Faber was testing him, that much was clear. Duchene paused while he considered his response. ‘I don’t think I understand the world any more now than I did before I fought in a war. If anything, it makes less sense.’
‘Ha!’ Faber clapped him on the back. ‘Well, that’s the challenge of having lived and travelled. The more you see, the more you realise how little you know. But the essence of men, this never changes. Is this uncertainty why you left the army? A sergeant’s salary would have been difficult to turn away from.’
‘I didn’t have the passion for it.’
‘So you turned to teaching … I suppose it’s an admirable profession?’
Marienne came back to the room holding a large roast ready to be carved. Beside this she placed a kaiserfleisch tartiflette and mushroom tournedos. She held out the handle of a carving knife to the older German. ‘Major Faber, would you like to do the honours?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. Monsieur Duchene should do it. He is the guest of honour, after all.’
He was? To what end? Perhaps it was no accident that Lucien had brought him to the Rue de Castellane that morning.
‘Come now,’ Faber said, taking the knife from Marienne and passing it to him, ‘you’re among friends. We won’t judge your skill.’
Among friends … He felt conspicuous. Complicit. Held captive by Faber’s social decorum.
Duchene did his best to bring a casual smile to his face. There were a great many Germans in the city, whom he had learnt to tolerate while he kept his head down and survived. Now he found himself considering if he should actively offend one. He had the knife in his hand and a German officer a few inches away.
Duchene carved the roast, and Faber beamed from ear to ear. Once everyone had been served, Duchene took his seat.
‘You say a Frenchman produced this kaiserfleisch?’ Max asked as he raised more tartiflette to his mouth.
‘From Guillaume’s,’ replied Marienne.
‘Amazing.’
‘A master charcutier,’ Camille said. ‘Accepts only a few apprentices on the agreement they’ll never work anywhere else in Paris once they learn the secrets to his technique.’
‘The skill of the French as cooks was never in doubt,’ said Faber.
‘Or as romantics,’ Max said in German, gripping Marienne by the hand. ‘Which brings me to an announcement.’
Duchene’s stomach clenched.
‘Marienne and I are engaged. Monsieur Duchene, you must forgive me for not asking your permission first. I had meant to do so at the start of the evening, before everyone had arrived. But it seems that the moment is now. I wanted the major here too – as close to family as I have in this foreign land.’
‘I understood only a little of that,’ Camille said in French. ‘Is this word verlobt what I think it is?’
‘Yes,’ said Marienne. ‘We’re engaged.’
‘Congratulations,’ Camille said as she hugged Marienne and kissed her cheek.
‘Yes, wonderful news,’ Faber said, standing to reach for Max’s hand before kissing Marienne. ‘Takes me back to when I first proposed to my wife.’
Duchene gripped the sides of the table as he pulled himself up. His mind was numb with disappointment. Disappointment with France, that it could let itself be taken by enemies who would ingratiate themselves to his daughter. Disappointment with Marienne, that she had fallen – not so much for a German, but for a man who was so far from her equal, this grinning imbecile in a uniform. But most of all, disappointment with himself, that he hadn’t done more to guide Marienne, to fight for a larger role in her life. If he had done that, she might have confided in him about Max’s plans, and he could have counselled her otherwise.
‘A toast, then you must tell us how you met,’ Faber said.
‘I’ll fill our glasses,’ Camille said, and distributed them from the sideboard. As she poured the Hennessy, she looked at Duchene, a subtle narrowing of her eyes. In less than a second, she had turned away and was filling Faber’s glass.
Their glasses charged, Faber gestured towards Duchene. ‘Please. I spoke at my daughter’s engagement and her wedding, and whenever my wife would let me. Please, from the father of the bride-to-be.’
Duchene felt as if he was looking at the smiling faces from a great distance rather than mere centimetres. Marienne was watching him with a slight frown, her hand gripping her glass too tightly. There was a pinching below his eyes as he forced his lips into a smile. ‘A happy day. To my remarkable daughter and this young man whom I hope to one day know better. Cheers!’
‘Prost!’ shouted Max before downing the cognac.
‘A remarkable find in a city of scarcity,’ Faber said, examining the amber liquid.
‘It was a gift,’ said Duchene.
‘Recently?’
Duchene stared at Faber. He refused to let an expression pass across his face.
‘No need to fear. I’ve heard about your good deeds, about how you assisted the Verniers. An impressive feat, finding a child in the midst of a war. My congratulations to you.’ Faber held up his glass to Duchene.
‘It comes as no surprise to anyone here that we Germans haven’t had the warmest welcome in Paris,’ Max announced to the room in German. ‘I understand. I would feel the same if France had come to Germany. I think of Napoleon marching into Berlin, when he paid his respects to Frederick the Great. We should act with honour, even in war.’
‘We don’t need to get into that now, Max,’ said Faber. ‘Tell us the story of how you met – and in that terrible French of yours, so Madame here can appreciate it.’ He nodded in the direction of Camille.
