“I can’t,” said Lada. “I won’t do this.”
“You won’t do what?” said Grandjean, but she knew. She held out her hands, silently pleading with Lada to stay.
“Their names are Lotte and Clara.” Lada turned her back on Andree. “And mine was Lada Tarcovich.”
The Gastromancer
With Noël’s permission, Spiegelman had excavated notes and letters, communiques and telegrams, speeches and photographs of the most delicate sort, all from the FI’s archives, and all from Franklin Roosevelt. And now, after hours of research, Roosevelt was everywhere. He lounged across the typewriters, quoting Dante here, Cicero there, but remaining, at all times, impeccably amicable: his sentences brief, easy to grasp. Roosevelt sat in the chair closest to Spiegelman, and the chair farthest away; his handwriting was nearly impossible to read, but one got the sense that, whatever it said, it was as winning and charming as anything.
Aubrion walked in, stepping on a letter young Roosevelt wrote to his mother. He stooped to pick it up. “‘Dear Mommers and Poppers’?”
“Mommerr and Popperr,” Spiegelman corrected him without looking up from his work. “With two Rs.”
Aubrion held the note between his thumb and forefinger. “A bit disturbing, isn’t it?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m surprised his parents are still alive.”
“Look at the year, Marc.”
“Oh.” Aubrion tossed it away. The note fluttered to the floor like an affable bird. “Are you almost done?”
“I believe so.” Spiegelman sat back to look over his labors. He’d never before worked with so many materials. It was no secret that the Reich had impressive archives. But even their records shriveled in comparison to the offerings of the Front de l’Indépendance. In a way, Spiegelman found the information overwhelming. His job was usually to reconstruct a voice from a whisper; now, he felt as though he was reconstructing shouts from an echo.
“But are you sure,” Aubrion said, sitting in a pile of Roosevelt’s pedestrian adjectives, “you really know the man?”
Spiegelman sat back with a tight-lipped smile. “I must thank Monsieur Noël for allowing me access to all this.”
“You should thank Monsieur Mullier for gathering most of it.” Aubrion seemed to tremble, just for a moment. “How are you holding up?”
“I am fine. And you?”
“Never better,” Aubrion said, viciously.
Spiegelman passed Aubrion his latest work. “Shall we look it over? I think it would be best to get the first set of letters out tonight.”
“You read it aloud.” Aubrion handed it back to Spiegelman. “I am going to close my eyes for a bit.”
“You’re sure you are all right? We could review this later, if you—”
“Shut up. I’m listening to Roosevelt.”
“‘My dear Mr. Prime Minister,’” Spiegelman read. “‘Regarding the Belgian campaign: on behalf of all Americans, I must express my appreciation for your willingness to stand aside. All intelligence suggests it will be a victory for the ages, and I am certain it will make abundantly clear to the world that all of our intentions are deliberate and correct.’”
As he read, Spiegelman adopted a slight American accent, falling into the radio announcer’s cadence of Roosevelt’s speech. It was sufficiently odd that Aubrion had to open his eyes to make sure this was still, in fact, David Spiegelman who was reading. The voice did not suit him. Spiegelman had a high, uncertain manner of speaking, declarations that belonged in parentheses. He began his sentences as though he were surprised at having thought of them; he ended his sentences as though he’d never intended to speak in the first place. It was singular. Aubrion could not help but wonder, as Spiegelman continued, what this man’s life would have been if he’d been born with the voice of Franklin Roosevelt. Perhaps he would not have been able to inhabit so many others.
Spiegelman continued: “‘I am told you have already communicated this state of affairs to Commander Harris. I know he understands the necessity of an American triumph in Europe. It is important, in the days to come, to keep our good men close. Commander Harris is among the best.’” David Spiegelman permitted himself a smile. Nothing would infuriate Harris more, he knew, than the idea of Franklin Roosevelt paying him a compliment. Harris would interpret his compliment as pity, and his fist would curl more tightly around the joystick of his bomber.
