The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday morning.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s referring to me specifically. Probably best that you leave it alone. You don’t happen to remember this commander’s name?’

  The concierge shrugged.

  ‘Was it Faber?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Did he speak French – very well, with a Swiss accent?’

  ‘He did.’

  Faber. It made sense.

  Tipping his hat to the concierge, Duchene walked out onto the Rue du Mont-Cenis. The dark clouds had made good on their promise, and a light rain was falling, just enough to force a decision on those pedestrians who’d come prepared. Was it worth the effort to open an umbrella? A wind moved up through Montmartre – turning its windmills, blowing loose petals from window boxes and ruffling the paperbacks on the stands outside its bookshops.

  Duchene let a car pass, timing his exit from under the hotel’s awning, and started across the street. The car, a black Citroën sedan, came to a sudden stop, and two men stepped from it. They were dressed in dark coats, dark hats. Their eyes locked on Duchene. He moved his hand to the guidebook in his pocket. But they were coming too fast. His actions were in their full view.

  On the street around him, both Germans and Parisians had stopped what they were doing. The bookseller stood watching Duchene as two magazines were pulled away by the wind. All eyes were on him.

  Duchene turned and started to walk away from the men. They were built like apes and committed; there was no way he could outrun them. But better to show some resistance than be observed acquiescing without any national pride. A young soldier ahead of Duchene started to spread his arms, sensing the moment and a similar need for symbolic action.

  The men gripped their hats onto their heads and ran, their dark coats billowing up around their legs. Duchene gave it a token effort. He made a quick right step around the young soldier before accelerating left to avoid his open arms. Cheers and whistles rose up from a few of the bystanders.

  This spurred his two pursuers into greater speed, and they closed in quickly. One swept a leg sideways, kicking into Duchene’s feet and causing him to trip over and sprawl onto the cobblestones.

  Seconds later, a knee was in his back, and he was being dragged up onto his feet. Their iron grip held each of his arms as they lifted him into an unstable balance.

  ‘Geheime Staatspolizei,’ said one of the men. ‘Walk!’

  Duchene replied in French. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak German.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ the other one said in German, and they marched him back to the car.

  ELEVEN

  As they drove, the storm grew. From the peak of Montmartre, they could see back down into Paris, a grey city divided by the black waters of the Seine. They were heading west, towards the 8th arrondissement.

  Duchene was flanked by his captors, their wide shoulders pressing in at him. They hadn’t removed their hats, and he glanced up at each of them in turn, making a note of their faces. They studiously ignored him, keeping their eyes to the front. The driver, on the other hand, did not wear a hat; his lay on the passenger seat. He would occasionally glance at the rear-view mirror to assess traffic and watch Duchene. His eyes were an intense ice-blue, instantly recognisable and quite memorable. Strange choice for a secret policeman.

  A haze of cigarette smoke had gathered in the back of the car as all three men smoked. Duchene found himself breathing it second hand, letting it fill up his lungs to try to calm himself.

  They pass the Arc de Triomphe and the giant swastika flags that hung from its centre.

  From the roundabout, they turned into Montaigne before wind­ing their way down side streets to arrive at Rue des Saussaies. Before the occupation, this had been a sought-after neighbourhood. The residences and townhouses were home to doctors and bankers. The broad gardens that ran down the Champs-Élysées were at its heart and the apartments that looked down on them were spacious. Now they were occupied by a very specific mechanism of the German state. Duchene knew all too well the whispered rumours among Parisians and German soldiers alike: the street was also home to the Nazis’ secret police.

  The Citroën pulled up outside a building unremarkable but for its finery. Wrought-iron filigree framed its many windows, which ran the length of its six floors. Embellished stonework and a gently rising roof placed it in an artful consistency with its neighbours.

  The driver placed his hat on his head and stepped out into the rain. He pulled open a passenger door, and the men on either side of Duchene pushed him into the street. He was manhandled through an iron gate and past a lush garden before being hauled into the foyer. The door slammed behind him, and he was released with a violent shove.

  ‘Arms up,’ the driver with ice-blue eyes said in German.

  Duchene gave him a confused look.

  ‘Herr Duchene, we know who you are. We know you under­stand us.’

  Duchene raised his arms, holding them out to the side. One of the apes behind him wrenched his coat from his shoulders; the other pulled the hat from his head. They prodded and felt his clothes. Sliding fingers around hatbands, turning out the pockets of the coat. Rough hands pressed along his suit and pulled everything from his pockets, no matter how trivial. Into Duchene’s upturned hat were tossed: the keys to his apartment, his trench torch, his lighter, the square of waxed paper, Kloke’s guidebook, the folded handkerchief, his wallet, a broken cigarette and the letter exempting him from the curfew.

  With this offering in tow, he was walked up a flight of stairs to the second floor. Many closed doors lined its opulent corridor. Only one was open. His handlers slowed as they passed it.

