The Occupation

by Deborah Swift

  ‘Could you find us the right things?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could, but…’ I tailed off. Shit. I’d let my mouth run away with me again before I’d thought it all through.

  ‘It’s risky, I know,’ Antoine said. ‘It won’t be on any ration card, so you’d need to be a thief. It’s the same for us all. We’ve had to get used to the idea that we’re all criminals. All Resistance members are wanted men. In our own country.’ The bitterness made his bony face seem older.

  I took another larger swig of the brandy, to cover the fact my face was blazing. I’d just done something really stupid.

  Antoine’s forehead furrowed as he held out his glass for a top-up. ‘Never mind chemistry, we could do with a few proper burglars on our team, though I must say I’ve got quite good at getting over the wall into the paper plant. Printing paper’s strictly controlled now, and there’s always Nazi guards on the gates. I expect it’s the same with fertiliser. Though walking about with a sack of fertiliser might be a damn sight safer than stealing stuff from Nazi garrisons or munitions dumps. Tell you what, I’ll get you the stuff, and you can show us how to make the device.’

  ‘No, you can leave it to me,’ I said, hastily backtracking. ‘I know what I’m looking for.’ I couldn’t have them bring explosives here, not with Freitag liable to drop in for a visit at any moment.

  ‘Oh, good man. Berenice said you’d be up for it.’

  I tried to divert him. ‘She’s your mother, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve been calling her Berenice for years. She’s just not a “Maman” type, too intellectual. Oh, I know you think she’s just a café owner, but she’s a bloody good businesswoman. Single-minded as hell, that’s my mother.’

  It wasn’t a compliment, I could tell. ‘It takes a lot of work running a café. I used to be in the same trade.’

  ‘Did she tell you she gave up her life to school me and put me through university? Insisted on it, when all I wanted to do was race cars, like my father. All that studying, and now there’s a war on. Bloody useless. Anyway, I don’t tell people we’re related. It’s safer. I’m supposed to be dead; my papers are all false. I have several aliases, in case I get caught.’

  ‘Must be awkward.’

  ‘You get used to it. We’ll have to find one for you.’

  ‘No. I’m happy to take the risk.’ Lord, not another name. I couldn’t cope with that. I thought frantically for an excuse. ‘Besides, it’s not like you and Berenice; there’s nobody here I’m protecting. It will make no difference to me. I’ll stick with Édouard, thanks very much.’

  ‘If there’s any hope you can get it, we’ll need your explosive in a month. There’s a bridge — a viaduct actually. If we can bring that down, it will cause no end of trouble for the Boche. But we have to wait a while, because there are some Allied airmen who need to travel that way before we blow it to smithereens.’

  ‘Allied soldiers? Are there any left? Aren’t they all prisoners of war by now?’

  ‘Nope. These have been parachuted in, to try to get more intelligence about German troop movements and targets. We help them land and then get them out of France and back to England. I can’t tell you any details; we have to keep it all under our hats.’ He slugged back the rest of his brandy and slammed down the glass. ‘To be honest, I don’t know why we do it. Haven’t we got enough trouble without the Brits expecting us to babysit them in and out of France?’ He was angry. His fist was squeezing the edge of the sofa.

  I stood up, suffocated by him, by the intensity of the emotion that was somehow compressed inside him.

  ‘What will you do tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘It’s just … well, I’d like to work. I have a sort of routine.’

  ‘Berenice said you were writing a book. I’ll keep out of your way. I’ve to collect some printing, then drop the papers off at the collection points. I’ll be gone before you wake, before it’s fully light. Safer that way.’

  ‘I’ll turn in then,’ I said. ‘I hope you sleep well.’

  He didn’t answer, but peeled his long frame from the sofa and headed for the bathroom.

  From the bedroom, I heard the cistern belch and gurgle. Sounded like he was using more than the two inches of water we were supposed to take. I lay awake in my pyjamas, fretting over the fact there was an enemy agent on my sofa. Or rather not on my sofa, because the walls were thin and I could hear him pacing the room, then the clink of a glass as he helped himself to the dregs of my brandy. A moment later, I smelled the pungent waft of his cigarette smoke.

