‘Faber, perhaps,’ Duchene said.
He drank. The caffeine moved through him. Stirred his mind into life.
If the second man wasn’t Faber, Duchene was in trouble. Eliane’s description didn’t give him much else to go on.
But that challenge paled into insignificance when he played through a scenario where he was successful.
If he found Kloke and gave him to Philippe, Faber would feel cheated.
If he found Kloke and gave him to Faber, the Resistance would feel cheated.
Either outcome was bad for Marienne. The thought threatened to overwhelm him.
Except it was a problem that he didn’t currently face. Right now, he didn’t know where Kloke was. Right now, he couldn’t satisfy the Resistance or Faber.
He checked his watch. Nine a.m.
He had twelve hours. Twelve hours to find Kloke and make a choice.
The Gestapo.
Perhaps there was another way. Lead Faber to Kloke? Betray the Resistance to the Gestapo? All it would take was an agreed meeting place and a phone call. He had their number on a card.
No.
Because then he would be a collaborator. Truly.
Even if he could willingly choose to help the Germans – push aside everything he’d fought for, push aside everything he believed in – as he had seen so many others do, the consequences would be deadly. To do this would be to sign his own death sentence. But at least Marienne would be saved.
It was a desperate option. If it were to play out, he’d need to build up a rapport.
He tapped the waiter’s arm as he passed with a tray from the table he was clearing. ‘I have a favour to ask, Monsieur. One last thing. A phone call.’
SIXTEEN
Duchene descended to the walkway that ran along the Seine. A chill radiated from the cold, black waters. This was what he’d imagined the Styx to be, almost – it would be glassy and smooth, but all else would be the same. Even now, he could see the motorboat approaching him. Not the ferryman, but something close: three men, any of whom could be leading him to his death, although he sensed the only one he recognised, Armand, would be performing that role if it came to it.
The motorboat slid up to the jetty.
Duchene glanced over his shoulder. Along either side of the causeway. If the Gestapo were still following him, they would have to make themselves known to see this.
‘Get in,’ Armand said.
‘Where’s Philippe?’
Armand held a rusted iron ring that was embedded into the stonework. He kept the boat in position, his arms like a mooring rope, muscles straining under his grey jacket. ‘Get. In.’ He glowered at Duchene from beneath his oversized fedora.
Duchene stepped into the boat and grabbed one of its sides, steadying himself as he sat among crab pots. The pilot at the tiller revved the boat into motion, and they started across the river, cutting through the currents that moved over its surface. The spray that hit his face was briny, but it became less frequent as they motored down the opposite side of the river. They followed the Left Bank, passing large, flat barges. The motorboat slid under bridges he’d often crossed but never seen from below: the Pont de la Concorde with its dark bricks of Bastille rubble clearly visible, then the Pont Royal with arches that rose in a gentle curve from the water. Soon they were cutting past the Île de la Cité, cluttered with its palaces, law courts and cathedral.
They slowed as they reached the next bridge and coasted up to another jetty. Philippe was waiting, and he jumped cleanly onto the boat. He used a leather satchel in his right hand as a counterweight to keep his balance.
‘Where to?’ the pilot asked from the stern.
‘Follow the gardens, then take us along the Right Bank again. We’ll find them eventually.’
Armand stepped back from his position at the bow and joined Philippe on the bench opposite Duchene. He hunched forward, picking at his tooth with a folded matchbook.
The motor spurred into action, and they continued downriver, sitting in silence while the pilot scanned the currents. By the time he adjusted their course, they were some distance from the centre of the city.
Philippe looked up at the pilot. ‘Run past it, at a distance, then loop back. Make sure you see Casin before getting too close.’
The pilot nodded and took them wide, past a long canal barge. It lay high in the water, its deck free of cargo. Armand moved his attention away from Duchene and stood up, scanning the canal boat for signs of movement. ‘I don’t recognise the man at the helm,’ he said.
‘Casin or we don’t go in,’ replied Philippe.
They turned at the stern of the barge, cutting across its wake, before running down its starboard side.
A second man emerged from somewhere on the decks. Wild hair blew across a balding pate. He beckoned for them to pull up alongside. This satisfied Philippe, who nodded to the boat’s pilot to move towards the larger vessel. Within no time they had moored to the side of the canal barge, and the rope-worn hands of Casin were reaching down to help pull Duchene on board.
‘Good afternoon,’ Casin said. ‘Below decks, please, before we draw too much suspicion.’
Duchene climbed backwards down a slanting ladder, which seemed to amuse Casin, and ducked his head to follow Philippe across the hull. Thin shafts of light broke through the loading hatches on the deck above them. The few portholes that lined the sides of the ship glowed dimly in the darkness, covered over with stained newspaper – years-old copies of the Pariser Zeitung. The muffled call of the river lapping at the sides of the boat was answered by the sound of water moving somewhere inside the vessel. The dampness reached up the sleeves of Duchene’s jacket and wrapped itself around him.
Philippe stood ahead of him, with Armand by his side. He gestured to a large, mouldy tarpaulin spread out at their feet.
