‘I’ll have to get that fixed,’ Freitag said as I scrambled out.
We went in through the solid square entrance, my folder under my arm, and up the broad staircase. When we got to the fourth floor, I could see doors flanked by armed guards.
‘Sturmbannführer Kieffer’s private quarters,’ Freitag said, pointing down the corridor.
We continued our ascent. I was relieved I could do it now without puffing and panting. On the top floor the windows were small and square, and the corridor had six numbered doors, all with black-plated rim locks on the outside.
‘Interrogation cells,’ Freitag said. ‘The most soundproof rooms in the building. Still not good enough though.’
‘Is there anyone in there now?’ I asked.
‘Two. Both saboteurs. Once we’ve questioned them, there’ll be more, God willing.’
I hesitated a moment and had to hurry to catch up. Freitag stopped at an open door where several bare-headed men in shirtsleeves were gathered round a table playing cards.
They looked up as we paused in the doorway. ‘Stop salivating, lads,’ Freitag said. ‘This one’s not for you. He’s one of ours. No name though, and you don’t know him, understand?’
‘Never seen him before in my life,’ came the reply, amid a mixed response of friendly banter. ‘The guardroom,’ Freitag explained, ‘in case you haven’t guessed.’
The last door was labelled with a plaque: ‘Interpreter’s Office’.
As we entered, several female secretaries in uniform looked up, and a dapper man in civilian clothes stood up from his desk, apparently enthusiastic to meet me.
‘Ah. M’sieur Vibert. Of course, I know that isn’t really your name, but still…’ He winked. ‘Ernest Vogt.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m in charge of our little translation department. You’ll be answering to me from now on.’
‘Good to meet you, Herr Vogt,’ I said, relieved to be dealing with someone so cheerful, and a man not wearing an army uniform. He looked to me like a German version of Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot. My shoulders relaxed.
‘Come through to my office,’ he said.
His office was small, comfortably furnished and immaculate. Not a speck of dust anywhere. I noticed a shelf with a radio transmitter and many dictionaries in different languages arranged in size order. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ He tapped a finger on a thick folder. ‘I’ve been reading your file.’
I stared at it. It was as thick as a doorstep. I didn’t think there was that much to know about me.
‘Educated at the Humboldt University, Berlin. Chemistry, I believe.’ He smiled.
‘That’s right. Though I don’t work as a chemist now. In Germany at that time it was hard to find research work, so I decided to —’
‘Yes, it’s all here. You went to Vienna to retrain as a pastry chef at the famous der Demel, and that’s where you met your wife.’
How did they know that? ‘Céline, yes. She was working in Vienna as a nanny.’
‘It was unexpected for your family, this marriage and change of career?’
‘No, not really, I’ve always loved cooking.’ An image of my father’s red-faced fury was quickly quashed. ‘They are not so far apart as you might think, the culinary arts and chemistry,’ I said, feeling a sudden need to defend myself.
‘Quite so. And now you have a little bakery business on Jersey, taking our Austrian pastries to the English. Am I right?’ If he knew all this, why was he asking? ‘From now on though, you will be unmarried, at least here in France. Oh, don’t worry, you may write to your wife, using the army channels, but Édouard Vibert, he is a bachelor, yes? It could be useful.’
I frowned and crossed my legs. The idea of pretending not to be married felt disrespectful to Céline.
He opened the file and clicked his jaw, as if to free it. ‘I believe you’ve never had any proper political affiliation, though your brother, Horst Huber, is well known to the party. I am wondering … why did you not join the National Socialists and take a part in youth leadership when your brother did?’ His manner was relaxed, but there was a quiet intensity to the question.
‘I suppose because I was living in Jersey by then. I never imagined I would return to Germany. And I’m afraid I’m not like my brother. I’ve never been a very political animal, Herr Vogt.’ Already I felt under pressure. I sensed his disapproval, even though the genial smile was still pinned to his lips.
