The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  Lucien whistled at Duchene from the far side of the church. ‘This way.’

  He followed as Lucien led them around the side of the altar and into the sacristy. Here a walk-in closet contained robes and vestments while a locked cupboard probably housed other articles of worship. The smell of incense lingered in the air from a metal censer that hung from a hook in the wall. Duchene touched it. Still warm. ‘Mass just done?’

  ‘At midday. Come.’

  A narrow spiral staircase led down into the priest’s office and the rectory. These stood on the ground floor, suggesting the foundations of the church proper had been raised and incorporated into the natural rise of a hill.

  ‘Madame Noirot, are you about?’ Lucien called.

  Duchene scanned the office while they waited. On a heavy oak desk were stacked neat piles of paper: christening forms, service guides, a few funeral memorial papers. In the corner of the room was the lithograph that had likely been used to produce them. Behind the desk stood a large glass-doored cabinet with alphabetically arranged books and texts on its shelves, while at its base were religious artefacts and a comprehensive selection of whiskies.

  ‘Hello?’ said a faltering voice from beyond the office.

  ‘Madame Noirot, we are here to help find Father Ramelle,’ said Lucien with a reassuring smile.

  The woman who emerged was only a few years older than Duchene. She was tiny, a little hunched, and seemed to be shivering in the cool of the room. She looked up at Lucien. ‘You’re here to find him?’

  ‘Well, to be precise,’ Lucien said, still beaming, ‘this man is.’

  Duchene approached her, his arm outstretched. ‘My name is Auguste.’

  ‘Anne-Marie,’ she said, shaking his hand. Her grip was firmer than he’d expected, but she released him suddenly at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  He turned to see Armand in the doorway, his hat still on, cigarette smoke lingering around him.

  ‘And you know Armand, of course,’ said Lucien, his smile evaporating.

  Madame Noirot nodded in silence.

  ‘Take us to the cellar,’ Armand said, his eyes locked on Duchene.

  The housekeeper nodded again and slid a ring of keys from her pocket. She walked to the other side of the desk, unlocked one of the drawers and reached her hands inside. Their movements produced a soft click, and she withdrew a large, worn-down iron key. The bits at the end of its shaft were simple and rectangular.

  She led the men into a corridor that seemed to connect a series of living spaces. The smell of a wood fire drifted towards them, and the occasional crackle could be heard from a room beyond. Halfway down the corridor, she made a sharp turn and opened a small door that could have easily been mistaken for that of a closet. This opened onto another spiral staircase, far less maintained than the one descending from the sacristy to the office. A musty smell and damp chill rose up from the darkness.

  The housekeeper’s hand moved to a light switch and revealed a basement below.

  Duchene followed her down the stairs into the dank chamber. It seemed older than the rest of the church, its stone a rougher cut, a darker hue. Along one wall, wine racks were falling into disrepair. He observed Lucien’s growing disappointment as he scanned the empty bottles; no forgotten vintage awaited discovery.

  Along another wall were piled offcuts of wood and marble. Madame Noirot guided the men towards a series of planks. She started to move these, stacking them each to one side. Lucien and Duchene joined her, while Armand watched in silence. Eventually they uncovered another door, three quarters the size of a standard door and covered in iron bands. These and its heavy hinges were fixed into place with large hand-crafted nails.

  Duchene whispered to Madame Noirot, ‘What is this?’

  ‘A door. That much would surely be obvious.’

  ‘Madame, I mean the rooms down here.’

  ‘I know your meaning.’ She smiled briefly. ‘This is from the original church. Fifteenth century.’ She removed the hefty iron key from her pocket and placed it into the lock, where it turned only after some force was applied and opened into pitch-blackness. ‘The crypt,’ she announced to Duchene. She felt around just inside the door until she drew back with an old lantern. Assisted by Lucien, she lit it, and Duchene and Armand followed them in.

