The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

  By the time Duchene reached the counter, it was almost closing time. He watched as a woman traded a pearl necklace for a saucisson sec – three days’ meat if she was sparing. She left, embarrassed and forlorn.

  Guillaume seemed to take no pleasure in it, and Duchene didn’t envy his role as provider to a desperate city.

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur,’ Duchene said.

  ‘Monsieur Duchene. You’ve returned.’

  ‘I have.’

  Behind Guillaume, beside the meat slicer, an assortment of valuables had been arranged into groups: jewellery, silverware, ornaments. The charcutier had even managed to get hold of a jeweller’s loupe, which sat on the counter beside him. Whether he knew how to assess such things or if it was for effect was unclear – regardless, its use would not be required with Duchene’s goods.

  He took a bottle of cognac and a carton of cigarettes out of the old flour sack he was using for a bag. He placed them on the counter. ‘I have more like this. But right now, I’m after food for six. If you’re reasonable and trade fair, I’ll come back. I’ll bring more.’

  Guillaume nodded. ‘But these are desperate times. I don’t know when I’ll next see a pig, let alone trade for one.’

  ‘I can bring you cigarettes and alcohol. You can trade those more easily than heirlooms and dinner sets.’

  ‘True. Let me see what you think of this.’ Guillaume pulled three cans of meat out from his counter and pulled down a large sausage. ‘I can’t wrap it – no waxed paper left.’

  ‘How about another can, and I’ll promise to return tomorrow?’

  Guillaume took out a small hundred-gram tin. He turned his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Okay,’ Duchene said, sliding the cognac and carton across to the charcutier. ‘It’s a deal.’ He shook Guillaume’s hand, then started to put the meat and tins into the sack.

  Guillaume placed the cigarette carton on the counter behind him. As he returned for the Hennessy, he paused briefly to examine the bottle. Its amber liquid sloshed as his large hands splayed wide to cradle its weight. The rings on his fingers also caught the light.

  A chill ran through Duchene.

  On Guillaume’s left ring finger was a lapis and ivory cameo ring – the profile of a Roman centurion.

  One of a pair.

  I had to have them both. Faber had said that about the ring on his finger.

  Duchene tried to steady his shaking hands as he packed the sack, while Guillaume placed the cognac onto the counter behind him.

  ‘I never found him,’ Duchene said.

  ‘Who?’ Guillaume turned to face Duchene.

  ‘That German I was looking for. I came here with that photo.’

  Guillaume paused. And there it was: a flicker of recognition, a glance to the right. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess it doesn’t matter now. They’re all gone anyway.’

  Duchene finished packing. ‘You’re right there, thankfully. All gone.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘What does it matter? No one is making you find this man.’ Camille watched Duchene as he searched the toolshed in the garden behind La Festa.

  ‘People died because of Kloke. I was almost killed myself. Lucien died.’ Duchene pulled out a rusted toolbox and popped the latch.

  ‘From the way you explain it, Lucien and this German were stealing from the Resistance and selling the weapons on the black market. Lucien was shot because of that.’

  Screwdrivers, a ratchet, a random collection of screws and nails – nothing of weight. Not what he needed. He dropped a flat-head screwdriver on the ground beside him. ‘I’ve been threatened. Marienne has been threatened. I’ve been accused of being a collaborator.’

  ‘Not just you.’

  He stopped searching and looked up at her. ‘Sorry. I know. But I need to find out how this ends. Too much has happened because of this hunt for Kloke – Lucien dead, a woman taken away by the Gestapo, Marienne almost killed… If I can find him now, understand why, I can finish this.’ Duchene dragged out a small wooden crate. It was heavy, which made him hopeful.

  ‘Not every question needs to be answered,’ Camille said.

  ‘I’ve given away too much to get this far. I need to know the reason why.’

  And there it was, sitting on top of a bundled chain: a crowbar.

