The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  The deli owner came out from behind the counter. He wore a thick moustache and stubble. His dark hair was peppered grey and on his forearms were fading tattoos.

  He placed a hand on Duchene’s back and gestured towards a small circular table set with a sugar bowl and silver salt and pepper shakers.

  Duchene sat and the owner reached out a hand.

  ‘Giancarlo.’

  ‘Auguste.’

  Giancarlo tapped on the table. ‘Your question?’

  ‘I’m looking for this man,’ Duchene said and held out the photo.

  ‘Fine young men.’

  ‘I was hoping you might recognise the man in the middle.’

  The deli owner removed a pair of spectacles from his apron, placed them on his face, and held the photo close to them. ‘Yes, this one I recognise,’ he said, tapping the photo above Kloke. ‘Christian. He comes here, perhaps twice a week. Usually a sandwich, sometimes an espresso. Pays in francs. His French is terrible, but at least he tries.’

  Duchene sat back in his chair, surprised at the simplicity of the moment. ‘Have you seen him recently?’

  ‘Not for a few days. He’s probably staying away like everyone else. Without an oven, without electricity, it’s impossible to keep the refrigerator going or bake bread.’

  ‘Do you know exactly when you last saw him?’

  ‘Towards the end of last week. I’d brought up some meat from the cellar. We’d spoken about kaiserfleisch, and I insisted he try pancetta. He ended up buying a quarter kilo.’

  Duchene held open the guidebook to the map section where La Festa was located. ‘You can see here, he’s placed two ticks next to your shop. Do you know if he spoke about any of these other places? Maybe he visited them with a friend, a Frenchman.’

  ‘He only ever came here alone, no friends.’ Giancarlo peered at the map. ‘And as for the other places… Here. He did say he’d been meaning to visit Guillaume’s charcuterie.’ A large finger, tattooed with a crucifix on one knuckle, pointed to the spot. ‘He said he’d been told to visit there by a friend. I couldn’t tell you if this friend of his was French.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Duchene said, shaking Giancarlo’s hand. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I’m sorry I don’t have anything to give you to thank you for your time.’

  ‘No need,’ he said, standing.

  Duchene also stood.

  ‘You’re working for the Germans?’ Giancarlo asked, ducking behind the counter.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘This is why you’re looking for him, for Christian?’ he called back from under the counter. ‘You’re working for the Germans?’

  ‘Ah, that’s difficult to answer … Sort of.’

  ‘This is what I thought,’ Giancarlo replied, returning with a small parcel of waxed paper, 100g Pecorino written on the side. ‘Here,’ he said, offering the parcel to Duchene, ‘have this, and good luck.’

  ***

  The chime above Guillaume’s rang as Duchene stepped through the door into the dim shop. Candles in tin cans had been placed on shelves and nailed into doorframes. Almost twenty people were exchanging ration tickets or bartering with small valuables. There were no Germans in the shop, which lifted the mood. The dour Guillaume managed the queue and, from what Duchene could observe from a distance, his prices did not seem to have changed since the day before – no price gouging? Much of the stock had been depleted, but there was still enough preserved meat to go around.

  ‘I knew this day would come,’ Guillaume called to Duchene when he saw him standing in a corner.

  ‘What day is that?’

  ‘The Germans on the run.’

  ‘Are they?’

  The conversation paused while Guillaume served the next customer. An older woman in pearls was looking for dried saucisson.

  ‘Aren’t they?’ Guillaume continued. ‘Police on strike, Métro workers on strike, gas cut, electricity cut – this is a city running to a standstill, and the Germans are too afraid to lift a finger to restore it.’

  A furtive cheer rose up from the customers.

  ‘What if it’s the quiet before the storm?’ asked Duchene.

  ‘But what if it’s not? I’ve been listening to the BBC. The Germans have been completely pushed out of Normandy. Paris will be next!’

  The next cheer was cut short as a German troop truck sped past and rattled the windows.