  From the noises next door, I could tell he didn’t sleep, and neither did I. Was I really going to source explosives against my own people? Yet who were my people? I felt far more allegiance to the struggling Berenice than to the bullies of the German Army, who would deport people simply because they didn’t share their religion. The relationship between Berenice and Antoine was obviously complex. And in the back of my mind were my mother and father, German to the core, and my brother Horst, who fiercely believed that all other nations were somehow inferior to ours. They would hate me for thinking these thoughts.

  In the room next door I heard Antoine cough, and the flush of the cistern for the umpteenth time.

  The front door clicked shut before it was light, and I felt a surge of relief that Antoine had stuck to his word and was off the premises. I wasn’t looking forward to another night of no sleep.

  I took the folders from the wardrobe where I’d hidden them under a pile of blankets and set to work. One of the letters I was translating was a memo from Pétain about something called a ‘Jewish Statute’.

  As of now, all French Jews were to be divested of businesses, premises and citizens’ rights. The Crémieux Decree, which had granted French citizenship to a hundred thousand Algerian Jews more than fifty years ago, was hereby revoked. Under the new legislation, no Jewish doctors would be permitted to carry on their medical practice. It seemed to me that the free French state of Vichy was just as bad as the occupied zone at persecuting the Jewish population.

  The thought of it made me angry and restless, so much so that by lunchtime I was ready to escape it, and I went over to the café. All the tables were inside now to preserve warmth. Sebastien and Henri were huddled over their chess as usual. They nodded at me as I arrived, but the German soldiers ignored me as beneath their notice.

  I watched Berenice working, her bustling square figure rushing in and out with plates of steaming food. She was always polite to the customers, but I detected extra warmth for the French. ‘Non, désolée! Pas de pain aujourd’hui.’ No more bread today. Yet everyone could see the German soldiers’ sleek plumpness, whilst the French grew daily thinner and more lacklustre.

  Finally Berenice got to my table. ‘All right?’ she asked. I could see from her eyes she meant Antoine.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, and I reached to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I saw her exhale.

  She brought me coffee ‘on the house’. It wasn’t as good as usual, and the cup had dark grounds floating at the bottom.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, seeing me grimace. ‘It’s chicory. All we could get.’

  I noticed the tables were bare. ‘What’s happened to the tablecloths?’

  After a furtive glance to check no one was listening: ‘They’re not fit to be put back because we can’t get them washed. The laundry’s been closed down. Seems the laundry employed some Jews, and men came two nights ago and smashed the place up. People are disappearing all over the place. Antoine says there are camps in Vichy France, and they’re holding them all there. Jews, communists, anyone who disagrees with the Nazi regime.’

  I was afraid she’d read something in my face, and I looked away. Fortunately, some soldiers sat down at one of the tables near the window and Berenice was obliged to go and take their order. As she hovered around them, I saw one of them was Freitag. He caught my eye and gave a faint smile. Immediately I busied myself stirring the grounds in the bottom of my cup, and praying that Beren
ice hadn’t seen that look.

  CHAPTER 17

  As the weeks passed, and summer came, I began to see more and more people wearing the yellow star on my daily walk. I myself had typed up the notice in French that was to go to the printers — the one telling Jews to collect the stars from the gendarmeries, and that this tiny bit of cloth would use up a whole month’s worth of their precious textile rations. Today, as I passed through the city, there were green and yellow buses on every corner, hordes of uniformed police, and ragged groups of Jews herded together with their suitcases.

  Outside an old cinema, a small girl with black braids wept as she was suddenly separated from her father. A harassed gendarme in a peaked cap gestured him onto the already-packed bus, waving his gun. The mother begged and protested, with the child clamped to her side, her face screwed up in fear. I looked back over my shoulder as the police insisted the father go without them and saw him try to make light of it, kissing the girl hard on the forehead before climbing aboard with a wave and a smile full of tears. The bus drove away in a cloud of choking exhaust fumes.