  Duchene stood and brushed the cobwebs from his jacket. ‘You said you had to leave Paris to move on. I need to find this man to do the same.’

  ***

  It was well after nine and the sky was beginning to darken. From the corner of Rue de Castellane and Rue de l’Arcade, Duchene had an uninterrupted view of the charcuterie. He was as close as he could get without being seen.

  Five minutes earlier, Guillaume had locked the door and sent the remaining queue away. Dissatisfied, the crowd had lingered briefly before making their way home. Guillaume had flipped the sign to ‘closed’ but was taking his time in the shop. Duchene waited five more minutes until the lights went out and Guillaume emerged with a bicycle, its basket packed high. He locked the door then started down the street.

  After watching him turn a corner, Duchene timed out another five minutes in case he returned. It seemed unlikely, given the methodical way in which he’d exited his shop, but Duchene was methodical too. He needed to move with caution.

  No sign of Guillaume.

  Slipping the crowbar into the right sleeve of his coat, Duchene crossed the street. He found himself checking his watch to count the hours until curfew: four years of ingrained behaviour. He wondered how long it would take him to shake it. He had as long as he needed – until Guillaume opened for business the next day.

  Duchene didn’t bother with the front door. Lots of people were relishing the opportunity to walk the streets into the early evening; not even the persistent rumours, sometimes true, of German snipers’ nests were enough to deter Parisians. So he walked the length of the shopfronts, turning at the end of the block. Guillaume’s was seven shops in from the street. Walking down the cobbled laneway behind the shops, Duchene counted back the buildings. Each had a small rear garden that shared its walls with the neighbours and featured a wooden gate for rear access – each except Guillaume’s.

  As Duchene approached, he saw the modifications its owner had made. An extension had been built, with an extra roof covering what would have been its yard. Rising from the roof was a tall tin chimney with a slanting cap: a smoke oven.

  Guillaume’s success during the occupation would not have gone unnoticed, least of all by Guillaume. To deter would-be thieves he’d salvaged razor wire and stretched this over the rear wall of the shop. To reinforce the point, he’d used mortar to place large shards of broken glass around the lip of the wall. This was a recent addition; rain and wind had yet to erode the sharp edges.

  At the reinforced gate, Duchene checked the lock. Strong. Iron. He could lever it open, but that would make a noise.

  He looked around. Each shop was on the ground floor of a townhouse, each four storeys tall. Similar buildings ran along the other side of the alleyway. Grey clouds were bringing the twilight to an early finish and darkness was filling the cobbled lane.

  Now, later – it made little difference.

  Duchene placed his coat below the lock and inserted the crowbar. He leaned his entire weight against it, straining hard until it tore loose. It fell onto the coat with a muffled clunk. Satisfied that no faces had appeared in the windows above him, he stepped inside.

  The smell of burnt wood wrapped around him from the large smoke oven. He lingered just long enough to identify other fragrances: fresh-cut pine stacked against a wall, cedar on the table in front of him.

  Pushing the gate closed and out of habit he covered his torch with his hand. It was completely unnecessary. The dull glow of its dying bulb cast little light. He removed his hand and used its fadi
ng beam to help him scan the room.

  The oven was beside him. Along the walls, stacked on shelves, were empty jars and boxes, rolls of wax paper, and an assortment of hatchets, hand planes and saws. Ahead of Duchene was the heavy external door that led to the rest of the shop. Like the small window next to it, the door hadn’t been replaced when the extension had been built.

  Duchene tested its handle. Locked. Using the back of a hatchet, he tapped the crowbar deep into the space between the door and the jamb. There was no concealing this noise, but he hoped the sound wouldn’t travel – and if it did, might be confused with a gunshot.

  Strange times, when the sound of gunshots is ignored.

  Steadying his weight, he leaned back against the crowbar. The wood strained. He placed his foot on the frame. Pushed.

  The crack of splintering wood echoed throughout the room. He stumbled backwards, jarring to a stop as he hit a shelf behind him.