‘This is part of the story,’ Max said, switching to French. ‘I come to Paris, and I am ignored. A woman loses the umbrella from her hand. I chase it down the street. Bring it back. I am ignored. I ask for directions. Parisians don’t know where anything is. I ask again, more slowly. They shrug. Perhaps they have forgotten their French too?’
Marienne laughed.
Max continued, ‘I can see what is happening. I am not alone. The Luftwaffe all agree. But one day, I am in the Métro, and we are boarding the train. I drop a parcel in the rush. I think it will be crushed. But it is lifted from the ground and passed to me. A woman says in German, “Is this yours?” Not any woman. A beautiful woman with a smile and fire in her eyes – my angel of the Métro. Everyone is looking at us. I say back to her in French, “Thank you.” And then in German, “Let me buy you a coffee. Let me return the favour.” She doesn’t say yes. She says, “Of course,” as though it the most natural thing to do. She is brave, and she is, as Monsieur here says, “remarkable”.’
Marienne beamed and placed both hands on Max’s face as she drew him forward to kiss her. Duchene looked down at the table.
‘I’m happy to be called “remarkable”, but I am tired from cooking for all of you.’ Marienne smiled. ‘Enough of your stories. Go and get the tart,’ she said playfully, pushing Max out of his chair.
‘Of course,’ he said as he left the room.
Almost immediately, Marienne leant close to Camille and started to talk to her. They laughed and whispered, and Duchene turned his head so that he didn’t hear anything he might otherwise regret. This brought him back to face Faber, who was picking the cognac up from the table and pouring them both another round.
‘Of course, it’s an awful idea,’ he said in hushed tones to Duchene.
‘It is?’
‘Come now. Don’t pretend you don’t know it too. What is to happen here? What is their next step to be? We’re at war. He’ll be recalled soon. She’ll be without his protection. Or worse, the Americans will get here, and we’ll have no choice but to shell the city to drive them out. He’s Wehrmacht – if he’s recalled, she won’t get to go with him. That’s just the way it is.’
Another moment of frankness. Duchene was unsure if Fab
er was trying to test him or draw him into a compromise.
‘On that we agree.’ Duchene took a slow sip from the glass. The cognac no longer caused him to wince. He wondered how much he’d drunk in the past two days. ‘She says he has a powerful family?’
‘Max? Yes. If we weren’t at war, they could probably do what they want. His father is an old friend, a captain of industry. But while we’re at war, it’s the captains, majors and generals who make the decisions. And right now, it’s everyone reporting for duty – no excuses. Bolshevik dogs harassing us in the east. Americans fucking with us in the west.’
Duchene remained silent.
‘Oh, you think we’re not in this together? How are you not “one of us”, Monsieur Duchene? I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but our countries are no longer enemies. You yourself recently saved the child of German supporters. Yesterday, you drove around the countryside with papers signed by none other than von Choltitz’s personal secretary. You’re very squarely and firmly rooted in soil owned by Germans, metaphorically and physically.’
‘I did that for the child.’
‘Seems a long way to go for a stranger’s child. To take such risks for – what do your insurgents call them? Collaborators.’
‘I did it for the child. Not for the parents. Not for collaborators.’
‘Rubbish. You did it for yourself. For your own advantage.’
Duchene picked up his drink and sipped; he could feel his resentment growing. There was little point in arguing his defence, but this did not lessen the insult. ‘I’m uncertain what you want from me, Major Faber.’
‘Well, there’s some truth to that. I do want something from you. But I’m afraid I’m not asking you to do it.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Faber glanced at Marienne. ‘As you say. A remarkable woman.’
Duchene sipped the liquor. Let the heat of it push back his anger. ‘Go on.’
‘Oh, now, Monsieur, I must say that for the first time tonight you have surprised me. I was certain you would protest. A father’s indignation, his protective instincts … but this. Cold and without passion. Impressive.’
Hardly. But I’ve heard it all before. Four hours ago.
‘What is it that you are going to tell me to do?’
‘To find someone, of course. This is what you do, no?’
‘That would seem to be the case.’
‘I need you to find a missing soldier. Lieutenant Christian Kloke, 2nd Panzer Division.’
‘Desertion?’
‘I think not. He was one of my best field commanders. He enjoyed the job. And there’s no sign of assassination – no body to be found. Which surely is the point of an insurgent attack, to demonstrate non-compliance through violence. It makes very little sense.’
‘Does he have a hotel room, an apartment? Has someone checked his belongings?’
‘They have. But perhaps you should look for yourself. He kept a room in Montmartre. Nothing has been touched. He didn’t report in yesterday, and no one has seen him since Friday night.’
‘Might I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why me? Why not your military police? The French police?’
‘You joke. French police? I should hand this to the Feldjägerkorps, our chained dogs. But they are under orders to shoot deserters. And I’d rather Kloke was not executed, even if he is a coward. Like Max, I’m a friend to his parents. And like Max’s parents, they’re influential. It wouldn’t look good if their son was executed while I was in the same city. I’d prefer to keep it all off the record, for you to find him and for me to convince him to return to battle. Germans should be killing the enemy, not one another. But that isn’t the biggest problem with the military police.’
