‘Ten past one!’
He was hearing it now. The bell didn’t work, hadn’t for a long time. Callers at one o’clock in the morning, though: Sunday night, this was, Monday morning. Recent events coming into focus: that girl yesterday – Saturday – at Prigent’s surgery…
What Marie-Claude had just said: for ‘Germans’, at this time of night, read Gestapo, or SD.
Dreaming this?
Her hand on his shoulder, pulling at it. ‘Please, Papa!’
‘Jesus Christ…’
Muttering an apology then for the blasphemy: and getting control of himself – under his daughter’s gaze, a major effort to wipe the fright out of his eyes. He knew how he’d look – would have looked – in those few seconds: unshaven, eyes like a scared rabbit’s.
Hide it from her, of all people…
‘They probably want something translated, or interpreted.’ Even to him, that had sounded stupid…
‘At this hour?’
‘Some wretched prisoner, perhaps.’ Facing that truth, as part of the process of putting a front on this. ‘It’s the sort of time they choose, for such—’
‘Papa, whatever—’
‘Yes. All right.’ Moving, reaching for his threadbare dressing-gown. ‘You go back to bed, I’ll see to it.’
They were still banging on the door and shouting, down there. In German – no chance of there being any mistake, they knew who he was, which house they’d come to.
‘Open up! Le Guen! Open up!’
No mistake at all – except his own, in having anything to do with Prigent. He switched lights on from the head of the stairs, and started down – repeating over his shoulder to Marie-Claude to go back to her room. ‘Lock the door. Go to bed. I’ll come and see you when they’ve gone.’
That girl – if they’d caught her?
Unlikely. Prigent much more likely. But Prigent knew about the girl too, so she’d be in the same net. It would have started from the office anyway – precisely the danger he’d foreseen: Prigent’s doing, and he’d rat on one quick as a flash if he found himself up against it.
‘All right, all right…’
The bolts on the door then: top, bottom, then the chain, but it banged open that far, jarring the thing taut.
‘How can I undo it if you keep pushing?’
‘Let him open it, Kindermann!’
He knew that voice. The chain came off, finally. Stepping back, door swinging open… Knew the face too – and the man’s name – Fischer, a lieutenant in the SD. They’d never spoken to each other, but he was in and out of the Kommandantur quite often.
The nightmare come to life. Incredible, but – reality. No waking up from this one.
But there had to be. Please God. Some kind of help, there had to be, some let-out. In his mind suddenly was that girl: as if she could save him…
‘Think we enjoy standing on doorsteps, le Guen?’
‘I was fast asleep. I’m sorry—’
‘Bloody should be!’
He had three men with him – SS troopers, in uniform and armed with Schmeissers. Fischer himself in a new-looking grey suit. Crowding in: one of them kicked the door shut. Le Guen tried to address the leutnant again: ‘I didn’t hear a thing – until a moment ago—’
‘This your sitting-room?’
It wasn’t, it was the kitchen. He swivelled in its doorway: ‘Is there a room to sit in?’
‘In here.’ A small room, but it had double doors at the other end which opened into a tiny strip of garden; in summer when the doors were open it wasn’t too bad. A little box of a room now. Fischer – average-sized, in fact a bit shorter than le Guen, but he somehow managed to take up a lot of space – followed him in and stood glancing around. Filling the doorway: jaw blue-black with one-a.m. shadow, pale eyes narrowed. He had rather full, unhealthily pink lips.
‘Who else lives here?’
‘Only my daughter, Marie-Claude. She’s—’
‘I remember. Your wife ran off with some salesman.’
‘A motor engineer.’
‘Used-car salesman, it says in your file. Not that anyone could give a damn…’
‘May I ask the reason for this visit?’
‘Is there a back door?’
‘Yes – from the kitchen—’
‘Check it and then stay there, Kindermann. Heller, stay at the front.’ He pulled a chair round, and straddled it: again, knees and elbows sticking out, filling all the space on that side of the table. A nod to le Guen: ‘You may sit.’
‘Thank you, I prefer to stand.’