  The room had been stripped of its carpet and wallpaper. In its centre was a heavy wooden chair beside a basic table. These furnishings were nicked and damaged, while dark stains made an irregular pattern across the exposed floorboards. On the walls were the watermarks of where a sponge had been used. Of all the things in the room, only a woodworking kit on the table was maintained. Its wing doors stood open to display tools for the careful gouging of wood. These were polished to a high gleam.

  Duchene was hauled past this room and into its neighbour, a large chamber that had been converted into an office. He was made to sit opposite a white baroque dining table that had been repurposed as a desk. Dark-brown folders had been precisely stacked to one side of the table; on the other was a heavy mantel clock that featured a stag rearing over an outcrop.

  Duchene’s hat was deposited, incongruous and dripping, in the centre of the desk. The men stood behind him and waited.

  The door eventually opened, and a man entered. He wore a pair of black-rimmed half-glasses and pulled these down to the tip of his nose as he looked at Duchene.

  Their eyes met.

  It struck Duchene that this man was nothing like the other three. His face had a jowly softness to it. His jaw was weak, his hair parted to flop over one side of his face. Although his age was hard to determine, the lines across his features showed he was certainly advanced in years. But his eyes were focused, exacting. They scanned Duchene and seemed to draw conclusions, mirroring his inspection of the Gestapo boss.

  ‘Auguste,’ the man said.

  ‘And you are?’ asked Duchene.

  ‘That’s no concern of yours,’ he said in a thick Bavarian accent. ‘Feel free to address me by my rank – Oberführer.’ A colonel. He reached forward and pulled Duchene’s hat towards him. ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘The headquarters of the Gestapo.’

  ‘That is correct,’ he said without looking up as he picked through the contents of the hat. ‘Do you know why you are here?’

  Duchene gave the answer he hoped was true. ‘This could have something to do with a missing German soldier.’

  ‘Correct. And do you know how your name came to us?’<
br />
  ‘I’m assuming you’re aware of the letter that is in my hat. It would have raised some suspicions.’

  ‘Very astute. Your reputation would seem to do you justice.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘As a good investigator. A keen observer of detail. Someone who unpicks a knot of information then assembles it into the correct facts.’

  ‘I’m just a retired schoolteacher.’

  ‘To the Verniers, you are the saviour of their child. And I hear tell that there have been other incidents. Other missing children, found and returned. Some of the details are not so pleasant.’

  ‘People see a war and take advantage of it.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ The Oberführer turned the contents of the hat onto the desk. He pushed the letter to his right-hand side. ‘We’ll come back to this.’ He dragged the house keys, cigarette, lighter, trench torch and wallet to his left-hand side, then paused with his finger on the small folded paper. ‘Amphetamines? Methamphetamines?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at Duchene. ‘A man your age … if it helps.’ He unwrapped the handkerchief. ‘And this?’

  ‘Sorrel.’

  ‘Times must be lean.’

  ‘Less so if you’re a tortoise.’

  The Oberführer let the comment pass, sliding the handkerchief into the items on the left.

  All that remained was the Baedeker guidebook. The Oberführer picked it up. He first turned to the bulging press of tickets in the back, then held the book spine down and fanned the pages with his thumb. He soon found the photograph of Kloke and the two other soldiers at the Eiffel Tower. ‘Not yours, obviously.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lieutenant Christian Kloke.’

  ‘Ah. Which brings us back to this.’ He slid the letter from his right-hand side back to the centre. ‘Did Major Faber tell you why he’s so keen to find this man?’

  Faber. The Oberführer clearly knew more than he was revealing. Duchene carefully considered his response.

  ‘Do I need to explain the purpose of my organisation to you?’ asked the Oberführer.

  ‘The Gestapo? No.’

  ‘Let me do it anyway. I investigate crimes on behalf of the Reich. Crimes committed by our enemies, and even our own. And while I outrank Major Faber, it would also be in the power of my men to question him.’

  ‘He said he wanted to stop Kloke from making a bad decision.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘Deserting the army.’

  ‘If that is what has happened.’

  ‘It would seem the obvious conclusion.’

  ‘And yet you’ve been to his room. Tell me, did it look like he’d deserted?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Please, Herr Duchene. You’re insulting us both with an answer like that.’

  ‘No. I don’t believe he did. There were things he would have taken with him. Keepsakes. Money.’

  ‘And you didn’t take these things yourself. Why not?’

  ‘Because the military police would have got there eventually. It was too risky, stealing from a German.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you did steal,’ he said, tapping the guidebook.

  ‘That was necessary. In order to find him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To work out where he’s been, those places he frequents. There will be people I can ask. The knot to unpick.’

  The Oberführer leant back in his chair and pushed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. He folded hands across his lap and looked at Duchene.

  He sat like this for some time. Duchene counted the ticking of the mantel clock at the edge of the desk. It was the only thing to make any sound in the room.

  Seventy seconds later, the Oberführer spoke again. ‘There is something that you will do for me. Let’s not even address the consequences if you don’t. You know who we are. You know what we do. Is that understood?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You will make no mention to Major Faber that we have met. Not a word. Whatever you learn about Lieutenant Kloke, you tell me first. Then I will advise as to what you shall pass on to Major Faber.’