  The chill of the crypt came as no surprise; what amazed Duchene was its size. The ceiling vaulted to twice the height of the previous room, made all the more impressive by the dark pillars that supported it. Along either wall were the straight lines of unadorned stone sepulchres, behind which deep tombs had been cut into the rock in stacks. Most of these had been sealed, capstones adorned with Gothic script detailing their occupants. Some had been broken, and the shapes of bones and rags could be made out as the lantern cast its dim glow around the chamber.

  ‘Come,’ said Armand. ‘This is where they were kept.’ He pulled an electric torch from his pocket and gestured Duchene away from Madame Noirot and Lucien towards an open tomb. It was narrow but just wide and high enough to fit an ammunition crate.

  ‘This is where they were stored,’ said Duchene, ‘with the capstones closed?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Armand. ‘These three tombs along this wall, three on the wall opposite.’

  As Duchene’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he’d begun to appreciate that there were shades of darkness. He could see the six empty tombs, black squares cut into black, narrow but deep – the perfect size and shape for a body to be interred or an ammunition crate to be hidden. The capstones had been pulled off the tombs and lay on the ground. ‘This happened recently,’ he said to Armand. ‘You resealed them when you first placed the guns inside?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And the bodies?’

  ‘You’re not looking for them. You’re after the priest.’

  Duchene remained silent and stared at Armand.

  ‘I’m not a heathen. We reinterred them with the priest’s help, and he gave them a blessing. They’re over there.’ Armand nodded ahead to the left.

  ‘Did you mark these tombs?’

  ‘No. We memorised their names.’

  ‘Who memorised them?’

  ‘Father Ramelle, Philippe, me. No one else knew about the cache.’

  Duchene lowered his voice. ‘Madame Noirot?’

  ‘No. The first time we brought her down here was after the priest disappeared.’

  ‘What have you told her since?’

  ‘Only that he was keeping something here for us. We needed her to let us in with the key – we didn’t know where the priest hid it.’

  Madame Noirot was still standing in the centre of the crypt, watching them closely.

  Duchene moved to the open tombs on the other side of the chamber. This row was set a little higher from the ground, and the capstones were completely shattered. He waved a hand for Armand’s torch and shone it into each hollow. The first two contained only dust, stone and the scraps of ancient shrouds. But at the back of the third, a box was pushed deep. ‘There’s something here.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Armand said. ‘Trust me.’

  Duchene leant into the tomb, reaching as far as he could. As he pressed his head to the cold stone, he extended his arm and shoulder, his fingertips gripping the edge of the heavy box. With slow movements, he finally managed to get it close enough to tug out.

  It was an old leather document box. Pulling open the lid, Duchene found it full of flyers printed on a lithograph. There were at least twenty variations, each detailing the injustices of the occupation and calling for acts of resistance. The oldest flyer was dated November 1940, six months after the occupation; the most recent had been printed a month ago.

  ‘See, nothing of use to you,’ Armand said.

  Duchene closed the box and carefully returned it to the tomb. ‘Ramelle wrote these?’

&n
bsp; Armand nodded. ‘It’s how Philippe found him. He wanted to meet the man who wrote so passionately against the Germans, or so the story goes. I wasn’t there when they first met.’

  Getting to his feet, Duchene dusted his hands against his trousers. ‘Let’s go outside.’

  Armand stepped towards him. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to look at something.’

  ***

  The grey haze that had covered Paris was lifting, just in time for the last rays of the sun to enter the city. The sunset cast an amber glow over the apartment houses that lined the narrow Rue Blomet. This same light passed through the trees behind the church and fell over Duchene, Armand and Lucien as they smoked Lucien’s American cigarettes. Madame Noirot accepted one but tucked it behind her ear.

  Duchene exhaled smoke as he gestured across the small church garden with the tip of his Lucky Strike. ‘Where did you deliver the crates?’

  Lucien scanned the ground to get his bearings. ‘We parked just on the street. Armand and I moved them into the bushes, there, while Philippe kept watch. Once we had them concealed, we moved them again, back through those doors we just came through.’