“‘Europe is bleak, Mr. Churchill. The dark quiet of our final days might be upon us, if we do not act. We must be swift. We must be, when the situation calls for it, merciless, for only in our mercilessness will we achieve mercy.’” While mostly plain-spoken, Roosevelt sometimes opted for the dramatic. Spiegelman was not sure, though, whether it was too dramatic. The man was never quite poetic, after all. “‘The Belgian campaign might be the final chapter of our old tale, or it might be the first chapter of our new one. It falls on our individual efforts and our collective efforts and our local efforts and our international efforts. Let us give thanks for good men, Mr. Churchill. We will need them in the days to come.
“‘Very sincerely yours, Franklin D. Roosevelt.’” Spiegelman set the paper aside, raising his arms over his head in a stretch. “Does it need anything?” he asked Aubrion.
“To be on Bomber Harris’s desk.” Aubrion kissed his thumb and forefinger like a food critic after a grand meal. “That last bit—that is the part that’s going to buy us an air raid.”
Aubrion gestured for Spiegelman to follow him upstairs to the telex, where they sent Spiegelman’s documents with a message: Dear Commander Harris: Please find below two letters that I trust will be of interest to your office. I hope you will not hesitate, now or at any moment to come, to communicate your thoughts and considerations with me and those close to me. Yours most sincerely, Winston S. Churchill.
When that was done, Aubrion found a bottle somewhere and poured two glasses. Though he did not drink, Spiegelman accepted his without comment.
“A toast,” declared Aubrion.
Spiegelman snorted. “To what?”
As though it were obvious, Aubrion waved his glass at the contents of the basement. Spiegelman breathed it in: the letters, the posters, the notebooks, the pamphlets, the chalkboard drawings. This was a war room, he realized. This was a place of death and new beginnings. It was no wonder Wolff referred to La Libre Belgique as a propaganda bomb. David Spiegelman was an arms dealer, the only arms dealer in Europe who couldn’t load a gun.
“To this,” said Aubrion, “the Third Great War.”
“No.” Spiegelman lifted his glass. “To the First Small War, fought by great men.”
The Dybbuk
Wolff laid each page to rest near its fellows, a parade of lies and misdirections. In all, Aubrion had given him five pages of material for La Libre Belgique. That was more than he’d expected, enough to build a propaganda bomb for the ages. Wolff arranged the material on his desk. La Libre Belgique d’August Wolff would go to Himmler and Goebbels in two days. If all went well, it would go to a print factory in three.
The Gruppenführer reviewed what he had. Now that these words were in his possession, his vision for the paper was clear. First, he’d have a title page, with the date and the editors and all the rest, the name of the paper printed in crooked, plaque-colored letters. Below the title would sit the first article: Vos heures sont comptées... Wolff thought it a tad dramatic, but Aubrion had insisted the Belgians were fond of such theatrics. Your days are numbered... A citizen would see that, would see the drawing of a skull in a Nazi helmet half-sunken into the earth—and the citizen would prepare himself for a column thrashing the Germans, counting the steps to their defeat. Not so. The column—a collaboration with Spiegelman—detailed the moral transgressions Allied soldiers had committed on their march through Europe.
“We have it all,” Aubrion had explained to the Gruppenführer. “
Beatings, rapes...just enough to be believable. By its end, you will be convinced your days are numbered, if you happen to associate with the morally bankrupt—the Allies, that is.”
On the second page, after the citizen’s appetite for Allied depravity had been suitably whetted: three articles from the war’s victims. Spiegelman had written these. A homeless mother of four, an old man and a young girl who lost her innocence to the Allies—their voices harmonized in a triptych of articles. The layout of this section was of particular importance. Aubrion believed, and Wolff agreed, that the articles should be arranged in three columns, with the mother’s on the left, the old man’s on the right, and the girl’s in the middle. No one could read all three at the same time, obviously, but—and here was Aubrion’s genius—as the happy citizen read either the mother’s column or the old man’s, they would catch glimpses of the sweet girl’s story out of the corner of their eye. Bits of phrasing, snatches of language would assail them as they read, coloring their experience of the other two stories. Wolff reread the three articles. The keenness of the voices always impressed him. If he had not known Spiegelman, the Gruppenführer would’ve believed he had interviewed these people.