  ‘Let us hope so,’ Duchene replied. ‘But let’s make sure we stay safe until then. As the Germans get desperate, there’ll be reprisals. Let’s not give them a reason to make them.’

  It was hard to tell if his response had affected Guillaume. The man’s long face was as expressionless as ever. ‘You’re probably right.’

  Duchene waited while the crowd thinned until the shop was empty, then he walked up to the glass countertop. Even though less than two days had passed, Duchene saw a noticeable change in what was being sold. Only a few pâtés and terrines remained. The other goods were less frivolous larder food, stored without refrigeration: dried sausages, candied pork belly, andouillettes in aspic. Other meats were notably absent too. ‘Not selling German food anymore?’

  ‘Put it back into the saucisson. I haven’t seen much of their kind around in the past couple of days. They’re thin on the ground.’

  ‘I think they’ve just gathered in other places. Securing their headquarters, their barracks.’

  Guillaume tucked his fingers over his apron straps and let his arms hang, resting them during the quiet in the shop. He wore several rings, most of them antique, one large and engraved with Bordeaux 1918.

  ‘You fought in the last war?’ Duchene asked.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You trade fair.’

  ‘We’re all struggling.’

  ‘Not everyone would. Rationing is one thing, but without gas only coal and wood ovens will work. That’s a lot of the city left without kitchens, and without refrigeration.’

  ‘I’m fortunate to have a well-stocked cellar. I’ve been planning for this. The people of Paris will have my support even if it sends me bankrupt.’

  ‘Conviction and principle are rare these days. It’s admirable.’

  ‘I do what I can.’

  ‘I have a question for you. Do you have a moment?’

  Guillaume nodded.

  ‘This man,’ Duchene said, holding out the photograph with his finger above Kloke. ‘I’ve been told he was a regular here.’

  ‘A lot of Germans were.’

  ‘Have you seen him in here recently?’

  Guillaume shook his head.

  ‘But he did come here?’

  ‘I remember him. He spoke bad French. He liked kaiserfleisch.’

  ‘So I’ve been told. Did he ever come in with a friend? A Frenchman?’

  ‘How would I know that they were friends?’

  ‘I don’t know – talking together, sharing cigarettes.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen the city recently. No Frenchman would be a friend to a German, at least not openly. Some women, yes. But they do it because they are weak. Because they are looking for security in a time of uncertainty.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Duchene said, reaching inside his trench coat for the guidebook.

  ‘But we don’t take Germans between our legs.’

  Duchene left the book in his pocket. He waited, trying to outlast the man’s intent, to see if the comment was directed at him. But he sensed nothing.

  They stood in silence for a moment longer, before Duchene said, ‘Can you tell me anything about this man? Anything at all that might help me find him?’

  Guillaume’s face was motionless while he thought. ‘The last time he was in, he wasn’t in uniform. Had a lot of money in his wallet. He bought more than he usually would.’

  ‘Do you remember when?�
�

  ‘Maybe a week ago.’

  ‘You can’t be more precise?’

  ‘No.’

  Duchene sighed. ‘Thank you for your help. Please take this.’ He offered the wrapped cheese to Guillaume.

  The charcutier shook his head and withdrew his hands from his apron straps. ‘Keep it,’ he said, lifting a parcel up from below the counter. ‘And take this.’

  Duchene reached forward and took hold of it. It was heavy, a kilo at least.

  ‘Sausage. For the Resistance. Use this to feed them. And capture that German.’

  EIGHTEEN

  As Duchene stepped out of the pedicab onto the pavement, he passed some of the sausages, wrapped in paper, to the driver. The man tipped his hat, and Duchene watched as he rode back up the street.

  The small aluminium and canvas pedicab had rattled and groaned for most of the journey. Had it been pulled by anything more powerful than a bicycle, it would have fallen to pieces. Its leather seat had barely fit Duchene, and several times he’d almost fallen out. He would have been better off in one of the horse-drawn carriages that had recently returned to the roads.

  He scanned the street around him: no sign of hidden observers. Perhaps there weren’t any. Perhaps their instructive purpose had been served when they’d arrested Eliane Payet. Perhaps.