‘Oh, do you. Piles, is it?’
The soldier who was still with them sniggered. He looked about sixteen. Fischer glanced at him, and gestured towards le Guen. ‘Sit him down, Baier. We’ll have a look in his mouth.’
‘What—’
‘Sit down!’
He did so – before the boy could put his hands on him.
‘Now open wide.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your mouth – open it wide. If you don’t, he’ll force it open with a pistol barrel. You’d find that painful.’
‘But what for, what is—’
‘To see what dentistry you’ve had done recently – by that fellow who’s called you over from your office several times now. What’s the swine’s name…?’
‘My dentist? Prigent. But what’s—’
Fischer rose, threateningly. ‘Open your damn mouth!’
The soldier had grabbed le Guen’s sparse grey hair, forcing his head back.
‘Hey, -please—’
‘Open!’
Le Guen opened his mouth. Internally, his head was spinning. Fischer came round the end of the table: stooping, grimacing with distaste as he peered into the gaping mouth… ‘Who’d be a dentist, for God’s sake. I’ve often wondered… All right, let go of him… I can’t see anything that looks like new work in there, anyway. D’you want to tell me there has been?’
‘No. No, because—’
‘What did you go to the dentist for on Saturday?’
‘I’ve had pain – bad pain—’
‘You’ll get a lot more soon, too. Are you admitting the dentist did nothing?’
‘He examined me, in the hope of seeing what was wrong.’
‘Couldn’t pin it down, eh?’
‘No.’ He touched the side of his mouth: ‘One here – a molar – he thought might be the trouble. But he could only have extracted it, which I didn’t want – and he agreed, if after all it wasn’t necessary.’
‘Prigent’s surgery’s a rendezvous for spies – right?’
‘No – not as far as—’
‘You’re a fool, le Guen. To think we wouldn’t catch on to it.’ He snapped a glance at the young trooper: ‘Fetch his daughter.’
‘No – no—’
‘She’ll be upstairs, in a bedroom—’
‘Please, I beg you—’
‘—if the door’s locked and she won’t come out, break it down.’
‘Jawohl, Herr Leutnant!’
‘What can my daughter have to do with this?’
‘Precisely what I intend to find out. No – stay where you are… What’s her name and occupation?’
‘Marie-Claude. She’s a teacher. Completely innocent—’
‘Unlike daddy, huh?’
‘Please – leave her alone? She’s just an innocent young girl, she has no one but me, her mother deserted us – as you know – I’ve spent all the time since then trying to sh-shield her from—’
‘From what? From your own and Prigent’s criminal activities?’
‘No—’
‘That was a confession, don’t you realize?’
‘Nothing to confess. I swear—’
‘Really.’ A nod… ‘We’ll see how it checks out when we get round to putting the screws on Prigent. What’ll he tell us, d’you imagine?’
‘Anything he said about me would be a lie!’
‘Think he’d shop
you, do you?’
‘Papa! Are you all right?’
She was in the doorway – surprised and frightened…
‘Sweetheart, don’t worry about me, but tell this man the truth, whatever he wants to know just—’
‘Why not get in first, shop him?’
Fischer suggested it casually, shrugging. Rising now, with his eyes on Marie-Claude. She’d put on the robe-de-chambre le Guen had given her for her last birthday. Pink, with a shine like satin: it had cost a lot of his own clothes coupons as well as a small fortune. She was very pale – paler than usual, even – with her fairish hair tied back and her blue eyes blinking. Like mine blink, her father thought.
‘Sit down, Fräulein. Here.’
Fischer indicated the chair he’d used: standing behind it, pointing down at it, switching from German into clumsy, brutally loud French: ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said sit down!’
Her eyes hadn’t left her father. Obeying now though, sitting… He could see her struggle against tears, the effort she was making. Swallowing, biting her lips… A mutter of ‘Papa – what do they want with us?’
‘It’s a mistake. They have some notion that I’m a spy.’ This was his effort, now – for her sake. Thin smile: ‘Because I was at the dentist – that’s all it takes, apparently.’