The thought of Spiegelman drew August Wolff away from his desk to the hallway. He stopped a passing clerk.
“Send for David Spiegelman as soon as possible,” said Wolff.
“He left this morning, Gruppenführer.”
“Left?” Wolff tried to quash his alarm. “Did he say where he was going?”
“For a walk, Gruppenführer.”
The clerk could not comment further. Wolff did not know exactly what he feared—that Spiegelman had put a pistol to his head? That he had thrown in his lot with the FI? The Gruppenführer shook himself, for a German commander did not worry over his men this way; it was improper. He returned to his work.
On the page opposing the victims’ columns, the Gruppenführer envisioned a sprawling display: a full-page article, written by an American turncoat, on why he threw down his arms. The loyalty of the Americans was said to be almost disgusting, so this would come as a shock to many. Professor Victor, who’d studied the psychology and sociology of the Americans, collaborated with Aubrion and Spiegelman on that one. It contained a number of phrases of which Wolff was especially fond, including “the illness of the many-faced Allied beast” and (Aubrion’s favorite) “whoring for the illusion of liberty.”
The two remaining pages were devoted to miscellany. Aubrion had written a couple of advertisements, a column on patriotism, a communique from the Eastern front, an opinion piece on the political upheaval that might result from an Allied win. Spiegelman’s contributions were similar, as were Victor’s. Tarcovich had overseen a piece on women who’d turned to prostitution during the war. It was all fine work: convincing and true, in the way of tall tales.
And yet the Gruppenführer was not content. He knew, of course, that most everyone involved in the project would die upon its completion. Despite what he’d suggested to Spiegelman, that he might commission Aubrion to work alongside his staff, Wolff knew that would not be so. Aubrion would die with the others. That was the plan. In some ways, that was the strength of the plan. But as Wolff’s breath stirred the pages of Aubrion’s art, he did not feel strong—he felt impossibly weak. Although Wolff often referred to Aubrion as a fool, he knew—in a part of him that he kept boarded-up—that Aubrion was no fool. Indeed, to call Marc Aubrion a genius would have been to reveal the limitations of the word. Aubrion was not a fool, and he would not die quietly. Wolff could no longer pretend that the mad, brilliant little creature was not up to something.
A stack of arrest warrants lay under the Gruppenführer’s right arm. A pen sat nearby. He did not reach for either. Instead, August Wolff sat back to reread Aubrion’s work, folding the pages like a friendly old paperback.
4 DAYS TO PRINT
EARLY MORNING
The Jester
AUBRION WAS GREETED, at the first sliver of morning, by the irate squawking of the telex on the floor above. He yelped, got up, nearly tripped over the notebook he’d been using as a pillow, and roused Spiegelman, disturbing the Roosevelt materials under the fellow’s head.
“What is it?” said Spiegelman. “Is it from Harris?”
“Who else but an angry Harris would be contacting us at this hour?”
They ran upstairs, and Aubrion ripped the tape from the mouth of the telex. His shoulders slumped as he read.
“Is he not angry enough?” asked Spiegelman.
“It’s from one of our suppliers. A shipment of flour is in. We don’t even use flour.” Aubrion tossed the tape aside, disgusted with the entire institution of flour.
Spiegelman rubbed at his face and eyes. He looked—as Aubrion imagined they both did—like he needed another twelve hours of sleep. “Did Gamin return last night?” he asked.
“Not yet. But I have faith in him. If he has not returned by noon, I’ll go look for him.”
“I should get back to the base before I’m missed. Wolff will have a fit.”
As Spiegelman gathered his things to take his leave of the place, Aubrion put a hand on his arm. “If you go back there, it will be one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done.”