  He walked into the foyer of his building and tapped on the door to the Junets’ apartment. The heavy shuffle of slippered feet betrayed the arrival of Monsieur Junet. He opened the door with a smile. ‘Auguste. You’ve had that call. I left a message on your door.’

  Duchene couldn’t help but smile back at him.

  ‘Thank you very much. Please take some of this bacon for Madame Junet and yourself. It’s fresh from Guillaume’s today.’

  ‘This is too kind.’

  ‘Not at all. Please. Take four pieces. It needs to be eaten.’

  Duchene gave a quick farewell and ran up the stairs. He rattled free his keys and opened the door as he plucked off the note. Holding it in his mouth, he pulled out his trench torch to light his way to the dining table. He dropped the bacon and shone the torch on the note.

  He said to meet at the Ritz at eight. Would not give a name. Sounded Swiss.

  – M. Junet

  Duchene crumpled the note and threw it across the room. Faber.

  Kicking the nearest book stack, he sent it flying across the floor.

  ***

  Duchene fumed all the way to the Ritz. He made the journey on foot after quickly eating half the cheese and three slices of bacon he’d cooked over the hotplate he’d rigged last winter on the basement boiler.

  He was no closer to finding Kloke than he’d been last night. He was relying entirely on a possible phone call from the man’s French lover, a stranger with very good reasons for keeping his identity hidden, who had absolutely no reason to trust Duchene.

  By the time he reached the hotel, bellhops were lighting hundreds of candles to coincide with the sunset. A few Parisians watched as he approached the guards stationed at the front entrance, and he found himself waiting beside a suspicious twenty-year-old with a rifle while his message was taken to Faber.

  Hands patted across his suit and coat, and he was escorted inside. As the door closed, the heat enveloped him. The air was dry and smelt of wax. The faces of German officers in full dress gleamed with beads of sweat, while the few women who joined them wore light dresses and fanned themselves. The sound of a piano was coming from the bar to the right of the hotel’s sweeping reception, and Duchene crossed the marble to reach it.

  Arrayed around the room were white Louis XVI tables and chairs. There was an improbability to their ornateness, with legs so thin it seemed they’d break under the weight of a man – let alone a man sitting with a Frenchwoman on his lap, of which there were several. Large glass steins were being carried to the tables by waiters, along with wine and cognac. Elaborate petit fours were also being offered, their dark chocolate and gold leaf glistening under the candlelight.

  Every table was full, and the bar was standing room only. A few French civilians were present, probably from the Vichy Government: bureaucrats and envoys, those necessary experts who helped keep the city running. They looked uncomfortable for the most part – the lack of electricity surely a reminder of the strikes throughout the city, of how they’d lost control of those areas of their expertise. Most of the crowd were Luftwaffe officers singing along to a grand piano, fully opened, that stood on a low stage surrounded by the tables.

  At this piano sat Camille.

  Her face was flushed with colour as she sang with the crowd, hitting the keys with a force and precision that drove them to a peak of excitement. It was a rattling version of ‘Lili Marleen’. Duchene had never seen her play like this. She sat side-on to the Germans, rocking back and forth as sweat glistened along her arms. A lock of her hair had fallen loose, and she flicked her head to move it from her face. As she reached the chorus, she stood and raised a hand at the crowd, lifting her upturned palm towards the ceiling. The officers sang even louder, delighted and enthralled.

  Duchene found his body shiver at the sight of her drawing a hundred Germans to her whim, compelling the enemy. Her power, her passion, her beauty. She was so much more than he was, and he thrilled at the thought that he had been with her.

  All this evaporated as he saw Major Faber.

  It didn’t take much, just a cursory scan of the crowd. As the majority of patrons wore blue-grey Luftwaffe uniforms, he spotted the white of Faber’s summer tunic quite easily despite the press of bodies. The major was sitting with his back to Duchene, watching the stage from a table he alone occupied. He was smoking. A whisky bottle was laid out on the table before him. Duchene squeezed his way, unnoticed, through the crowd; their eyes were moving between Camille and the companions at their sides, as they grinned in recognition of each turn of the song.