  What was going on? These were not German soldiers, but French policemen. But what incensed me more was the little crowd of rich Parisiennes that had gathered to stare. Well dressed, and each wearing the Paris woman’s trademark of a tiny veiled hat and high-heeled shoes, they pointed and whispered. The war was right there on their streets, and yet they behaved as if it was an entertainment specially laid on for them.

  The rich seemed to be thriving everywhere I looked. The restaurants were still full of beautiful young women wearing jewels, hanging on the arms of German officers. If you had money, everything could be bought on the black market. Unless of course your name was Epstein, or Abrahams, or Benmohel. My thoughts turned to Rachel, Céline’s friend. I had sent several brief notes to Céline telling her I was safe, for I could tell her little else. I love you, I said. At least that could not be censored by Vogt’s office.

  But from Céline there could be no reply, and this was the hardest thing of all.

  When there came a soft tap at my door I was almost asleep, but I shot up out of my chair. ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Antoine.’

  I looked at my watch. Only nine o’clock. He was early. This was the third time he had used my apartment as a place to stay, and each time made me wired with apprehension. When I opened the door, he smelt of red wine and motor oil. He walked past me and took possession of the sofa straight away. His expression was closed off.

  ‘Had a good day?’ I asked mildly.

  ‘There’s never a good day whilst those bastards hold Paris,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you what I’ve seen today, because you wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Try me. I saw them taking Jews out of Paris.’

  ‘I’m ashamed of my own people. Why don’t they do something?’ He shook his head. ‘Any more of that brandy?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. There’s nothing to drink, except water in the tap. It’s not been switched off yet if you want to wash, or fill your glass.’

  ‘Then I’ll just sleep, if you don’t mind.’

  I felt it like a dismissal. I was annoyed that he hadn’t even attempted to behave like a guest; that he hadn’t asked after Berenice, or tried to make any kind of small talk; his eyes were closed as if to shut me from his mind.

  I left him and went through to the bedroom. It was too early to sleep, and I wished I had something to read, but I’d put everything away in the wardrobe again. There was nothing for it but to get ready for bed. I was half into my pyjama bottoms when there was a loud knock at the door.

  I froze mid-movement. It could only be Freitag or Foucault. Nobody else ever called. I hauled my pyjama trousers up and tied the cord.

  Antoine appeared at my bedroom door. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

  ‘In here,’ I whispered. ‘Hide. I’ll see who it is and get rid of them.’

  When I opened the door a notch, it was Freitag. ‘Bit late to come calling,’ I said, in French, whispering and hoping Antoine couldn’t hear. ‘I was getting ready for bed.’

  ‘What?’

  I repeated it in German.

  ‘Early to bed, early to rise, eh? It won’t take a minute. Orders from Vogt.’

  I winced. His voice was loud and filled with the Germanic certainty of his uniform.

  ‘Keep your voice down, you’ll wake everyone.’

  ‘It’s only nine thirty. Most of them won’t be in bed for hours. Anyway, I’ll not keep you long.’

  ‘Wait there then,’ I said, trying to close the door, but Freitag pushed his way in and stood in the living room, staring at the empty table. ‘There’s a collaborator just been brought in for questioning. He’s got an illegal radio, so Vogt wants those papers he gave you, the transcripts. I said I’d collect them tonight so he could have them first thing in the morning.’

  ‘They’re in the bedroom,’ I said. ‘I hide them, in case anyone should break in.’

  He nodded, accepting my explanation. I pushed the door open and slipped through. Antoine wasn’t hiding, he was statue-still, arm outstretched, pointing a gun at me.

  I froze.

  His expression was cold, his jaw tense. The scent of something about to erupt hung in the air.

  I raised my hands slowly in a gesture of surrender, keeping my eyes fixed on him, and walked carefully to the wardrobe. I took out the file, and as I turned to go through the door I felt the presence of the gun as if it was actually pressing into my back.

  No shot. So he wasn’t going to risk a shootout with Freitag.