Within seconds, Duchene could hear his heart in his ears. His hands started to tremble. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Please.’ Philippe gestured again as though the request was entirely ordinary.
Duchene walked over to the tarpaulin. Along one side were large metal eyelets. Through these, a rope had been strung: one end securely tied to the tarpaulin, the other a rusted anchor.
‘I still have time,’ Duchene replied.
Philippe made the gesture again, his face expressionless.
Casin and the two men from the motorboat moved to stand in a tight line behind Duchene.
He stepped onto the tarp as he struggled to control his breathing.
‘You have something you want to talk about?’ Philippe asked.
Duchene looked back over his shoulder as the men closed in on him. They were standing an arm’s reach away.
He closed his hands into fists. It did little to stop the shaking.
‘I need more time,’ he said, his own voice strained and foreign. ‘I’m not going to have the priest to you by this evening.’
‘Actually, your time is already up,’ Philippe replied. ‘We met forty-eight hours ago. You never had until the evening. You’re not what they said you were, Auguste. It’s very disappointing.’
‘I know who took your guns.’
The Resistance fighters stood absolutely still. The only sound came from the lapping of the eddies on the side of the barge.
Philippe’s eyes were alert. ‘Proceed.’
‘I need a commitment before I say anything.’
‘What for?’
‘Marienne. Me. No harm. You must agree.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of this,’ he said, pointing to the tarpaulin under his feet. ‘You must guarantee.’
‘Sure,’ said Armand. ‘We agree.’
‘Not you,’ Duchene replied. ‘Him.’
‘Fine,’ said Philippe. ‘Very well, you can have another twenty-four hours. Assuming
you actually give us a name.’
‘A German soldier, Christian Kloke, took the guns.’
Philippe raised both eyebrows, while Armand started glowering again.
‘Bullshit,’ said Armand.
‘Elaborate,’ said Philippe.
Duchene removed the photo of Kloke from his pocket. ‘The man in the centre, that’s Kloke. Somehow he learnt about your cache and, with an accomplice, managed to get into the crypt.’
‘How?’
‘I’m not sure. But they had access to the key overnight.’
‘All right. How?’
‘You have to swear you won’t harm them.’
‘Jesus, Duchene, what kind of people do you think we are?’ Philippe asked.
‘I think you’re a man who believes you’ve got no other choice. Desperate times … I think you’re capable of anything.’
‘Fine. I swear.’
‘It was Madame Noirot, the church housekeeper. The woman who gave them the key was her niece.’
Armand sneered. ‘Collaborators.’
‘No. Think. If this man Kloke was acting on behalf of the Germans, they would have stormed the church and seized the weapons. Both the housekeeper and her niece spoke to me freely and in trust that they wouldn’t be harmed.’
And now one of them is in a Gestapo cell on Rue des Saussaies.
Philippe ran a hand through his hair as he started to pace. ‘So why did he take them, and where?’
‘Both good questions. I’m still looking for Kloke. I have the name of someone, a lover, and I’m talking to them later today.’
Duchene tried to steady his gaze on Philippe, who was preoccupied with straightening his neck scarf. If Duchene remained still enough, the lie would pass.
Armand narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ll go with him. Talk sense to her.’
‘No,’ said Philippe. ‘It’s the closest we’ve been to the weapons. Let him continue his approach.’
‘And the priest?’ Duchene asked.
‘Who cares?’ said Armand. ‘You’re saying he didn’t take the cache. Find this Boche thief. Find our cache.’
‘Armand, please.’ Philippe shook his head, then sighed. ‘But I agree. I’m sorry for Father Ramelle. He is, was, a good man, but his safety is less important than that of the city. You’ve seen what’s happening out there on the streets. The Americans, the Free French, they’ll be here soon. The Germans know it. We know it. The citizens of Paris are getting ready to rise up, and we need those guns to help us do it.’ Philippe waved a hand towards the ladder. ‘Get him out of here.’
Armand gave Duchene a rough push to get him moving.
As he crossed the deck, Philippe walked alongside him and said, ‘You think I’m wrong.’
‘Who am I to say if the people will rise up?’ Duchene replied.
‘Of that I have no doubt. What I mean is that you think I am morally wrong.’
‘Why would that matter?’
‘You would have assisted me without the threats, if I had just asked?’
‘Perhaps.’
Philippe smiled. ‘Come, Auguste. When I spoke to Lucien about you, he tried to discourage me. He said you were too cautious – that you wouldn’t do it – because of the risks involved. Tell me, would you have risked breaking curfew or discovery by the Gestapo so you could help find weapons? Guns are not the same as missing children – you’re not saved the moral culpability. You’re to find murder tools. To be used to overthrow oppressors, yes, but to kill people. People who have lives, yes, some of them souls even, if you like to think that way.’
‘So you use my daughter to compel me? Threaten the life of an innocent?’
‘You can’t believe that. No one is truly innocent. She made a choice to collaborate, to fuck the enemy.’
‘And that is punishable by death?’
‘Only if you fail. I know you believe that the repercussions are extreme, but we live in extreme times. When we strike at the Germans, they will execute French patriots, but these punishments were decided by and exacted by an enemy. We are not responsible for their actions.’