‘And that’s enough from you.’ Fischer slid one haunch onto the edge of the table, steadying himself as he did it with a hand on the back of Marie-Claude’s chair. ‘Keep your mouth shut from here on – unless I tell you to open it.’ He’d said it in German: returned now to his crude variety of French. ‘Marie-Claude. Obviously you’re aware of your father’s involvement with this dentist?’
‘Involvement? With Michel Prigent?’
‘You go to him too, I suppose?’
‘No, I don’t, I go to Christophe Lemaître at Frugy. That’s where we lived when I was little. But my father was at school with Michel Prigent and when he ran into him again he switched to him from Lemaître. I didn’t want to, I stayed. Does that make him a spy?’
‘Probably.’
‘But that’s senseless!’
‘It may seem so to you, Marie-Claude. Indeed, your father has admitted he’s tried to shield you – from his own activities, was the implication.’ He glanced round: ‘Le Guen, I’m prepared to accept that your daughter is probably unaware of the true nature of your relationship with Prigent. You, on the other hand, have a lot to tell us about it – and believe me, you will. We’ll stick to you, therefore – for the time being, anyway.’ Checking the time. ‘But not here, I think…’
‘There’s nothing I can tell you!’
‘How often I’ve heard that… Anyway, you’d better put some clothes on. Baier – take him to his bedroom, see he gets a move on. Have a look round, while you’re up there. Marie-Claude, stay here. When we’ve gone you can go back to bed. I’ll be leaving one of my men here, that’s all – mainly to ensure you don’t go near the telephone. If it rings, leave it, he’ll answer it.’
* * *
He was to remember later with some degree of satisfaction that in the truck on its way through the deserted streets to SD headquarters his concern was more for Marie-Claude than for himself. Although he was sweating with fright: in cold night air, on the steel floor of the truck, handcuffed, bouncing as it crashed over railway lines and potholes. Fischer was in front beside the driver, Baier and Heller here in the back – Schmeissers on their knees, boots nudging his ribs.
Tell them whatever they want to know, he thought.
Whatever…
The truck braked, slewed to a rocking halt, and a boot toed him hard: ‘Raus!’
Out onto roadway, then stone steps with a swastika banner hanging limp and wet from the window above it. Through blackout screens into an empty stone hallway: unshaded overhead lights, Nazi posters on the walls. Fischer bawled at someone to inform Sturmbannführer Braun that he’d brought the suspect le Guen for interrogation; there was the sound of a house-telephone being cranked in an adjoining room, and eventually a voice called ‘Room fourteen, Herr Leutnant!’
It was at the back of the first floor. About four metres by five, blackout material covering one small window and in the centre a desk with an upholstered chair behind it and a hard, heavy-timbered one on this side. Straps on its arms hung loose: there were straps on the front legs too, he saw. There was also a directional light beamed at it from a stand close to the desk.
He felt sick, and was having to fight for breath: breathing more in short gasps than breaths, and conscious of a fast, seemingly erratic heartbeat.
Heart-attack imminent?
‘Sit down!’
They pushed him down onto the chair. Baier – the kid – called towards the door by which they’d entered, ‘Want him strapped in, Herr Leutnant?’
‘Yes.’ Boots were loud on the board flooring. ‘Take the cuffs off one wrist.’
‘It’s not – necessary, sir—’
‘What do you know about it?’ A fist hit him behind the ear. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to!’
The ear throbbed now. Courtesy of Fischer, that had been. Nightmare, this was. The troopers, one either side, were tightening the straps on his wrists; the handcuffs dangled from the left one. Fischer must have gone out again, and Baier with him; Heller stayed, leaning with his back against the green-painted wall.
The light beside the desk was dazzlingly bright. He could see the chair behind the desk clearly enough, but nothing to the left of it. He shut his eyes. What was likely to happen here was terrifying, but close behind that awareness was Marie-Claude alone in the house with that SS thug – Kindermann. From that, then, the thought of Saturday’s girl telephoning and Kindermann taking the call. He thought she’d probably realize – at least suspect – hang up quickly and then stay clear.