‘But politics is life, is it not? If you care about Germany, you must realise by now, an intelligent man like you, that National Socialism is the only answer. I have some forms here for you to fill in. A formality only. We have copies of your brother’s credentials and can verify your parents and grandparents through him.’ He pushed them towards me. ‘You can take your time to fill them in.’
I glanced over my shoulder to see if Freitag was still there, but he had gone, and two stone-faced armed guards were waiting at the door. The sight of them gave me a jolt.
Vogt saw my look. He passed a hand over his oiled hair. ‘A precaution, merely. Do take your time.’
The green paper documents were an application to join the Nazi Party. Could I refuse? I thought of the interrogation cells and inwardly shuddered. The four categories listed on the front of the document were: German-blood (‘Aryan’), Mixed-Blood — First and Second Degree, or Jew. Inside, there were spaces on the form for my parents’ and grandparents’ names, their places of birth and nationality. Part of me was proud that I could trace back my family, and we were all of pure German stock. But another part of me had been amongst the Jèrriais, the French and the English, for so long, that the question of my race seemed almost irrelevant.
Sweating slightly, I filled in the form, but I hesitated with the signature. ‘Which name should I sign?’
He snapped the answer. ‘Your own, of course, Herr Huber.’ But immediately the impatience was glossed over by his former jovial manner. ‘Édouard Vibert is a nom de guerre, just fiction, isn’t that so?’
I felt like saying that this particular Siegfried Huber felt like a fiction too, but kept my mouth shut. I was in a predicament, a game in which they were the cats and I was the mouse. I was under army jurisdiction, so I’d do well to be cautious and play their game.
I signed it, and he told me to write down my new identification number, before I passed it back.
Again, the click of the jaw. ‘Of course, it must be checked and ratified by the Office of Racial Policy. And you can’t carry it, not as Édouard Vibert. I will keep it here, in case you encounter any … difficulties. Then you must give your number to any arresting officer. Memorise it well. Understood?’
I nodded, and he stowed the thing in his desk.
‘You have my translations?’
I pushed the folder over to him, and he took a few minutes to check it all through. The building was ominously quiet. Up here, we were away from the traffic, and it was so still I could hear my own breath. Vogt pursed his lips, a finger tracing my translations. He read slowly, meticulously, his face close to each paper. I stared at his bald head with the few strands of hair oiled across the pink scalp.
He lifted his head and turned on the charm. ‘Good, good. Very good. They did not send you the new orders?’
I feigned puzzlement.
‘They should have sent you … oh, never mind.’ The impatience was back. ‘I’ll have my secretary send them on. Now —’ He opened the door and called for a secretary to bring him another dossier. ‘Pierre Severin.’ He pulled out a photograph. ‘Here he is in the café near your apartment, Les Deux Pigeons.’
The photograph was blurred, but I recognised the café.
‘We want you to find out where he lives. He’s a slippery animal, and our uniformed men can’t track him down.’
‘Then who took the photograph?’ I asked.
‘One of our operatives. Unfortunately, he’s no longer … operative.’ He smiled at the play on words. ‘You’re his replacement.’
‘So why is
Severin of interest?’
‘He’s been delivering a horrible little Resistance rag called the Musée de l’Homme, and we suspect his group of cutting our telephone lines at the exchange.’ He held up a hand as if I might speak. ‘I know, I know. All petty things, but they all add to our inconvenience. We want Severin stopped, but he moves from house to house, and so far the devil has eluded us.’
I nodded and picked up the photograph. Could that be the Pierre I’d seen last night? It could be. I’d only glimpsed him, and many young men looked the same. He had no distinguishing features that I could see. Just a dark-haired young man with dark eyes and a serious expression. Pierre wasn’t exactly an uncommon name either. ‘So if I see him, what do you want me to do?’
‘Find out where he lives, that’s all. The Gestapo will bring him in for questioning.’
‘Sounds simple enough.’
