by Alan Furst
Only, he didn’t want to be put on the escape route down to the Pyrenees, guided across to freedom by patriots, or sold to the Spanish police by realists—it all depended these days on whom one happened to meet. Then he met Sylvie or Monique or Francette or whoever it was, and he decided that Paris might be, even hidden out, just the very place to spend the war. Because he’d learned a terrible truth about the Germans: unless you were a Jew they wouldn’t bother you if you didn’t bother them. The French understood that right away.
So the pilot stayed hidden, and he chanced to gamble, and he chanced to win a racehorse. And, the second week in July, the racetracks opened. Goebbels had ordered that France return to merriment and gaiety or he’d have them all hanged, so the racetracks joined the whorehouses and the movie theaters, which had closed for twenty-four long hours the day the Germans arrived. The pilot’s horse won. And won again. It ran like the wind—a good idea for a horse in a city with horsemeat butchers and rationed beef. And the English pilot was in no hurry at all to go home.
That was one answer to the question what should we do about the Germans. Genya Beilis stood naked at the window and pulled the blackout curtain aside so she could see the sky. “My God, the stars,” she said.
He rolled off the damp sheet and stood by her, their bare skin touching. He bent his knees in order to see above the roof across the street, a medieval clutter of chimneys and broken slates and flowerpots, and there was the sky. There was no city light, the summer heavens were satin black with a sweep of white stars. “Look,” she said.
15 August. Ninety-five degrees in the street. They had no idea what it was in the attic under the copper-sheeted roof, amid trunks and piles of gauze curtains, stacks of picture frames and a dressmaker’s dummy, all of it the color of dust. The BBC had a particular, very identifiable, sound to it, and they worried about neighbors, or people passing in the street. Some Parisians had seen right away that Germans should be treated like other visitors; groomed and fed and milked. The characteristic British voice, amid the static and hiss, meant there was a “terrorist” or a “Bolshevik” in the neighborhood, and you could get a damn good price for one of those if you knew who to talk to down at the local police station.
It was too hot and dirty for clothes, so they stripped at the foot of the narrow staircase and climbed up in their underwear. They sat on a sprung old sofa that somebody had covered with a sheet, and put the radio on the floor, with picture wire run up into the eaves as an aerial. In the evening, when reception was marginally better, Genya would stare into space as she concentrated on the radio voice; bare brown arms clasping her knees, hair limp in the humid summer air, sweat glistening between her breasts.
Midnight in the century, someone called that time, and she was the perfect companion for it. He was lucky, he thought, that at the end he had a woman to be with. Because the end had pretty clearly come. First Czechoslovakia, then Poland, then Norway, Denmark, Belgium, and Holland. Then France. Now England. It wasn’t a question of if, only how. And then a matter—not uncomplicated—of working out your personal arrangements with what was called the New Europe.
On the subject of the immediate future, two French generals had recently been heard from. Weygand, who’d helped the Poles beat the Russians in 1920, had said that the Germans would “wring England’s neck like a chicken.” De Gaulle, a former defense minister, had surfaced in London and was trying to sell the French the idea of resistance, while L’Humanité, the communist newspaper, called him a British agent, and advised French workers to welcome German soldiers and to make them feel at home.
On the sweltering evening of 15 August, the BBC had “music for dancing, with the Harry Thorndyke Society Orchestra from Brighton,” then the news: “In the skies over Britain today, more than one thousand five hundred sorties were flown against various targets, met by hundreds of RAF fighter planes and turned back.”
Then, Harry Thorndyke himself: “Good evening, everybody. Good evening, good evening. Tonight, we thought it might be just the thing to pay a call on Mr. Cole Porter—thank you, thank you—and so now, without further ado, why don’t we just . . . ‘Begin the Beguine’?”
Genya flopped over on her stomach, hands beneath her chin. They listened to the music in silence for a while, then she said, “How long will it take?”
“A few weeks.”
“Perhaps the English planes can win.”
“Perhaps. But the German planes are probably better.”
“We French had fighter planes, you know. Made by a certain Monsieur Bloch—and very rich he got, too. They were known as ‘cerceuils volants,’ flying coffins, but nobody thought it mattered. An opportunity for the French pilots to show how much more skillful and courageous they were than their German opponents, who had superior machines.”
There was no answering that.
“It’s hot,” she said. “I smell.”
There was no answering that either. The music played, through the crackling night air, and they listened, preoccupied and silent. He unhooked her bra, and she pushed herself up so he could get it free of her. He rubbed his finger across the welt it had made on the skin of her back.