‘You’re willing to make such a decision, because of what they did to your students three years ago?’
Philippe grabbed him by the arm and stepped in front of him. ‘Not just my students. Me. It was no small thing – standing us naked in the rain all night only to line some of us up with guns to our heads. In retrospect it is so transparent, some theatre to break our will. Again, we didn’t push them to this. It was one of the many foreseeable outcomes of the occupation that there would be protests, attacks, resistance. How could we not?’
‘You’re trying to justify your actions to me when you are threatening my life. My daughter’s life. Even you must see that I’m not going to agree with you.’
‘If you could see, truly, what is going on, I wouldn’t have to threaten you. Wars have been fought in Europe for thousands of years, prisoners executed, lives cruelly taken. It’s terrible, heartless, evil, but not new. What is new are these specific Germans, their specific ideology, this specific war. It is different. What struck me to the core, what changed it for me, wasn’t my students – it was what the Germans did to the Sorbonne. They closed down a place of learning, of freethinking. They are trying to drag us away from enlightenment and into darkness. Their whole regime was epitomised in that decision. I’ve seen your apartment. You love books. You’ve heard about what the Germans do to books?’
‘I have.’
‘That says so much, does it not? These are men who are afraid of words, afraid of free thought. And this is before we talk of rounding up Jews and communists and Gypsies. My question for you, Monsieur, is how can you possibly say that the end does not justify the means after all you’ve seen? They must be stopped, and I would take the lives of you, your daughter and these men around me if it only gave us the smallest chance of defeating them.’
SEVENTEEN
‘Please, it’s a simple question, and only you and I will ever know that it was asked and answered.’ Duchene measured his words, spoke them simply and without emotion. Neither desperation nor demand would draw an answer from the restaurant’s owner.
‘You say this is a photo of three Germans, but you are a Frenchman,’ the thin woman replied. ‘Why are you looking for them?’
‘I’m only looking for this man in the middle. He’s stolen something from the Church of Saint-Lambert de Vaugirard. The parishioners have asked me to try to get their donations back.’
‘Donations? Now I know you are lying. No one is making donations at church. Away, leave.’
‘Please.’
‘Go. Before I fetch my husband.’
‘Madame …’
The woman’s eyes were wide. Her face had reminded him of an English teacher he’d once had – brittle, uncompromising. But now that had changed. From the way she held her gaze on him, scanning his every movement for meaning, her arms folded across her chest, he could see he was frightening her.
‘I’m sorry to have bothered you,’ he said with a polite nod. ‘Good day, Madame.’
It was between lunch and dinner, and without electricity or gas the candlelit restaurant was empty. Duchene had barely stepped inside when the woman had arrived, hopeful for business and disappointed when he came with questions and not barter.
It took a moment for him to turn and exit through the front door. Out on the street there was little activity, but at the patisserie a queue still stretched: women and children waiting with ration tickets at the ready. Madame Lyon was inside, trading the tickets for small bags of flour. As he watched, he could see one of her apprentices walking down the line, turning people away.
Duchene sheltered in the doorway of a closed-up milliner’s and opened Kloke’s Baedeker. He looked at the page that contained a small map of the streets surrounding the Grands Boule
vards Métro.
He was desperate. He’d spent an hour walking back from the Seine to his apartment, where he’d been frustrated to discover that Florette had not tried to contact him about Kloke’s French lover. He’d called in on Monsieur and Madame Junet to impress on them that he was expecting an important call and to please answer the foyer phone on his behalf. He then used his last can of sardines to catch a pedicab out to Rue de Castellane.
Kloke had circled many of the restaurants in the street with a pencil, and marked them with a tick or a cross. Duchene assumed that ticks indicated Kloke rated them well enough to revisit.
After finding that Maison Visk was a dead end, he looked down the list again.
La festa was ticked twice.
This was a wood-fronted delicatessen two blocks further down Rue de Castellane. By the door, small clusters of herbs grew in a well-tended flower box – basil, rosemary and oregano. Above these, Italian cheeses, preserves and dried pasta were advertised in gold and red paint across the shop’s windows. On entering, however, Duchene found that any potential customers would be disappointed. A woman was standing with a baby on her hip, trying to exchange vouchers. Duchene watched as she was bartered up, giving away most of her meal rations for three onions and a stale heel of bread.
He was surprised to see relief on her face as she left. It was well into the afternoon now and perhaps she’d been looking for food since morning.
Around a glass counter that would have once contained cheese and meat were tins of anchovies, cans of artichokes and tomatoes and a few packets of dried pasta. The owner waved to Duchene as he approached.
On the wall behind him hung a flag of golden fasces on an azure background. Beneath this was a framed photograph of Benito Mussolini.
The deli owner smiled at him.
‘Good afternoon. What can I offer you? It might not look like much, but I can write down a recipe from my grandmother. Show you how she could make a wonderful meal in lean times like these.’
‘Thank you, I was hoping you might help me with a question I have?’
‘Of course.’
The Paris Collaborator Page 13
