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The Paris Collaborator

Page 22

by A. W. Hammond


  In the cupboard below Marienne’s staircase, there were only traces of blood. Stahl’s body had been disposed of. But unlike Duchene, she didn’t slow down to look. She hurried up to her apartment and checked the door. The frame was still splintered and broken.

  ‘You could stay with me,’ Duchene said, walking up behind her.

  ‘I’ll nail it shut and prop it with a chair.’

  ‘And if the Gestapo return?’

  ‘Won’t they come looking for you?’

  ‘They will come for both of us.’

  ‘What will you do? Turn over Philippe?’

  ‘That would be a death sentence. I would have betrayed the Resistance.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  He held her gently by the arms, and she stared at the ground. ‘I can’t know what you’ve experienced, Marienne. The decisions you’ve had to make. I’ve made my own decisions, many desperate. Many that served only one purpose – to survive. But when I stood in this apartment earlier today and thought you were dead, I didn’t want to live. The thought that you would not be in this world, that you could be taken from it, was so overwhelming, so monstrous … If turning myself in to the Gestapo now ensures you live, then it’s worth it. If I can satisfy them – that Faber is dead, that Stahl was killed, that I can offer something more to them or simply let them satisfy themselves with my execution – then that will be good enough. You are my daughter, Marienne. I need you to survive. I need you to remain in this world.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘It’s the only way.’

  She held him so tight that he felt as though she was trying to pull him into her. He wept as she did this. Her face was trembling but resolute. He kissed her and held her again before he finally turned to leave.

  Outside, as he reached the car, he knew she would be watching him from the window. But he couldn’t look again. If he did, his resolve would surely break.

  He drove against the curfew, across the Seine and down to Rue des Saussaies. His was the only car on the road; the streets were empty, those Elysium fields spread into the world of the living now, ready for his arrival.

  He parked the car outside the terraced apartment building. It was dark, but then so were all its neighbours. He stepped out into the road, drew in three deep breaths and tried to steady his shaking hands. They only trembled more.

  Go through the gate and up to the door. Make the journey short, say what he could, hope for it to be quick.

  He raised the knocker on the dark-green door and let it fall back. He could hear the echo in the hallway beyond.

  Nothing.

  A few more seconds and he raised the knocker again.

  This time, the door pushed open.

  Papers lay strewn across the floor.

  His heart beat faster as he stepped into the building. The hope that he’d pushed low inside him started to emerge. Hundreds and hundreds of pages, all typed in German, all stamped and signed, had been left behind.

  Striding further into the building, he called out.

  No reply came.

  The Gestapo had left Paris.

  Friday, 25 August 1944

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘This is why the French vanguard has entered Paris with guns blazing. This is why the great French army from Italy has landed in the south and is advancing rapidly up the Rhône valley. This is why our brave and dear Forces of the Interior will arm themselves with modern weapons. It is for this revenge, this vengeance and justice, that we will keep fighting until the final day, until the day of total and complete victory.’

  De Gaulle’s voice was rising in passion and intensity. It crackled over the speakers that had been placed outside the Hôtel de Ville. He was somewhere inside, surrounded by generals and reporters, the speech being broadcast across the world. Outside the ornate hotel and in the surrounding streets, the crowd waved placards emblazoned with the two-barred Croix de Lorraine in celebration of France, the Resistance and of de Gaulle himself.

  In the swelling crowd, Duchene stood close to Monsieur and Madame Junet, who cheered as best they could. They had insisted on coming to hear the speech.

  An eager young man pushed past them to cheer, and Duchene used his body to shield Madame Junet.

  ‘This duty of war, all the men who are here and all those who hear us in France know that it demands national unity,’ continued de Gaulle. ‘We, who have lived the greatest hours of our history, we have nothing else to wish than to show ourselves, up to the end, worthy of France. Vive la France!’

  A roar rose up from the crowd as Parisians hugged one another and thrust their fists into the air.

  In the days following the cache’s discovery, the weapons had been used by Resistance fighters. The uprising had grown. The conflicts became more pronounced and Germans and French started to fall. Skirmishes had become battles, and battles had brought the war into the heart of Paris.

  Duchene had, for the most part, remained inside. He read. And waited. He listened for the phone, which worked for the first three days when he still received regular updates from Marienne. After that, he made a daily journey to her apartment for signs of her return. The door had been badly repaired, and the neighbours said they’d seen nothing to suggest any harm had come to her. So, he occupied himself scavenging what little food he could find while looking after the Junets.

  The three of them survived on meagre rations until word spread, just this morning, that Paris was finally free, and they flocked with the crowds.

  De Gaulle’s speech gave Duchene a sense of relief, and not only because their victory and freedom were being proclaimed to the world – it also helped to distract him from dwelling on Marienne’s safety, along with the riddle of Camille’s disappearance. He scanned the crowd, half hoping he would catch sight of his daughter holding on to one of the street lamps as a vantage point, or Camille waving a Vive de Gaulle banner while she watched the hotel with the rest of the throng.