“Why does it do that?”
“Too tight,” she said. “And cheap. I buy them from the Arab carts up on the boulevard Clichy.”
“What about these?”
“Silk.”
He slid her panties down.
“You like that?” she said.
“Yes.”
“French girls have the most beautiful asses in Europe.”
“Well, this French girl.”
“No, Alexander, I am serious. Women are cold on this point, there’s no illusion. And we are just built the way we are. What I wonder is, do you suppose that it’s why they always come here?”
“You mean this is what the conquerors are after?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps they are. And the gold. Steel mills, castles. Bloodstock and paintings. Your watch.” He traced his finger along her curves.
“Alexander?”
“Yes?”
“Should we go to Switzerland?”
He thought for a time. “They’d just kick us out. And everybody in Europe can’t go to Switzerland.”
“Yes, but we can, I think. There’s time to do that, for the moment. And if we stay here, I feel in my heart that they will kill us. We don’t matter to anybody, my sweet boy, not to anybody at all.”
“I don’t think,” he said slowly, “that it’s time to run.”
She closed her eyes, moved her hips a little, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, a sorrowful sound. “You know what it is, Alexander? I like to fuck. It’s that simple. To drink a glass of wine. Just to watch the day go by in the most pointless way.”
“Really? You like those sorts of things?”
“All right, I give up. Go ahead and get me killed. But you know what will be my revenge? I’ll leave a will and have a statue built in a public square: it will be you and I, just exactly as we are now, in polished stone. Patriots in 1940 it will be called. A true-life monument for the tourists to visit. Ow! Yes, good, that’s exactly what you’ll be doing on the statue.”
“Lezhev, you must help me.”
It was just a manner of speaking, but when Freddi Schoen used the expression, even over the noisy line of a French telephone, the must had a way of lingering in the air.
“Of course. What is it?”
“First of all, please understand that I am in love.”
“Bravo.”
“No, Lezhev, I beg you, don’t make light of it. She is, it is, just don’t, all right?”
“You are smitten.”
“Yes. It’s true. Cupid’s arrow—it was an ambush, completely a surprise. A dinner in Passy, I didn’t want to go. The man’s in textiles, a vicomte he says, some sort of complicated business connection with my family. Expecting the worst, I went. And then . . .”
“She is French?”
“Very. And
of the most elevated family—that’s the problem.”
“Problem?”
“Well, here is what happened. I arrived late, and very excited. I had just taken a country estate; a lovely place and, great good luck for me, an open lease, so I can have it as long as I like. The owner was most accommodating. So naturally I talked about it at the dinner—where it was, and how old, and the river—and she was delighted. ‘Ah, les collines d’Artois, mais qu’elles sont belles!’ she said. So I said, ‘But you must come and see it.’ And I could tell she wanted to but there was, how to say, a momentary sense of frost in the air. Then I realized!
For me to ask her there alone would be most awkward, but with friends ...So quickly I added that a couple I knew was coming on Sunday, wouldn’t she join us for lunch? And Mama and Papa too, I insist! But no, as soon as they heard there was another couple, they were occupied. So, now . . .”
“We’re the couple.”
“You must say yes!”
“Yes. And with pleasure.”
“Thank heaven. I’ll have Fauchon do the picnic, in wicker hampers, with Dom Pérignon, and monogrammed champagne flutes, and lobsters, and the napkins they have that fit in the little leather loops in the hamper. What do you think?”
“Perfect.”
“Now, here is my scheme. My driver will take the two of us up there—it’s a good morning’s drive from Paris—and that way we’ll be alone, but, of course, by happenstance, so all will be quite correct.”
“A natural situation.”
“Who could object? Meanwhile, you and Mademoiselle Beilis will take the train up to Boulogne—it gets in there from Paris about noon. And we’ll pick you up. Did I mention the day? Sunday.”
“Boulogne?”
Genya, paying bills in the Parthenon office, looked up in surprise. “Nobody’s been there since 1890. Deauville, yes. Cabourg, well, maybe. But Boulogne?”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s all those sur-la-plage paintings—the French flag fluttering in the breeze, miles of sand because the tide’s always out, little dogs, ladies with hats.”
“Actually, the way he spoke, it sounded as though the house was inland—‘the hills of Artois.’”
“Well I hope he doesn’t dig in his garden—because what he’ll find is bones and unexploded shells. That’s Flanders, is what that is.”