‘And that is?’
‘Whatever Kloke’s reason for disappearing, German soldiers are going to struggle to find him quickly. You heard Max, your city is not open to us. But to a Frenchman who excels in finding the missing, someone who’s not hated by the locals … It makes perfect sense.’
‘Is that why you came here tonight?’
Faber shrugged. ‘A home-cooked meal, the company of beautiful women … there are many incentives. But yes, to drag myself away from the company of Germans to sit in the house of a French whore, I’d need to have a very specific goal – you.’
Duchene gripped the glass, making his hand ache.
Faber unbuttoned the front of his tunic and reached into his breast pocket. He handed Duchene a folded piece of paper. ‘You are now authorised to be out after curfew. Find Kloke, and be quick about it. You have –’
‘– two days.’
‘Yes. Exactly. I’m glad you sense the urgency. Anything else you need to know before you begin?’
‘No,’ Duchene replied.
‘Good.’
Faber’s expression changed in an instant from the blank certainty of a killer to the smile of a long-term host, just as Max emerged from the kitchen with a tarte Tatin in his hands. Plum. That hanged farmer, the stench of his death, had followed Duchene to the city.
EIGHT
Duchene’s mind raced. Faber’s threats had revived him. He stood and poured more cognac to go with the dessert. He could do little more than prod at the tarte.
Faber excused himself as soon as he’d finished eating. To Duchene’s surprise, Max left with the senior officer, to return to their hotel headquarters.
Camille waited just long enough for the Germans to have cleared the building before making her farewells. ‘My darling, such a wonderful dinner. And this news of your engagement! I am so happy for you.’ As she kissed Marienne on both cheeks, she looked pointedly at Duchene. He nodded back and kissed Camille farewell. ‘Curfew is soon,’ she said.
‘I know. I’ll be back soon.’
With Camille’s departure, the mood in the apartment dropped. As if on cue, the lights started to flicker. Marienne was no longer smiling, no longer wrapped in the warmth of her own hospitality – that bonhomie she had worked so hard to bring into her apartment. She was without expression, like the dark before the storm, so much like her mother whom she surely did not recall being this way; she had been too young. It was uncanny and filled Duchene with dread. Was she about to leave him too?
‘The lights will go out soon,’ she said as she lifted a burnished candelabra from the sideboard and began lighting the wax candles.
‘I did try, Marienne.’
‘Really? I’m not sure what I was thinking by inviting you. I wasn’t expecting your blessing, but it was important to me for you to be here.’
‘You know that I love you.’
‘In your way. But it’s not the love I need.’
He paused, confused.
A candle was refusing to take, and the flame of the match crept closer to her fingers. ‘What happened to the love of a father to a daughter, no matter what comes?’
‘He’s a German soldier. With any luck, they will lose this war. They’re already coming undone. What happens then? What life will you have? Or do you want them to win so you can live in wealth in Germany?’
She shook out the match and lit a new one. Moving around the last of the candles, she used it as a way to keep her eyes from his, to speak words he suspected were difficult for her. ‘After all this time and you still can’t see it? It’s not just Max’s and my decision, a decision for which I don’t need your support. I was just trying to be civilised. But I could have used your support, your love when she left.’
‘This is about your mother?’
She looked at him with clinical distance. ‘Where were you then?’
‘With you. Right here in Paris.’
‘No. You were still with her. Hoping she’d return. You could think of nothing else.’
‘Marienne … that’s not true. I fretted for you
every day. We had to make a life on our own. I spent so many nights thinking of how we might survive. You know, about the sacrifices. What it took.’
‘But the one thing you couldn’t sacrifice was her memory. You told me she’d return. You told me she still loved us. You told me she was doing a wonderful thing to help other people.’
‘That’s what she believed.’
Marienne lifted the match to her lips and blew it out. ‘And did you?’
He watched as she positioned the candelabra in the middle of the table. ‘I wanted to.’
‘You really didn’t think she was running away from us?’
‘“Passionate” is a word we use too frequently. People think it’s glamorous, that it’s desirable. But there’s madness to it too. She truly believed that she needed to go to Spain, that she had to fight the fascists. There was nothing I could do to convince her otherwise. Was I to lock her up? Tell her not to be the person she was deep down inside?’
‘She could have done all that from France. There were communists raising money for the International Brigades.’
‘Not really. Not truly. Not the way she saw it. She feared that the world would be ruled by dictators. Can we say she wasn’t wrong, with the benefit of hindsight? Spain was the beginning, and she saw it. She wanted a better world for people to live in –’
‘Rhetoric.’
‘No. Truth.’
‘If that is really true, then it makes it much worse.’
He blinked. Could Marienne think this little of her mother? Or could it be that she was right? Perhaps he had built the story like a wall, concealing the facts, obscuring his objectivity?
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You were her husband. I was her daughter. She should have wanted a better world for us. First. Before all others.’
The Paris Collaborator Page 6