René Noël, who managed never to look bleary-eyed even at that hour, entered and smiled a greeting at the two. “Good morning, Marc. You’re starting your charm early today, I see. What Monsieur Aubrion means to say, Spiegelman, is that Wolff is no idiot. He has almost certainly caught on to what you’re doing.”
“Has he?” Spiegelman’s lips twisted. “I do not even know what I’m doing, so if he knows, I do wish he’d tell me.”
“He knows your allegiance, is what I’m saying. You could very well find a warrant waiting for you upon your return.”
“I understand, Noël.”
“And yet?”
“And yet he’s going to go back anyway,” said Aubrion, his irritation tinged with admiration. Most men did not have time for those who did stupid things; Aubrion did not have time for those who didn’t. “Look at him. He has the face of a fellow who has already made so many poor decisions.”
“You, Marc Aubrion, are uniquely qualified to recognize such a face,” Spiegelman retorted.
Aubrion tilted his head, glanced at Noël, returned his gaze to Spiegelman. “Was that a joke? Did David Spiegelman make a joke?”
Noël threw his head back and laughed, harder than he had in ages.
“I do not think Wolff will arrest me,” said Spiegelman, blushing to his collar. “Eventually—but he needs me, for now. And besides, if I do not go back, he will know for certain that I’ve joined up with you lot, and that something is amiss. If I return to him, I will buy you some time, as it were.”
“You are right, of course,” said Noël, his head bowed.
“It’s still a stupid decision.” Aubrion’s goading was simply reflexive, and Spiegelman knew it. Aubrion touched Spiegelman’s arm as though ensuring that he was still there, that he had not yet left them. “What does Wolff need you for?” he said quietly. He could not keep Spiegelman from leaving, nor would he try—not really. But he had to keep up appearances.
“He has his—what the devil does he call it?—his propaganda bomb.” Aubrion made a face. “La Libre Belgique is finished, as far as Wolff is concerned. It’s due to print in two days.”
“No, no,” said Spiegelman. “That was not what I meant. Wolff needs me in another way. I believe he’s come to rely on me, in certain respects.”
Noël started tying on his apron, filthy from yesterday’s work. “I don’t understand.”
“I pity him, you know.” Spiegelman shook his head. “I think the poor bastard’s lonely.”
The Pyromaniac
We labored over our matches and pipes in the blue-doored building. The sun assisted us through the boarded-up walls. After much effort, w
e had assembled a small arsenal: twelve pipe bombs between the two of us. After a time, Nicolas fell asleep, and I sat listening to him dream. As a child, I dreamed avidly, carrying out grand adventures before daybreak. But Nicolas did not sound as though sleep had taken him to enchanted forests or faraway lands, but rather back to the construction site, to Leon and those men. He whimpered and twitched for most of the night. I longed for a blanket or coat to cover him, but we had nothing.
I inspected the pipe bombs as Nicolas slept. The handiwork was sound, for the most part. One of the FI’s best soldiers, a young woman whose name is now gone, had taught me how to make bombs, and I taught Nicolas. A couple of the ones Nicolas had put together—the first two he’d made—needed a bit of tweaking. I popped open the tops, adjusted a wire, refilled the charcoal. It was quick work. Soon, I’d examined all the bombs for imperfections. While the work wasn’t perfect, it was better than what many Allied soldiers could have produced. I placed the bombs in a dry sack for safekeeping. When I realized I would not be sleeping that night, I made it my goal to construct three more bombs. Working quickly, I put together four more of the things before the sun rose.
Nicolas awoke to find me with a knife in my fist. I’d discovered a shard of glass somewhere among the photographer’s supplies. Doing my best to stay quiet, I’d sharpened it to a point and wrapped a cord of leather around the duller half. If the Germans did discover us, I would not give myself up without spilling blood. Nicolas’s eyes fell on the knife, and he paled.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I said. “I’m standing guard, is all.”
The Ventriloquists Page 34