  Blood rushed from his face as the thrill of the speech quickly faded. The arrival of de Gaulle on the hotel steps, which stirred the crowd into further cheering, did little to reinspire him. Marienne and Camille’s absences had pressed their way back into his gut and sat there like a lead weight.

  Monsieur Junet, fragile and small, placed a trembling hand on Duchene’s arm.

  ‘Let’s head back,’ Duchene said. ‘Before the streets become too busy.’

  ***

  Duchene held the Junets’ door open for them. A sour smell was rising from somewhere in their small apartment, so he’d come back tomorrow and offer to help them clean. It could be as simple as some old food that had fallen below their refrigerator, something they’d struggle to pick up.

  He stopped in the foyer to check his letterbox before heading upstairs. Inside was a battered envelope – with no postmark, so hand-delivered – containing a letter. A crude cross of the French Forces of the Interior had been stamped onto the corner. It was written in English, and although the words were quickly scrawled, the handwriting was unmistakable.

  C is at La Festa.

  Love, Marienne

  It was dated three days earlier, from before the arrival of the French and Americans, while the Resistance had still been fighting for the city. Remarkable that it had arrived at all.

  Duchene rushed up to his apartment and retrieved the bike he’d taken all those days ago from the barricade – a valuable commodity that he kept locked in his bedroom. Without the Métro or petrol, bikes were going missing.

  Next, he rode to Lucien’s apartment. He still had the key from his visit with Stahl. When he opened the door, a swathe of telephone notes slid across the floor where they had been steadily accumulating since Lucien’s death. The apartment was otherwise undisturbed. Dust lingered in the daylight that came through curtains, slowly settling on all that was left of a life spent in pur
suit of wealth.

  Duchene shook his head. He wouldn’t let Lucien’s death become a new obsession to torment himself with.

  The large armoire to the side of the couch remained closed. After pulling it open, Duchene took out two cartons of cigarettes and two bottles of Hennessy. He placed these into a case he hauled down from a shelf in Lucien’s bedroom, then locked the apartment behind him.

  He rode to La Festa.

  Rue de Castellane was quiet. The Paris celebrations had taken its citizens elsewhere, and the meagre delights of post-occupation delicatessens and patisseries seemed, on this of all days, an offence to the noble sacrifice of those who’d fought to liberate the city.

  But there was something else, a certain tension in the street that Duchene noted soon after his arrival. There was a broken shop window, recently boarded, and a paint-splashed door that declared, Collaborator! It was no surprise: the street was a short walk behind the hotels that had been the base of operations for the occupiers. Here, Germans had pretended to be Parisians and enjoyed their delicacies.

  A young woman was carrying a heavy basket of laundry towards the Italian delicatessen. She wore a simple dress, while her hair was roughly shaved – some patches were bald, others glistened with fresh cuts and grazes.

  When Duchene walked up to her, she bowed her head and started to pick up speed. ‘Wait, Mademoiselle, please,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a friend. You may know her. She’s been, ah … the same as you.’

  ‘I don’t want trouble.’

  ‘Her name’s Camille. She’s a good friend, and I was worried she was dead. I’ve been told she’s been seen around La Festa.’

  The woman slowed and turned to face him. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Auguste Duchene.’

  ‘Wait here.’ She walked to the door of the deli and knocked out an irregular rhythm.

  The herb-sprouting window boxes had been torn down, their windows boarded up. Where the Italian flag had been, only a broken pole remained. No light came from inside as the door was opened for the woman.

  Five minutes later, another woman emerged wearing a shawl over her head.

  It was Camille. Her lightness had gone. She looked tired and moved slowly against the world. It seemed that her age had finally caught up with her.

  Duchene embraced her.

  She let him hold her but held her hands tight around the shawl.

  ‘I didn’t know where …’

  ‘That is a long conversation,’ she said.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘Off the street. Yes. Follow me.’ She led him into La Festa and pulled the door closed.

  The picture of Mussolini was no longer on the back wall; the food counter and shelves were empty. La Festa had been turned into a laundry. In the shadows of the unlit room, a few women were gathered, talking quietly as they washed clothes by hand in steel tubs. In a basket beside them, a six-month-old baby cooed at a doll suspended from the basket’s handle.

  Duchene spoke softly. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘A refuge,’ Camille said as she continued to walk across the shop floor and around its counter to the office. ‘Women have been coming here, those forced out of their homes.’

  The office desk had been cleared, receipts and paperwork pushed into a rubbish bin beside it. The door to a small garden was open, and two more women, their heads shaved, were hanging washing on makeshift lines.

  Duchene sat at the desk beside Camille. ‘Are you coming back?’

  ‘That’s not a good idea. I’ve been accused of being a collaborator.’ She dropped the scarf from her head.

  Duchene had anticipated the revelation, but he found he wasn’t prepared for its reality. Here was the shape of her skull, exposed. It had been cut with shears, leaving a patchwork of skin and hair. He was relieved that there was no wound, no evidence of savagery.