  ‘And it took two men to move each crate?’

  ‘Philippe moved the last one by himself – he could see a patrol at the end of the street. But only a short distance from the garden into the church. It’s a two-man job.’

  ‘And the only other way into the church is through the front doors?’

  ‘Yes,’ Armand said.

  ‘Madame?’ Duchene asked.

  She had maintained her benign expression since leaving the crypt. ‘Correct,’ she said in a measured voice. Duchene looked at Armand and Lucien, but they were preoccupied with a critique of their American tobacco.

  He glanced at his watch: just past six. ‘Gentlemen, Madame, I must go.’

  Armand frowned. ‘Wait. Do you know where to go next, to find the priest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve only spoken to the old woman. What about the parishioners? You need other names.’

  ‘Who’s to say they’d know anything?’

  ‘I have no idea. That’s not my job.’

  Walking towards him, Duchene lowered his voice. ‘Neither do I. Yet. But I have a few theories I’d like to test. Nothing that can be done with you present.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Duchene cast his eyes around; the trees were good cover for their little meeting, but not so much that he’d like to prolong it. ‘I will ask just before curfew when people are in their homes. And later when you aren’t around.’ Armand moved to speak, but Duchene cut him off. ‘A member of the Resistance will raise suspicions, make people afraid to speak. Surely that must be obvious to you? They don’t want the Gestapo visiting, don’t want to be branded as political adversaries. Each time you assassinate a German officer or roll a grenade into a group of soldiers, the reprisals become worse.’

  ‘Reprisals are worth the price of resistance. Surely even you can see that.’

  ‘Let’s try and not cause any before I find your weapons, all right?’

  Armand shrugged for a reply – agreement, non-committal, unconcerned by the death he left in his wake – none of it made Duchene feel comfortable.

  SEVEN

  As the apartment door opened, the fragrance of roasting meat and the sound of good-natured conversation greeted Duchene. He had expected admonishments from Marienne – he was forty-five minutes late – but she smiled and kissed his cheeks.

  One glance at her told him he was underdressed. She wore a blue evening dress with large accordion pleats and embroidered straps; it was new and, Duchene assumed, the latest fashion. Her dark lipstick accentuated her fair skin, which had never had a summer hue, even in childhood.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said, taking his coat.

  Duchene opened his valise and brought out a bottle of cognac. He gave it to her as she guided him down the short corridor to the open-plan living and dining room. While her back was turned, he slipped a novel from his bag: Alain-Fournier’s Le Grand Meaulnes. He quickly scanned her shelves for its spine; if it was already there, he’d brought something by Raymond Chandler. Satisfied that she didn’t have it, he placed it onto the bookshelf in the corridor for her to discover – a recommendation, a secret, a surprise, a kindness.

  She glanced back at him, and he nodded to her as he passed through the sliding doors towards the three people gathered around the dinner table. Their laughter quieted as he approached, and a young Luftwaffe officer leapt to his feet. He was tall with a tight blond haircut and the trimmed pencil moustache of an airman. ‘Good evening, Monsieur Duchene, I’m Maximilian, Max,’ he said in raw French and thrust a hand at Duchene. His grip was firm but moist. He’s nervous.

  Another German, dressed in an elaborate tunic complete with ornamental braids and piping, sat beside Camille. Duchene didn’t recognise the uniform: army but not infantry. A medical officer, perhaps? Regardless, it was clear he was very senior and, from the Hindenburg Cross on his lapel, had served in the Great War.

  All this finery magnified Duchene’s sense of inadequacy – he was wearing his best suit, but it was worn around the cuffs and frayed at the pockets. If he’d been given a sense of the formality of the evening, he could have arranged something better through Lucien.

