The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  Once Duchene had known all of her world, chosen the books he read to her, provided clothes for her, been a confidant to her concerns and her joys. Now he saw someone else, her world unknown to him. He’d never heard her sing like this, but he did know that she’d loved music as a child, and that she was always self-assured and never hid behind his legs. He’d taught her German, and English too, which she was translating to French as she sang a song from across the Atlantic.

  No part of the hours he had left, however few, would be without risk. All he could do was play out each moment as it came.

  ‘You want details?’ he whispered back to Faber. ‘How about the fact that the Gestapo are investigating you?’

  Faber moved the glass down from his mouth. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s right. They picked me up outside Kloke’s hotel, the Saint Clair. They’re investigating him as well. They wouldn’t say why, but I have my suspicions.’

  The crowd were on their feet as Marienne finished the song. Their applause and whistling filled the room.

  Faber leant in close to Duchene. ‘You’ve made your point. We should go somewhere else.’ He placed his cigarettes and lighter back into his pocket, then picked up the bottle and glass. ‘Come,’ he said as he started to thread his way through he crowd.

  Duchene followed, moving through the crowd as they called for an encore.

  As they reached the archway that led back into the foyer, they passed the heavy blue drapery that lined the wall and framed its elaborate wallpaper. In the darkness of one of these drapes stood two men: a young Luftwaffe captain and Lucien.

  Lucien.

  The Luftwaffe captain slipped a roll of francs into the black marketeer’s hand. Duchene couldn’t slow down enough to see what Lucien gave him in return. But neither did Lucien see Duchene.

  He kept moving forward and out into the foyer, where Faber was lighting another cigarette. The major approached the concierge, and they exchanged some hushed words. Within moments Faber and Duchene were being led behind the reception desk and into the concierge’s office. The door was closed behind them, and Faber indicated for Duchene to sit, before leaning back against a large wooden filing cupboard. ‘What do you mean, the Gestapo were outside Kloke’s hotel?’

  Duchene remained standing and eased off some of his weight across the top of the leather office chair. ‘They were lying in wait. They knew who I was. They knew who I was looking for.’ He showed Faber the letter exempting him from the curfew. ‘Your letter from von Choltitz got their attention.’

  Faber shook his head. ‘Those fuckers.’

  ‘They told me to go to them before I spoke to you.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘I’m risking everything by coming to you first.’

  ‘Except you didn’t come to me. I had to summon you.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point. I’m risking my life to help you, and my daughter’s. I don’t know if you’ve seen how things are going out there, but the Gestapo won’t care all that much if I’m not able to help them. They’ll just dismiss me as another informant who couldn’t follow directions and put a bullet in my head.’

  Faber nodded his head. His eyes were fixed on the bottle in his hand, which he placed on the cupboard beside him.

  He looked up at Duchene. ‘What do you know about Kloke?

  ‘He stole some guns from the Resistance.’

  Perhaps the drink had dulled Faber’s responses, but he didn’t seem surprised.

  ‘You knew that?’ Duchene asked.

  ‘No. I’m just wondering what makes you think this ridiculous story is true.’

  ‘Did you ever see him with a Webley pistol, a trophy taken from a British soldier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, he has one in his hotel room. You were stationed in the east. So, you haven’t fought the British yet?’

  ‘No. He could have been given one, as a trophy.’

  ‘I also showed a photo of Kloke to a woman who helped him steal from the Resistance.’

  ‘Let me talk to her.’

  ‘You can’t – she’s been taken by the Gestapo. But there’s another witness out there somewhere, the man Kloke was working with. A man who spoke French.’

  ‘A Frenchman?’

  ‘Or not?’

  ‘What are you trying to suggest?’

  ‘It would explain the Gestapo’s interest in you – German officers, one quite senior, stealing weapons to sell for profit. That’s bound to capture their attention.’

  ‘It’s absurd. Why would I send you to find Kloke if I knew you’d discover such a crime?’