‘Don’t compromise yourself though. We need M’sieur Vibert, the Jerseyman of French parentage, to be operational for as long as possible. If you think they suspect you of being anything other than an ordinary citizen trapped here by mistake, we will have to redeploy you in a fighting role.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I said. He meant I’d be cannon fodder. How had I got here? A sense of unreality made me shiver. Was I being threatened by my own countrymen? ‘I don’t like to mention it, Herr Vogt, but if I’m to eat in the café you mention, I need a ration book,’ I said.
‘Ah yes. Of course. And some clothing coupons. You don’t look at all French in those old clothes; buy something that looks less … English.’ He pulled two cards from my file and placed them before me.
Carte individuelle d’alimentation, I read. Carte de vêtements et d’articles textiles.
Vogt sucked his lips, then said, ‘I’m afraid it’ll be the same rations as every other French citizen. But you won’t go hungry. I’ll make sure a few extra items are delivered to your apartment.’ He stood up and went to a metal filing cabinet where he extracted a slim leather briefcase. ‘Reichsmarks in the front pocket, occupation francs in the back, and an unfit for employment card. You’ve a weak heart, by the way. And inside, more documents for translation. I’ve a large workload, as you can appreciate, and I’m expecting it to increase once those cells are full. I need an extra pair of hands.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. My initial impression of Vogt was of a charming little man, but our conversation so far made me sure he’d a backbone of barbed wire.
‘It’s sensitive material,’ he went on, ‘so don’t let these papers out of your sight. Best take them straight to your apartment, and never leave your door unlocked. The French are all petty thieves.’ He gave a little laugh, and I smiled in return as he unlocked a drawer and took out a gun. He pushed it towards me. ‘MAB D pistol. Bullets in the briefcase. You can’t be too careful. You can go out of here the back way and find your own way home. From now on, you will have no contact with us, unless we send for you. I’ll send our uniformed man, Freitag, or a plain-clothes man, Foucault, as go-between. If anyone asks why we visit you, you can tell them we are investigating your background because you are a foreign national. Got all that?’
‘Yes. Seems straightforward enough.’ I slipped the gun into my pocket with a sense of unreality.
‘Heil Hitler.’ His arm shot out.
It was obviously my dismissal.
CHAPTER 9
The night was warm and sultry, and the café was busy when I arrived, with a mixture of French customers in shirtsleeves and summer dresses, and Germans sweating in their uniforms. I heard one of them complain about the heat, and I was about to give him a sympathetic smile when I realised I wasn’t supposed to speak German. And German speakers were everywhere. I grabbed the menu. I had to get used to ignoring them.
I glimpsed Berenice, rushing from table to table with her notebook and pencil, and then hurrying out from the kitchen with baskets of bread and carafes of wine.
Finally she got to my table. I patted my wallet, on the table before me. ‘I’m ready to pay my debts now,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly. They’ve been paid. Now, what can I get you? I’m afraid we’ve no more rabbit stew, and the duck’s no longer on the menu. Rationing’s hit us hard this week. But I can recommend the soup; it’s a good hearty mix of vegetables and barley, and our bread’s fresh.’
I ordered the soup, and when it came it was delicious. For a few moments I was thoroughly content, sitting outside under the stars, with a full belly, watching the world go by. After my meal, I ordered coffee, but still there was no sign of the mysterious Pierre, if indeed he really was Pierre. I’d have to find an excuse to stay later. Last night, he’d arrived late, after the doors were closed.
I could hear the sound of a child crying. The well-dressed woman at the table next to me turned to look up the street. The café fell silent. Helmeted soldiers were pushing a family ahead of them at gunpoint. I placed my spoon to the side of my plate as they passed. A stoop-shouldered man, his face a mass of bruises, led the way, carrying two suitcases, followed by a dishevelled-looking woman clinging tight to her children. The older one was a girl of about twelve in socks and sandals; she was the one who was sobbing so audibly. The younger child, a boy, just looked white-faced and terrified. Behind them, and the cause of the girl’s sobbing, trailed a yellowish dog with a brown collar.
Immediately, everyone’s eyes turned back to their plates.
The father turned to the dog. ‘Guismo! Go home!’
‘No, Papa,’ the girl sobbed, ‘we can’t leave him behind. Please! Let him come with us!’