  ‘Monsieur Duchene,’ the senior officer said, remaining seated as he gestured towards Duchene. ‘Come and join me at the far end of the table, where it would seem we elders have been relegated.’ His French was impeccable. Unlike Max, he glided through his sentences without hesitation. His German accent was so slight, he could have easily passed for Swiss.

  ‘This is Major Faber,’ Marienne said.

  ‘Thomas, please,’ said Faber as he poured wine into Duchene’s empty glass.

  ‘Auguste,’ Duchene replied, sitting beside him.

  ‘Best to keep us old military men together.’

  ‘Marienne was just telling the major how you served in the last war,’ Camille said, as Marienne disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘It feels like a lifetime ago.’

  ‘Doesn’t it,’ said Faber. ‘Which is a blessing. There’s much from that time I’d rather forget. What rank?’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘An enlisted man. Very good. And promoted to a leader.’

  ‘Not really, just the last man left who could do the job.’

  ‘Yes, a terrible war. I won’t disagree with you there.’

  Duchene couldn’t imagine the distinction between a terrible war and some other kind. Perhaps Faber was referring to his being on the losing side.

  ‘But you are both here now,’ Max said. ‘Ready to enjoy this fine meal of both German and French food. It’s the way of the future.’

  Although Faber smiled, Duchene could see his eyes had hardened. He raised his wineglass. ‘Now that we are all here, a toast perhaps? To the meal that Mademoiselle Duchene has spent so much time preparing. A beauty, an intellectual, a wonderful cook. To your health!’

  Glasses chimed. Marienne swept back into the kitchen.

  Duchene found himself assessing Faber. Although they were about the same age, nearing fifty, Duchene was very aware that to the casual observer, he would have appeared the older of the two. The major was a testament to the Teutonic emphasis on robust living and physical health. His blond hair was slicked back from a receding hairline freckled from days spent in the sun. His hook nose was unmarred by drinking, and his strong frame was still firm and without a spilling gut.

  None of this was made any easier by Duchene’s growing sense that Faber was the focus of everyone’s attention, the motivator of their desire to be both erudite and entertaining.

  ‘I hear you speak excellent German,’ Faber said to Duchene as Max struggled to describe to Camille the summer house his fami
ly owned.

  Perhaps Faber was looking for a compliment on his French. ‘I do my best,’ Duchene replied.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘English.’

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve caught that affliction too. Although, very useful in this war. I do enjoy being back here in Paris and speaking the language, walking the streets. I was disappointed by what you did with the Louvre, but I dare say the Führer would have shipped it all back to Berlin. Probably better that your government had it removed. That’s sedition, I know, but there you have it. I’d like this city to remain as it is. Too beautiful to bomb. Too much history and culture to let it burn. You must at least give us that.’

  ‘I can do that. You didn’t bomb us.’

  ‘No. But the English … Well, that can’t be said for them. I heard about your school. So much for your allies, eh?’

  Duchene carefully set his wineglass back on the table.

  ‘You don’t like my directness?’ Faber asked.

  I don’t like anything about you.

  ‘It’s not something I like to discuss.’

  ‘I apologise. I forget how important decorum is in Paris. Max warned me. As you’ve already seen, he says far too much. How are you with Latin? As a linguist, I take it you share a passion for the classical world?’

  ‘A little. I’m a modernist, really.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That won’t do. You’ve read Ovid?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Homer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘This is a major setback. I’d hoped we would find a kinship there.’ Faber held out his left hand. He wore a ring with a small cameo; on a lapis-blue background was the ivory profile of a Roman centurion. ‘I bought this here, when I visited with the delegation in thirty-seven. A street vendor was selling a pair of them. I had to have them both. In Rome, a man needed to fight before he could vote, before he could assume a role in determining the future of his civilisation. There’s an honest simplicity to that, don’t you think? You must sacrifice something of yourself for the state before determining its future. That’s the problem with Jewish Bolshevism – every man is equal, regardless of service or status. But how can we be? You must earn your right to participate, because to be given it for nothing makes it worthless.’