  ‘He’s expecting me to find Kloke. What if I do?’

  ‘We will address that outcome if and when it happens.’

  Duchene could feel the Oberführer watching him, waiting for his next response – a viper, coiled.

  ‘That is very clear,’ Duchene said. ‘Anything about Kloke, I will bring to you.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what might have happened to him? Something that might help me find him?’

  ‘I can tell you that it is an unsafe time to be a German in Paris.’

  It’s an unsafe time to be a Parisian in Paris.

  The Oberführer continued, ‘Kloke is one of four soldiers who have gone missing. No signs of desertion, their rooms left abandoned.’

  ‘Do you think these disappearances are connected?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the Resistance?’

  ‘Of course, it’s a possibility. But your insurgents tend to be more overt in their actions. Suicidal, at times. Only today we trapped some of them as they tried to smuggle guns into the city. It’s an insult to us that they’d think we wouldn’t catch them. So many of them – thirty-five – so rash. But it’s always the young men, isn’t it? They believe they are invulnerable, that death will never come to them. But you know better, don’t you? Going by that relic you use for a torch, I can see you served in the Great War, so I know you’ve seen death firsthand. I know you understand that some of us have the power to trade death like a currency. The significance is in numbers and not names. That’s how we can show the strength of our convictions. We executed them today, in the Bois de Boulogne. Do you know what they called themselves at the moment of their deaths, these thirty-five men?’

  Duchene was unsure if it was a test. He gave the answer anyway. ‘Martyrs.’

  ‘Yes. Like a saint. Like your Jeanne d’Arc. What miracles have they performed? How did they die in Christ’s name? Martyrs. It’s an insult to God.’ The Oberführer dropped the Baedeker back into Duchene’s hat. ‘Do you support the Resistance, Herr Duchene?’ he asked without looking up.

  Duchene blinked. Another test, perhaps. He remained silent.

  ‘I only ask because you seem to spend a lot of time working for us. In their eyes, you’re already a collaborator.’ He held the hat, now full, towards Duchene.

  ‘This has been suggested.’

  ‘Well, if you’re damned already you might as well get something for it. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘They’re just names. You give them to us, we do the rest. Perhaps in return we can help you with Major Faber. Lift you out of your predicament.’

  ‘Names of Resistance members?’

  ‘That’s right. You’re observant. Observe and report. Stahl?’

  The pale-eyed driver stepped forward and held out a card.

  ‘This is our number,’ said the Oberführer.

  Duchene took the card.

  ‘Do call. Update us on Kloke. And should the thought strike you, pass on a few names.’

  TWELVE

  The Métro train rattled at speed through the tunnel, the frosted bulbs that lined the carriage flickering as the train glanced across the powerlines suspended above. The train was crowded, and Duchene had stood so a young woman could take his seat.

  She’d thanked him with a noticeable German accent. A faux pas.

  Now, even though there was little room on the train, a small circle had formed around him. Parisians turning their backs, their sides to him. Making a note of even this minor indiscretion.

  Perhaps he’d spent so much time
with Germans, he was forgetting the basic rule of an occupied city: give no support to the enemy. This seemed to include acts of kindness on the Métro.

  How could he have known the girl was German? Had anyone known until the moment she thanked him?

  She smiled at him from the seat beneath a Noilly Prat advertisement, which only made things worse. An audible hiss came from somewhere in the carriage.

  He had first seen her, two suitcases at her feet, standing at the entrance to the Porte Dauphine Métro. A man in civilian clothes was taking a photo of her positioned directly below the ornate art nouveau archway, its stylised lettering made famous all around the world.

  That should have been Duchene’s clue. But in the rush to get away from the Gestapo, he’d let his attention slide. The suitcases, the photo, this should have suggested a tourist. And other than the occasional Italian, who were mostly absent from the city now, there were no tourists – only the occupiers.

  In his defence, she was a woman. As far as he knew, all female German workers – secretaries and nurses – had been recalled, withdrawn from being so close to the front.

  She had a nice smile, her blonde hair was recently curled, and her large eyes stayed fixed on him. He hadn’t noticed himself growing older; from time to time, he even forgot. The gaze of an attractive woman remained the same reward it had been when he was twenty.

  All too easy to fall for the enemy.

  He pulled out the Baedeker guide and started to thumb the pages. Consulting the map at the back, he worked through the guide systematically, looking at each circle on the grid and tracking it to the entry in the book. Each was marked with a dog-eared page, each a notable destination. All but one.

  On a map of the Right Bank, a circle had been drawn a block from Square Léon Serpollet, but it didn’t highlight any monument or destination.

  Turning to the back of the book, being careful not to spill its contents in the rattle of the train, Duchene leafed through the ticket stubs and clippings. Kloke had visited the Eiffel Tower three times, or perhaps the other two tickets had been purchased for his friends. Many of the cabarets in Montmartre were here: Lapin Agile, Moulin Rouge, The Elysee. The Louvre, of course, and the Musée d’Orsay. Napoleon’s Tomb, and five stubs from the music hall Café de l’Olympia.