  In the living room, Freitag had lifted a corner of the blackout curtain and was peering out. ‘Quiet street,’ he said. ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘Here,’ I said.

  Freitag turned, smiled and extended a hand. All my senses were tuned to the room behind me. Freitag reached for the file.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You look very pale. You’re not sick are you?’

  I realised I was still gripping the cardboard edge of the folder as if it might hold me up. Abruptly, I let go. ‘Just tired,’ I said. ‘I was about to go to bed.’

  ‘Sleep well,’ Freitag said, and strolled to the door.

  I followed him, wanting to shout, ‘Don’t go! There’s a man in my bedroom who’ll surely shoot me just as soon as you’ve gone.’ But how could I explain Antoine; what he was doing there? Freitag gave me a leisurely ‘Heil Hitler’ and the door closed with a bang.

  The room ricocheted around me; my legs felt like feathers.

  ‘Don’t move. The gun’s loaded,’ Antoine said.

  I turned at his voice. He kept on walking up to me until I could smell the engine oil and Gauloises.

  ‘I can explain,’ I said. ‘I didn’t give you up, did I?’

  ‘Nazi bastard. You can explain why you were talking German, can you? What was in that file? No, don’t move.’ He nudged me forward with the gun. ‘Sit there.’

  I staggered back and sat in the sagging chair, cold shivers racing down my back as I gripped its arms. ‘It’s not what you think —’

  He scowled. ‘You don’t know what I think, so keep your mouth shut.’ He looked at his watch and seemed to be calculating time. The minutes ticked by in silence. Outside, a distant siren wailed.

  ‘Now.’ He gestured for me to stand. ‘Get moving.’ He turned me round and pushed the gun up against the back of my neck.

  ‘Antoine, just listen a moment, let me explain —’

  ‘Shut it. I shan’t tell you again.’ The muzzle of the gun nudged me forward. I wasn’t wearing shoes, just a shirt and tie and pyjama bottoms. The hall floor was icy underfoot. Antoine had hold of my shirt collar and that was pulling back as the gun forced me forward and down the stairs.

  ‘Where are we going? Can’t I just get my shoes?’

  I hoped someone might come out and scare him off. But we were minutes from curfew, and all sensible Parisians had retreated behind their locked doors.

  S
hould I run for it? He’d shoot me if I did. I couldn’t think, just had to keep moving. On the street, he steered me into a dark alley. ‘Make a sound and you’re dead,’ he said.

  The ice and grit of the street stuck to my feet. The streets were impenetrable, all lights out for fear of British bombs. I was a blind man lurching into the dark. My foot stubbed against a kerb. Five minutes? Ten? Suddenly, he steered me sharp right into a doorway and knocked. A burst of knocking in a staccato pattern. No one came. He began the knock again, the door opened and I nearly fell inside. A shove from behind and I was in a dimly lit hallway. Wrinkled linoleum under my feet and the smell of grease and fried onion.

  ‘What the hell?’ a deep voice said.

  ‘Is Félix still here?’ Antoine’s voice cut through the other man’s protests.

  ‘In the back.’

  A push between the shoulder blades and I was hustled through into a back room, where another shorter, stouter man leapt up from the floor and grabbed a rifle from where it lay under the table. This must be Félix. He had a cigarette in his hand, and a tin ashtray full of butts remained on the rug before a cold hearth.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, staring at my pyjama pants. ‘What’s with the gun, Antoine?’

  Antoine nudged me again with the barrel. ‘This, gentleman, is the German bastard who offered to take me in. And we all know why he might want to do that, don’t we?’

  Both men came round to stare at me. The bigger heavy-set youth came right up to me, too close for comfort, his mouth curling in disgust.

  ‘I can explain,’ I said, in French.

  ‘Take off your tie,’ Félix said, swinging the rifle and delivering a crack to the side of my head. My eyes blurred, but I obeyed. Safest to comply, a small panicked voice in my head bleated over and over. They tied me tightly to the back of a chair, with my hands behind me.