The dog whined, its tail between its legs, uncertain what its orders were. Finally, he slunk after them, still whining.
The soldier bringing up the rear turned, aimed his pistol and shot the dog in the head at point-blank range. The movement was matter of fact, like swatting a fly. The dog yelped once, crumpled, twitched and did not move again. Still nobody looked up. The café was silent. Not even a single clink of cutlery. It was as if all life was suspended.
The mother’s whispered words rang out … too loud. ‘Come on, Chantal.’
The girl was suddenly quiet, dragged away by her mother, her eyes wide with shock and confusion. The little boy’s mouth quivered, but he didn’t cry, just clutched his mother’s arm tighter.
When they’d passed, conversation resumed. I heard the word ‘Juifs’ whispered again and again. The dog lay there, but nobody went to it. Everyone carried on eating as if nothing had happened. I did the same, swallowing though my appetite had gone, because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Presumably, Édouard Vibert would have seen such things before. Siegfried Huber, on the other hand, was ashamed that any German could do that to an innocent animal.
I pushed the half-finished soup away and ordered coffee, and Berenice brought it without speaking, her mouth set tight. The cup rattled in the saucer as she placed it down. I hung around until the café was almost closed. Finally, I was the last one at a table.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Berenice said, ‘you want to wash up again.’
I smiled. ‘No. It’s just … I like to watch the world go by.’
‘Then you are a crazy man.’ Her outraged gaze swung over to the dog, still lying there.
‘Of course, I didn’t mean that. That was awful. That poor girl.’
‘I know them,’ Berenice said. ‘The mother plays tennis at my tennis club. Or rather, she used to. Alain and Sonia Finkelstein. I don’t suppose she’ll be playing tennis where they send them. They owned the jewellers on the Rue du Cygne. Now I expect the Boche own it.’
‘Where will they send them?’
‘Hush. Come inside. We can’t talk here. Even the walls have ears.’
She took my plates from the table and gestured for me to follow.
‘Nobody really knows what happens to them,’ she continued. ‘We know they’ll go north to a holding camp, and then they’ll be deported. A Jewish settlement in the east, they say. But where, nobody see
ms to know. It’s happening to all the Jews. The couple I knew from your apartment, they were deported too, along with their little boy, Emil. The father was a professor at the Sorbonne — fled from Germany in 1934 when he saw which way the wind was blowing. Used to come here every morning for his pain au chocolat. Such a nice man; wouldn’t harm a fly.’ She shook her head, piled the dishes into the sink. ‘But he had communist sympathies, and someone must have said something. Even in Vichy, it seems, they are not safe. Many people bear grudges, or they inform on people for payment.’
‘Can’t we do something?’
‘Not unless you want to join them, no.’ She took on a casual tone. ‘Of course, there are ways in which we French fight back against this occupation. But we have to choose where to put our resources. It is sad to say it, but though we might wish to save every family … well, the bigger picture; that’s what’s important.’
‘Will you stay in Paris?’
‘I worked for ten years to build up this business, so I’m sure as hell not going to hand it to the Boche on a plate.’ She gave a rueful grin. ‘Sorry about the pun. But it’s harder and harder to find things I can cook. The rationing is so stingy, and unless I can find cheaper provisions, only the Germans will be able to afford to eat here.’
‘What ingredients can you get? Maybe I can help with some recipe ideas … I mean, I don’t want to be presumptuous, but perhaps two heads…?’
‘Have a look in the stores.’
‘In here?’ I headed to the door to the cellar.
‘No!’ She leapt in my way.
Confused at her reaction, I hesitated.
‘No — over there behind the curtain.’ She pointed to a partitioned alcove. ‘Our supplies have gone haywire; there’s nothing down there. Everything’s here, where I can lay my hands on it easily. It’s tiring, going up and down there, and I still can’t get used to having to adapt when I can’t use butter or cream, or even potatoes. And I hate to use the black market; it prices us out of Frenchmen’s pockets. But go ahead; have a look. I’d be glad of anything you can come up with.’
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