  ‘Perhaps you thought I’d never find out.’

  ‘If this is true, it does make me wonder how you know that Kloke stole from the Resistance. Are you working for them yourself?’

  Deflection.

  ‘From where I’m standing,’ said Duchene, ‘it makes no difference if you know that I’ve spoken to the Resistance. You’re already threatening to kill my daughter. You’ll probably move on to threatening me too.’

  ‘These Gestapo friends of yours will be interested to hear about it.’

  More deflection.

  ‘They probably already suspect it,’ Duchene said. ‘They’ve been following me.’

  ‘And did they follow you here, tonight?’

  ‘I’ve given up worrying about it.’

  It was clear from Faber’s expression that he hadn’t. He stood and opened the office door just wide enough so he could look across reception into the lobby. ‘So, what are you trying to tell me?’ he said, closing the door.

  ‘The one room I know the Gestapo aren’t in, is this office. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine.’

  Faber drew back on his cigarette. Exhaled. ‘How do you know Kloke stole these guns?’

  ‘That woman I spoke to, who helped him access where the guns were hidden. She identified him from a photograph I found in his hotel room. The Gestapo have her now.’

  ‘Show it to me.’

  Duchene handed him the photo, and he stared at it as though he was looking for a hidden meaning. ‘He’s a terrible soldier,’ he said, turning it over and scanning its back. ‘Find him before the Gestapo get to him. I can still get him out of here. I can get him back to Berlin. I owe it to his family.’

  ‘And what should I tell the Gestapo if they find me before I find him?’

  ‘Whatever you have to, to stay alive. My command is stationed at the Majestic.’ Faber plucked a pen from the desk and wrote a phone number on the back of the photograph. ‘Call and update me on your progress at the same time tomorrow.’ He returned the photo to Duchene.

  ‘No deadline?’

  ‘I can’t see the point. Either you’ll find Kloke before the Gestapo do, or you won’t. You understand the consequences if you fail.’

  After the German left, Duchene stayed for a few minutes in the office. Something in Faber’s eyes had shifted when Duchene had mentioned the Gestapo. Something within him, a reflection, a thought, a memory – something that made him afraid. Duchene didn’t let himself indulge in any satisfaction over this realisation. Faber had had the limits of his authority exposed. But where it had bought Duchene more time, it had also cost him in making the man afraid. And a frightened man is a dangerous man.

  Duchene checked his watch: eight-thirty. Only half an hour until curfew.

  Back in the bar, Camille was playing Beethoven while the Germans continued to drink. He got the sense that many of the Luftwaffe were being redeployed. Farewells were being made, final drinks poured, home addresses and blessings exchanged.

  Duchene moved through the room, looking for Lucien.

  Camille, still at the piano, motioned him over. ‘I saw you were talking with Faber,’ she said as she continued to play. ‘Is everything all right?’

 
; ‘We’re standing in the heart of Paris, surrounded by Germans. Nothing is all right.’

  ‘Auguste –’

  ‘Faber. Max. It’s all coming back on Marienne.’

  ‘I need you to tell me about it. I need to know she’s going to be safe.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to do. Make her safe.’

  ‘Then talk to me about it later? Tonight?’

  ‘I –’ He saw Marienne speaking to Lucien at the bar, bent forward in a huddle, laughing as they sipped champagne. ‘Yes. I will. Tonight.’ He kissed Camille’s cheek before rushing towards the bar.

  ‘Promise,’ she called after him.

  Lucien was gone again, but Marienne was still there, smiling at an older, ruddy-faced German officer who had an arm on her shoulder and a glass of champagne in his hand.

  Nodding, he tried to keep an eye on Lucien through the press of soldiers. He brushed past a German, knocking a swash of beer out of his stein and down his jacket. The officer called after Duchene, but he feigned ignorance and ducked around a table before walking up three steps from the sunken floor, back towards the bar. Behind him Germans came to the man’s aid, mopping beer, helping to place the steins on the table and offering to buy more drinks.