Then what?
Must be about two o’clock, he guessed. Head forward, eyes shut – to avoid that light. Hearing his own voice telling that girl – the Saturday girl – ‘I suppose one lacks courage.’
No supposition about it. Fact. One had grown up in the knowledge of it.
There were voices somewhere behind him – out in the passage, he guessed. They had the hollow, echoey sound of voices in an empty house. One was Fischer’s: his tone suggested that the other was his superior. Sturmbannführer Braun, perhaps. It was a name one had heard mentioned once or twice in the office, but as far as he knew the Sturmbannführer had never shown his face there. Fischer must run his errands for him, le Guen supposed. Catching a few muttered words then – via the open doorway, the two of them pausing just outside and perhaps not realizing they’d be audible in here. Something about his having to be sent home first. He, third person – meaning himself, François le Guen? In which case, the word ‘first’ indicating that he might be sent home before what?
Fischer had replied, ‘Yes – I suppose so, sir.’
‘So go ahead. I’ll get started.’
Boots thunderous on the boards. They liked noise. As if the more they made, the bigger or more important they seemed to themselves. Braun, suddenly in his field of view, wasn’t all that big. He was thickset, though; his leather jacket bulged over the sweater he wore under it. Another one appeared on stage too now: taller, with a greyish, deeply lined face, thick greying hair. Sweater, no jacket, Wehrmacht uniform trousers, rubber-soled shoes. Braun’s hair was yellow, plastered down – perhaps with water – and parted in the centre. His hands on the desk-top as he let himself down into the padded, round-backed chair looked inappropriately small, even feminine.
‘All right.’ A jerk of the tall one’s head. ‘Dismiss.’ Dismissing Heller, Fischer’s man, and taking his place against the wall on le Guen’s right. There was an unpleasant look about him, although he was slightly less scruffy than Braun. An NCO, le Guen thought. It was his expression: a cold-blooded, hate-filled look. It was less unnerving to look at Braun – who had blond stubble on his cheeks and bloodshot eyes suggesting a late-night drinking session. The wet
hair could have come from putting his head under a tap within recent minutes.
He’d opened a file.
‘François le Guen. Clerk and translator in the Kommandantur. Also on the payroll of one Michel Prigent, who’s an agent of British Intelligence.’
‘No, sir!’
‘What?’
Glancing up from the file: pink eyes like an angry bull’s.
‘I am not employed by Prigent.’
‘He is an enemy agent, though – you confirm that, huh?’
He hesitated: beginning to shake his head – denying knowledge, not that fact or allegation… ‘I had wondered. An agent of some kind – yes, but – no way of knowing. Except – I do know he’s a Frenchman born and bred. We knew each other when we were children.’
‘You’ve visited him several times lately and it wasn’t for dentistry. Despite knowing he’s an enemy agent – as you’ve admitted. You’ve known it for quite a while, huh?’
‘No – only quite recently – and suspected it more than knew it. Now I do know, because—’
‘—because you’re employed by him – take orders from him – isn’t that the truth?’
‘No, sir! The truth is—’
‘—that you dash round there every time he whistles!’
‘He’s been trying to persuade me to – well, find things out for him, and I – I mean, working there, it’s been – embarrassing, frightening – over the telephone in that office with people all listening – I mean I couldn’t argue, they’d have made the assumption you’re making now – erroneous assumption – if I may say so—’
‘You jump to it when he snaps his fingers. That an erroneous assumption?’
‘Well – yes. You see—’
‘Why would he waste his time making calls to you – to the Kommandantur, at that, which obviously involves risk to himself – if you weren’t making it worth his while to do so?’
‘I suppose he thinks if he keeps pressure on me—’
‘What kind of information is he asking you to get?’
‘Whatever comes my way, I think. He said there’d be an invasion soon, and we’d come into our own, stop being frightened and start being – well, proud, he said.’
‘Proud of what?’
‘Of – being Résistants, I suppose.’
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