  The door was open, and he entered the charcuterie. Using the torch, he looked over the room. It was a store. An open doorway led into the shop. He could see the back of the counter, the open till that had been emptied, several knife blocks and a few cans that remained on the countertop.

  There were more of these in the storeroom with him. An entire cabinet was full of tinned goods: beans, meat, fish. A small fortune in times like this. Guillaume had made an art of the stockpile.

  A table stood to one side, and on top sat a ledger for accounts. Flipping it open to the last entry, he could see it hadn’t been maintained – the last date was over two years ago.

  He flipped it shut and tracked the light around him. On a small preparation bench were the day’s takings: all those traded items that could be deemed to have some value. Guillaume had grouped them into three collections, graded on the ease with which they could be exchanged. Silverware and costume jewellery in one pile, lamp oil and tools in another, and finally cigarettes, chocolate and alcohol.

  Duchene looked through the rings. The cameo of the Roman centurion wasn’t among them, but that wouldn’t have made sense anyway. He was here to find something else, something that revealed what had happened to Kloke.

  As he shone his torch across the floor, its light fell on a hatch with a recessed iron ring. It matched the surrounding floorboards. He leant down towards it and ran a finger along its edge. No dust – the hatch had been used recently.

  He placed two fingers through the loop. A mechanism creaked from under the wood, and a pneumatic lever helped him to raise the hatch.

  Within moments he was looking into a dark void. In the torchlight, he could see the first few wooden stairs leading down into the cellar. The smell of salted and spiced meats rose up towards him, carried on the chill air.

  He glanced back over his shoulder one last time before starting down the stairs. There was no railing to help guide his descent, so he shone the torch on each plank as he descended.

  When he reached the stone floor, he raised the torch to look around him. In the yellow light, he could make out contrasting colours: marbled patterns on air-drying meat, pale labels on spice jars, the curves of hooks that hung across the ceiling. At the bottom of the stairs, hanging from a meat hook, was a lantern.

  Putting his torch in his pocket, Duchene unclipped a hinged pane of glass and opened up the lantern. Its wick was still high. He lit it, and warm light crept across the room.

  Although he could now see better than with the torch, the lamplight cast shadows of the hanging meat across the room. This separation between soft glow and darkness meant it was still difficult for him to scan the room, and he ducked down to shine his torch under the many sausages and legs of ham.

  As this was a place to preserve food, the floor was swept clean and well maintained, clear but for a single trunk on the far side of the room. His back hunched, he clambered across the floor below the meat.

  When he reached the brown leather chest, he paused. It was old, worn on the corners and locked.

  Putting one hand on the chill stone floor, he took the crowbar from his coat pocket and placed it inside the loop of the lock.

  His hands were shaking. He knew they wouldn’t stop until he was out of this place. And he knew, deep within him, that the trunk held the answers.

  The lock came free as he twisted the crowbar. Using its tip, he lifted the lid and pushed it back so it was up against the wall.

  Inside was the grey cloth of a Nazi uniform. A jacket.

  Duchene poked at it with the crowbar. It was soft. Folded.

  He placed the lantern beside him but kept hold of the crowbar. Peering into the trunk, he slowly pulled back the jacket. Beneath it was the rest of the uniform, some watches, papers and passbooks.

  Leaning over the trunk, he lifted up the uniform. It was the full dress kit for a private: boots, cap, belt, and all the pips and medals and buttons. At a glance, it appeared to be about the right size for Guillaume.

  With the uniform removed, the rest of the contents were more apparent. There were four watches, a wallet filled with deutschmarks, and the passbooks for six German soldiers. Duchene quickly read the names on each one: Trautman, Jaeger, Roth, Scholz, Dietrich.

  The last belonged to Christian Kloke. Proof that Guillaume had lied.

  Underneath the passbooks was a fat envelope. Duchene took out the contents: a single-page letter on thick cream stock and a larger folded document the size of a map.