  ‘Where did Lucien go?’ Duchene said to her.

  She turned from the German and laughed. ‘This is something! I never thought I’d see you here.’

  ‘I came to see Camille.’

  She laughed again. ‘You’re a terrible liar.’ She looked to the man next to her and spoke in German. ‘General von Bühel, this is my father, Auguste.’

  The general removed his hand from Marienne’s bare shoulder and offered it to Duchene. ‘Your daughter has a wonderful voice,’ he said. His hands were large and meaty, and squeezed Duchene’s with a steel grip.

  ‘She does,’ Duchene replied in German. ‘Where’s Lucien?’ he asked her again, in French.

  ‘How would I know? He went that way.’ She pointed past the bar towards a corridor.

  Duchene darted over. The hallway was empty but for two doorways, each leading to a bathroom. He jogged up to the men’s and tried to regain his breath as he pushed open the door.

  Sea-green marble lined the floors and walls, its veins matching the white furniture that had been spread out around the room. An attendant was resting beside his trolley of pomades, colognes and polishes. He stood up when Duchene entered but resumed his seat when Duchene waved him back.

  Two men were speaking German in a cubicle to Duchene’s left: one in a drunken ramble, the other struggling to find the right words. Duchene pushed open the cubicle door.

  Lucien was standing next to Max. He was placing something in his hand.

  ‘Herr Duchene,’ Max slurred, a bemused smile crossing his face. ‘Did you see Marienne … see her sing?’

  ‘What’s in your hand?’ Duchene snapped in German.

  ‘Oh, this …’ Max pressed it against his chest. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Let’s talk later, Auguste,’ Lucien said, almost as though Duchene were a child.

  Or senile.

  ‘I said, what’s in your hand?’ Duchene pushed past Lucien and used both hands to wrench Max’s palm from his chest.

  In the next few seconds, thoughts sped through Duchene’s head. He was seeing something that had been there all along, but he’d been too preoccupied with threats upon threats to view it with any clarity.

  Falling through the air was a small rectangle of paper, brown and neatly folded.

  Duchene knew, as it fell, that if he were to touch it, he would find that the paper was waxed. Waxed so that the white powder inside would stay dry and remain easy to consume. The white powder would be methamphetamines; it would spur on the mind of a pilot, or a soldier, or anyone looking to have a good time. Conversation would flow, thoughts would buzz, sleep would seem impossible, the party could continue, and all concerns would be forgotten.

  The brown paper was the same kind that Duchene had in his pocket. The kind he had picked up in Kloke’s apartment.

  Kloke knew Lucien.

  Lucien knew Kloke.

  Lucien had been concealing it from him all this time.

  The paper hit the floor of the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t step on it!’ Max shouted as he shoved Duchene out of the way.

  Duchene hadn’t anticipated the speed and strength of the younger man. He slipped backward and fell out of the cubicle, his head hitting the marble.

  Lucien stepped over him and was out the door before Duchene could get to his feet. ‘Lucien!’ Duchene pulled himself up.

  ‘Where is it?’ Max shouted from his hands and knees as he scrabbled around in the cubicle.

  The attendant was reaching to help Duchene now. Duchene pushed him aside and ran to the door.

  In the corridor, two women were giggling as they emerged from the ladies’ toilets. Lucien was almost back at the bar.

  ‘Lucien!’ Duchene ran down the corridor, pushing the women aside. ‘Lucien!’

  He glanced at his watch: 8.45 p.m. Neither of them could make it home before curfew.

  Lucien was swift as he moved through the crowd, winding around drunk soldiers, sliding past waiters. He was almost halfway to the other side, and there were ten Germans between them.