  Camille remained still as he felt a rage coming on. ‘Are they rounding up every orchestra, every band, every cabaret girl who performed for the Germans?’

  She placed her hands on her hips, her face without emotion. ‘They accused me of having German lovers.’

  ‘What proof do they have?’

  ‘None. But we’ve both seen enough to know that doesn’t matter. Truth is the first thing to fail when people are hurt and angry.’ She sighed. ‘They’re looking to blame someone, anyone, for their own guilt at acquiescence. Women who took Germans for lovers or played piano for them in their bars and hotels – we’re easy targets. And men who were too bold in their support, like that Italian who owned this place.’

  ‘He was a fascist.’

  ‘He was. But he should have been tried and sent to jail – not mobbed and lynched outside his own shop.’ She shook her head. ‘Although if that hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t have somewhere to stay. I’m hiding here while the anger subsides, until I can leave Paris.’

  ‘But I can hide you somewhere better. Lucien’s apartment is empty.’

  ‘I can’t leave the others. I’ve found a way for these girls to deflect attention. We wash clothes and sheets for nothing, sometimes handouts, to be seen to atone for our choices.’

  ‘So, you won’t come back?’

  ‘In a few months. Maybe. Let’s see how quickly the city moves on.’

  Duchene looked into the yard, at the sheets rippling in the wind. A few lemon trees were growing in pots along one wall, green fruit still on the branch. Some of it had fallen to the ground – he assumed before the women had moved in – and was beginning to rot.

  The rot had come to Paris.

  And then it struck him. He turned back to Camille. ‘Who accused you?’

  ‘Does it matter? There were so many who could have.’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’

  ‘As I said, people were angry and afraid.’

  ‘Camille?’

  ‘It was the Junets.’

  Duchene was out of his chair. The screech of the wood on the office tiles startled the women in the yard. ‘I was with them only now. I’ve been looking after them for days.’

  ‘Auguste. Please, sit down.’

  ‘They know I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘You must promise me you won’t do anything.’

  ‘I’d never harm them.’ I’d make it quick …

  ‘Auguste,’ she pleaded.

  ‘They can at least hear my anger.’

  ‘That’s unwise. They’ve seen everything going on in your place too. Visits from Germans.’

  ‘And the Resistance. Let’s not forget I was helping the Resistance.’

  ‘But also the Gestapo … they weren’t very discreet. When the mob came to my apartment and marched me to the lobby, the Junets were there, waiting. They were about to accuse you too. So, I started howling and fighting. It wasn’t my best performance, but it was enough to create a scene and turn their focus back to me.’

  ‘I … You did that?’

  She nodded. ‘Would you have done the same for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then that settles it.’

  He returned to his seat and dug his hands into his pockets.

  ‘Say nothing, Auguste. Keep the peace.’

  The breeze was bringing with it the smell of soap, of bergamot and lavender. For a moment, he let the flap of the linen lift the thoughts from his mind.

  Until they returned. Inevitably.

  ‘Will it ever go back to the way it was?’ he asked.

  ‘I think we both know that’s unlikely. Paris was occupied. That is now in our history. The question is, how long will it take for the offence to be forgotten?’

  He reached under the desk and pulled out Lucien’s suitcase. ‘I brought these for you. Cigarettes and two bottles of Hennessy. I thought we could barter them, so you could get out of
Paris.’

  ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘Marienne told me.’

  ‘I hear she’s fighting for the FFI now.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you the similarities.’ Camille gave a weak smile.

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  She pulled the bag towards her. ‘Thank you for this. What we need now is food and some help trading it. You don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s yours. Use it as you need it. Actually,’ he pulled the keys out of his pocket, ‘there’s more to trade at Lucien’s. Have these.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘More women will come. You’ll need more than these can get you.’

  ‘It’s a generous offer, but there’s a problem.’ She gestured to what remained of her hair. ‘This makes it hard to do anything. If we’re lucky, we’re ignored. Can you help us? Can you trade on our behalf?’

  ‘Anything. What do you need?’

  ***

  It was late afternoon by the time Duchene arrived at Guillaume’s. He’d visited each store along the street, each time hoping to receive a different story. But after six days of fighting, there was very little to trade, even for sought-after luxuries. The gunfire of the past week had focused everyone’s minds on survival.

  As the celebrations had died down, the queues had grown. While this made it easier to find the places with food to sell, he was still disappointed by the amount they had to offer. He was trying to find enough to feed six people; the potatoes and sardines he had were barely enough to feed himself.

  And then he’d remembered the charcuterie.

  Its queue stretched out the door and onto the street. After an hour, he finally stepped inside the dim shop. There was plenty here – Guillaume’s claims had not been idle. Sausages and hams hung above a counter that was now stocked with canned goods. The pates and terrines and rillettes were gone; now he sold only larder fare for lean times.

  There were grim faces in the queue ahead of Duchene. Grim faces on those leaving the shop. It appeared that Guillaume would be neither rushed nor compromised. He had a rare commodity, and he knew its value.

 

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