  He opened the letter. It was in German, addressed to Kloke.

  Christian,

  So here we are, now, in the City of Lights. A place where we can be more like ourselves. A place that is not Berlin, or barracks or the slaughterhouse of the Front.

  Paris is like no other city. It brims with potential, with passion and refined beauty. When I last visited, I bought this ring. One of a pair. One for us each to wear. Our hidden connection. Our hidden truth.

  Last night, when the lust was dissolved and we lay together, I wanted to share my heart with you. I couldn’t. You started laughing and singing and the moment moved on, and I let your joy be the accompaniment to the rest of our evening. But now I wish to share that with you. Now, while the muse and the drink have me. My lover, when I’m with you, I am fearless. When I’m with you, this war feels like it can’t touch us. Let us not waste these precious moments. Better yet, let us plan to grow them into a life for us together. I don’t know when that will be or how, but between us, I am certain we can make it come to pass.

  Yours always.

  T.

  These were surely the papers the Gestapo had been looking for. Enough evidence to convict Faber at a court-martial.

  Unfolding the three map-sized papers, Duchene reconsidered. They showed a schematic for something complex that looked like the inner workings of a machine. He couldn’t make much sense of the labels, as they were in Russian. The machine had fins, a thruster and fuel tanks, so he had to assume it was a vehicle, but whether it travelled by air or sea wasn’t clear.

  It was within reason that the schematic was for a weapon the Germans wanted for their war efforts. Perhaps Kloke, the black marketeer, had hoped to sell or barter the pages to avoid becoming a prisoner of war. Either way, this was something that Duchene would never learn.

  He refolded the schematic and placed it, along with the letter and Kloke’s passbook, into the inside of his jacket. He shoved the uniform back into the trunk and shut the lid. He had his answers; it was time to leave. Swivelling on the balls of his feet, he moved with aching knees back towards the staircase.

  Halfway across the cellar floor, he stopped. The flat of his hand had pressed onto the stone below him, and something was sticking to it, pliable and strange. He turned his hand over and shone the torch on his upturned palm.

  At first he thought it was gristle or fat, fallen from the side of some pork. It was flat with curved ends, almost rectangular. He lowered the torch to turn
it over, and when he brought the light back onto it, he saw what it was.

  A fingernail. A human fingernail.

  Duchene shook it free from his hand. Bracing against the floor again, he slowly turned his torch upward. Hanging from a hook, directly above him, was a preserved human arm. The preserved hand attached to it was missing a fingernail.

  The arm has been preserved for eating.

  For eating.

  Duchene fell backward, dropping his torch onto the ground. It spun in circles as he scrambled away.

  His stomach heaved while his mind raced, drawing the connections between the severed limb and the charcuterie in whose cellar it hung.

  He questioned the ham hocks, the ribs, the other long meats that hung above him. Were they pork? The sausages filled with ground meat – the flesh of pig or man? How many had eaten from here? He had eaten from here. Marienne. Camille. The dinner with Faber and Max?

  Duchene clenched shut his jaw, gritted his teeth, and refused to expel his meagre lunch onto the floor. Some bizarre propriety took over as he refused to contaminate a room of food while he was aware that it had been contaminated long before his arrival.

  Heart pounding, he scrambled on his hands and knees towards the lamp. After he snatched it from the ground, he didn’t stop until he was up the stairs and out of the cellar.

  He sat for a moment to slow his breathing, but he couldn’t slow his heart.

  His instinct was to go to the police. Immediately. But when the letter and schematic rustled in his pocket as he mopped his brow, he reconsidered. They’d have questions. Why had he been looking for a missing German? Had he been a collaborator? Was he working for the Nazis even now that Paris had been liberated?

  Any explanations would be lengthy. Not the simplicity of black and white. And even he was reconsidering his need to know Kloke’s fate. He had the answer he was so desperate to find and he didn’t like it.

  There could be no police. He had set himself on this path, and he had no choice but to follow it to the bitter end.