  Duchene saw a waiter carrying a tray laden with full champagne glasses. Raising his arms around his face, he stepped in front of the waiter and collided with the tray, stepping aside as the man and glasses came crashing to the ground. On cue, the officers between Duchene and Lucien stopped carousing and leapt to service. They helped the man from the ground and cordoned off the broken glass.

  A space had opened between Lucien and Duchene.

  When Lucien saw him, Duchene increased his speed.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ Lucien shouted back at him, before starting to run again.

  In the next instant, Duchene was chasing him through the foyer. Lucien’s feet slapped across the floor as he ran to one of the front doors and threw it open. The guards outside didn’t have time to react as Lucien went flying past them, his coat flapping in the night air, his hand on his head to keep his hat in place. Duchene had to slow down as the guards moved in around the door.

  ‘He took my wallet,’ Duchene said in German.

  Two privates held out their rifles to stop him. ‘What is your name?’ one of them asked.

  In the still night air, Duchene could hear Lucien running along the far side of the square. He would be gone in moments if he didn’t command the moment. He thought of Camille, and her power of the Germans.

  ‘Auguste Duchene,’ he said without slowing. ‘I was meeting with Major Thomas Faber. You can check for yourself but that would mean dragging him away from the young woman he’s entertaining.’

  The guards exchanged a glance.

  Duchene could no longer hear Lucien running. Now he heard voices – Germans, somewhere in the darkness. Lucien, too.

  The guards nodded and uncrossed their rifles.

  He didn’t have time to consider the ease of his success. Walking as quickly as he dared, Duchene tried to home in on the conversation. It was becoming heated. He could make out some of the words.

  ‘Identification.’

  ‘I don’t speak German.’

  ‘Raise your hands.’

  Duchene broke into a jog. As he turned a corner, he saw two men in dark overcoats.

  Gestapo.

  They had Lucien against a wall.

  ‘Wait!’ Duchene called.

  The men turned. Lucien started to run again, a plume of francs rising into the air behind him.

  The Gestapo officers didn’t hesitate. As Lucien increased the distance between them, one drew a pistol from his coat and fired. Three shots into the night air. The crack of gunfire reverberated off the stone walls a
round them.

  Duchene screamed.

  Guards from the Ritz began to run towards them.

  Lucien’s legs convulsed. And then he was still.

  Friday, 18 August 1944

  NINETEEN

  The sage sat looking over a globe. His eyes were concerned, his hand cradling his head to help ease the turmoil of thoughts racking his mind. Despite his obvious wealth – the books, the well-appointed castle room, the gold and blue robes that fell from his shoulders – he was deeply troubled. Some might have said he was divining the future, but Duchene could see the truth of the painting. The sage was staring down upon that very moment, in that very day, grappling with the tragedy of mankind.

  Duchene watched in the foyer of 11 Rue des Saussaies, 8th arrondissement, as the painting was wrapped in cloth and loaded gently into a crate by two Gestapo agents.

  He would weep for Lucien. Again, perhaps. But his well of feeling had been spent. He barely noticed the Gestapo moving around him as they went in and out of the building, loading files and crates. At one point he’d heard three distant gunshots from one of the upper rooms. This had hardly stirred his senses – more pointless deaths, and there’d be more tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.

  He didn’t notice the tapping on his shoulder.

  It was the slap to his face that brought him back into the room.

  ‘Up,’ said Stahl, his ice-blue eyes fixing on Duchene’s.

  Duchene stood. This immediately relieved the pressure of the handcuffs around his wrists. They’d been locked behind his back, cutting into him, trapped between his body and the chair. His hands had started to become numb, but as the blood flowed back into them, he became aware of the pain.

  He followed Stahl up the wide, curved staircase to the second floor. In the corridor, on the way to the Oberführer’s office, they passed open doors. More Gestapo were either gathering papers or burning them. The men were moving quickly, and many pages were falling to the ground.

  In the last room before the office, where the carpet and wallpaper had been stripped, were three bodies on the floor. Each was covered by a mouldy sheet, stained with blood around their heads.