  Duchene stood beside Faber. His blond hair, without a strand of grey, had been swept back with wax past his widow’s peak. He wasn’t smiling or singing. In his stillness, he looked old and tired – as old as Duchene. Not even his finessed appearance could distract from the lines and shadows under his eyes.

  Faber kept watching Camille and looked at Duchene sideways. ‘You’re late.’

  Duchene struggled to hear him over the noise. ‘No Métro.’

  ‘Sit.’ Faber poured himself a whisky. A good quarter of the bottle was already gone. He lit a cigarette and placed his mother-of-pearl lighter back on the table. ‘So.’

  ‘I haven’t found him.’ Duchene had to raise his voice and lean across the table so the major could hear.

  ‘This is what I was thinking,’ Faber shouted back. ‘I thought, Why hasn’t he contacted me yet? Why am I still waiting to hear something, anything, about Kloke?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we move somewhere else?’ Duchene asked. ‘There are a lot of people around. They might hear us.’

  ‘So what? Hardly any of them speak French, and the ones who do are here to serve us – the men and the women.’ Faber turned his head from Duchene and looked past his shoulder.

  Duchene knew what was behind him. He didn’t even have to look. But it was like witnessing an automobile accident – he couldn’t help but turn and guide his eyes towards the incident, even though he knew what he’d see would distress him.

  At a table right beside the piano were Max and Marienne. Max was in his uniform, sweating profusely, his pale skin bright red with exertion, Marienne in an evening gown, possibly new, with a low square neck and open back, her dark hair in curls and her eyes lined thickly with kohl. They were singing along.

  ‘It’s always the same songs,’ said Faber, ‘the ones most popular with the high command. Last time there was a surprise vocalist.’

  ‘Marienne.’

  ‘You see, this is the intuition I’ve heard so much about. And ye
t, here you sit with nothing to tell me. Nothing.’

  The song finished, and the crowd applauded, rising to their feet if they weren’t there already. Camille stood, placed her hands over her heart and released them in acknowledgement. ‘Thank you,’ she said in German. ‘Thank you.’ As the noise dimmed to chatter, she spoke from the stage, ‘Last time I was here, we had a guest.’

  Some whistles from the crowd.

  ‘Shall we do the same tonight?’

  They cheered again.

  Marienne, still at her seat, smiled but shook her head.

  ‘Come, darling,’ Camille said.

  The cheering increased as Marienne got to her feet. ‘You’re all too kind,’ she said in German to the crowd. ‘How can I refuse an invitation like this?’

  ‘She’s too good for you, Max!’ someone called out.

  Laughter rippled, and Marienne stood beside the piano. Camille sat and placed her fingers on the keyboard, nodding the time to Marienne as she started to play, her fingers running up the keys. Marienne sang in French, her voice smooth and warm.

  The Germans sat in silence as she looked across them and filled the room with her voice.

  Duchene smiled briefly. It took him a few moments to realise the song. She was fearless and bold and the Germans were none-the-wiser for her cunning. While she sang in her native tongue, the song was from America, Cole Porter’s ‘Night and Day’.

  Faber finished his whisky and poured another. ‘I’d really hoped it wouldn’t come to this. She’s an impressive young woman, as few are. But even they die. It’s what happens when their fathers fail.’

  ‘Your timeline was unreasonable. I’m getting close. I’ll have him soon.’

  The lie wasn’t even a good one; he could see that in the unwavering scowl on Faber’s face. ‘How are you close? Kloke has clearly deserted, and you’ve given me not even a hint of where he’s gone. No details.’

  ‘Details have consequences,’ said Duchene.

  ‘What was that?’

  The Gestapo had been very specific. Duchene scanned the crowded room – even talking to Faber was a risk.

  Marienne’s voice soared. Those who had been speaking stopped, and between her breaths there was absolute silence in the room.