a prospective agent, an inability to hide your feelings, thought Mai. Still he wasn’t really thinking of her as a Mata Hari.
‘I didn’t know it was you,’ said Janine.
‘You wouldn’t have come?’ asked Mai.
She shook her head then added, ‘Not because of the shop, what happened that time, but…’
‘Because I’m not a general, someone important? I take your point.’
She was much calmer now. It didn’t surprise him. This was what he was noted for - baiting, hooking, playing, and not so much landing the little fish as persuading it to jump out of the water.
He produced his pipe, held it up in a token request for permission, and lit it. Women often found a pipe reassuring.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Someone important.’
He studied her through his pipe smoke. On her entry to the café he had thought she was plumper than he remembered. Now he realized that like himself she was just wearing several layers of clothes against the cold and was in fact rather thinner than he recalled. It was a good face, not beautiful but intriguing, full of life and mobility despite the wasting effects of this long winter.
‘Don’t you even want to talk about your problem?’ he asked.
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh? You’ve managed to track down Corporal Jean-Paul Simonian of the Light Infantry then?’
She went red with shock and anger.
‘He shouldn’t have told you,’ she said. ‘He had no right.’
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ said Mai. ‘I got the details elsewhere.’
For a moment she looked puzzled then it dawned.
‘Maman!’ she said. ‘She’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?’
He was right. She was no fool. He nodded.
‘Mothers like to talk about their children,’ he said. ‘Even when they quarrel. She doesn’t blame you. She told me you were on edge because you’d no idea what had happened to your husband. So when Miche said you had a problem, I guessed.’
‘Very clever,’ said Janine. ‘What else did maman say? That I’d be better off if Jean-Paul never came back?’
Mai shrugged, a good French shrug.
‘He mightn’t, you know that? In fact it’s the likeliest explanation.’
‘Of course I know that.’
Her anger had faded. She drank her spiked coffee. He drew on his pipe. He could see she was building an equation, checking what it meant. At last she shook her head. There was neither relief nor disappointment in her voice when she spoke.
‘This is a waste of time. For both of us. I’ll be honest with you. Since Miche arranged this meeting, I’ve been wondering why any German should even think of helping me. There’s only one possible reason. He’d want me to agree to be an informer, a spy, something like that.’
She paused. He asked, ‘And what had you decided?’
‘I decided anyone who got me as a spy would have made a bad bargain,’ she said with an unexpected flash of humour. ‘Though I suppose, now that I know Miche’s boss isn’t a stranger, there could be another possibility.’
It took him a couple of seconds to work it out. He had to make an effort to keep the surprise out of his face, but Janine put his thoughts into words.
‘But I daresay that German officers have found easier ways of getting girls. Anyway, the point is, now I’ve seen you, there’s no point. I can’t see a mere lieutenant being any more useful to me than the Red Cross or a Vichy deputy. So thank you for the drink and goodbye.’ She rose to leave.
He didn’t try to stop her.
She walked straight past Boucher at the bar without saying a word.
‘Hey, Janine,’ he cried, going after her. ‘What’s up?’ he demanded as he overtook her in the street. ‘Won’t he help?’
‘He’s a lieutenant, Miche. A nobody. You should have told me. What can someone like that do?’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said walking fast to keep up with her. ‘You’re probably right. Except that he strikes me as a clever sod, despite appearances, and my mate, Pajou - he’s the one who got me the job - he reckons old Günter really runs half the show at the Lutétia.’
She stopped and turned to face him.
‘This job of yours, what is it exactly?’ she asked.
‘It’s all above board,’ he assured her. ‘We help the authorities recover things. Food that’s been hoarded, valuables that have been hidden, illegally I mean.’
‘You help the Boche to loot!’
‘No,’ he said with genuine indignation. ‘It’s just recovery. People abandon their houses, make no proper provision for storing delicate antiques, the authorities take care of them.’
‘Rich Jews’ villas, you mean? And what do you know about delicate antiques, Miche?’
He grinned and said, ‘Not much. But they have experts to deal with things like that. And it’s not just Jewish stuff either. I reckon it’s a lot of rubbish this stuff about the Boche being down on the Jews. So there’s a bit of trouble sometimes, but there’s never been any shortage of our lot ready to have a go at the Jews. Ask your mum-in-law. I bet she can tell a tale or two. It just goes to show.’
It struck Janine that what her cousin was really wanting to show was that he was quite justified in working for the Germans. And it struck her also that she was feeling rather holier-than-thou for someone who had lain awake all night debating just what she would agree to in return for hard information about Jean-Paul.
But it had all been a waste of time. She was running out of hope. That was the point she was trying to steer away from in this idle chatter with Miche.
She didn’t realize she was crying till Miche said, ‘Hey come on. No weeping. Not outside anyway. You’ll get icicles on your cheeks. Let’s get you home. Tell you what, why don’t I use my influence and see if I can dig you up some proper fuel, and perhaps a kilo of best steak so you can all feast your faces tonight?’
He dropped her in the Rue de Thorigny promising to be back within the hour. He meant it too. Miche the Butcher had a soft heart. But he was even softer when it came to resolution.
As he drove along the Rue Montmartre toward his well-stocked, well-fuelled apartment, he saw a familiar small but exquisitely packed figure, swaying along beneath an explosion of golden hair.
‘Arlette!’ he called. ‘Arlette! How’s it going?’
She looked in surprise at the impressive car pulling into the kerb, then recognized Boucher.
‘Miche, it’s you. God, you’re doing all right, aren’t you?’
‘Not bad,’ he grinned. ‘Long time, no see.’
In fact he hadn’t seen Arlette since she’d put him up when he came back to Paris last June. They’d parted in a quarrel. He recalled throwing some very nasty names at her, not because she’d needed him out of her room so that she could ply her trade, but because he realized her new customers were Germans.
Well, he’d been a patriot then. Still was, only the Marshal had changed the shape of patriotism.
‘Fancy a drink?’ he said.
‘Why not? My place or yours?’
Hélène was at his place. She was dancing tonight and liked to have a good rest. He’d been quite looking forward to disturbing her. On the other hand it would probably be a kindness not to.
‘Yours,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’
Janine had watched him drive away: assertive, positive, athletic. She’d felt envious. What must it be like to be a man and be able to adapt your environment to your needs instead of having to mould your needs to your environment! These men could do anything! Finding a lost husband, or providing food and fuel within the hour, it was all one to them.
But as she shivered hungrily to bed that night, she made a bitter adjustment to her conclusion.
Promising to find a husband; promising to provide warmth and nourishment; promising to come back from the wars safe and sound and soon; it was these resounding promises that were all one to them. All vibrant with sincerity, and all completely vain.
2
It was an April evening, but the wind that met Christian Valois head on as he cycled back to the family apartment in Passy was full of sleet. He carried his bike up the stairs and into the apartment with him. Cars had practically vanished from the streets. There was little petrol to be had and, in any case, you needed a special Ausweis from the Germans to use one, so bikes were now pricey enough to attract the professional thief.