The goddess was, as advertised, a goddess. Fine porcelain, with china-blue eyes and spots of color in the cheeks, thick auburn hair with a flip that just touched the collar, and a porcelain heart. Freddi Schoen was lost—if he’d cantered about on his hands and knees and bayed it might, might, have been more obvious.
As for Lezhev and Genya, the porcelain doll wasted no time. She couldn’t have been sweeter but: one could understand that a foreign gentleman might not have the knack of social relations in a new country; however, if she took possession of this particular spaniel, they could be sure that he’d seen the last of émigré poets and publishers’ daughters. Rue de Rome publishers’ daughters especially.
Lezhev found it damned hard to be Lezhev. The toasts, the snippets of poems, and all that whooping and carrying-on—his version of a Russian poet loved and lived life to the hilt. Sometimes he silently apologized to poor Lezhev’s shade; clearly he hadn’t loved life all that much, but Freddi Schoen seemed responsive to the performance so that’s where he pitched it, with Genya loving life to the hilt right beside him.
De Milja, on the other hand, had an unforeseen reaction to the porcelain doll. To his considerable surprise, she offended the aristocrat in him, put him in mind of the Ostrow uncles, who would have made short work of such snobbery.
Still, whatever his taste in French aristocrats, Freddi Schoen had been right about the estate. A very old Norman farmhouse—how it had survived the unending wars in that part of the world God only knew, but there it was. Ancient timber and cracked plaster, leaning left and right at once, with tiny windows to keep the arrows out and thick walls to keep the dampness in. It sat in a valley just over a low hill from the river Authie, which just there was quite pretty, winding its course past a network of canals. Naturally August would be its most sumptuous month, the woods a thousand shades of gold and green in the tender light of the French countryside, the banks of the canals cut back to stands of willow, leaves dancing in the little sea breeze. For they were only a few miles from La Manche, the French name for what was called, on the opposite shore some thirty miles away, the English Channel.
After lunch they went for a ride, Freddi Schoen’s driver dressed up in a chauffeur’s uniform for the day. The road ran through breathtaking countryside, forest to the left, meadow to the right. Surprising how the land had healed since 1918, but it had. The grass grew lush and deep green, and there was a cloud of orange butterflies at the edge of a canal where even the barges—some two hundred and forty of them at Lezhev’s count, it took several minutes to drive past—seemed part of the natural beauty of the place. Or, at least, not alien to it; big, square hulls, dark and tarry from a thousand journeys, with only the painted names, Dutch, Belgian, German, or French, to disrupt the harmony of the handsome old wood.
Freddi Schoen, holding court on the leather seat of the big Mercedes, was at his best, charming and voluble and witty as only he could be; the porcelain doll smiled with delight and it was all Lezhev and Genya could do to keep up. Sitting next to the driver, Freddi hung his elbow over the seat and entertained them. “Of course the admiral was a Prussian, with a big, red face like, oh, like . . . a ball!”
Ha ha, but was it eighteen tugboats tied in a row after the intersection of the Route Departmentale 34? No, twenty, Genya told him later.
“A deer!” Freddi Schoen cried out. Then, when the women turned to look at the forest side of the road, he winked at Lezhev. Wasn’t this fine? These two French lovelies riding with them along a road in a Pissarro painting? From Lezhev, a poet’s smile of vast sagacity, confirmed by a wise little shake of the head. No, life wasn’t all bad, it had its moments of great purity, say on a summer day near the sea, rolling past a particularly charming little canal, where some good old soul a generation ago had planted borders of Lombardy poplar, where thirty-one seagoing tugs, tied up to cleats, bobbed lazily when the wind ruffled the surface of the still water.
“I saw it!” Genya Beilis cried out.
Freddi Schoen’s eyes grew wide with amazement—his little joke had grown wings. Fate had put a real deer in the forest; even the gods of Chance were with them today.
19 August, Banque Nationale de Commerce, Orléans.
An old woman wearing a funeral hat had preceded him into one of the little rooms where one communed with one’s safe-deposit box. He could hear her through the wall, mumbling to herself, then counting, each number articulated with whispered ferocity. “Quatorze. Quinze. Seize. Dix-sept. Dix-huit.”
Lezhev had less to whisper about. Only a small slip of paper: “Hôtel Bretagne. 38, rue Lepic. Room 608. You are Monsieur Gris, from Lille.”
To hell and gone up an endless hill in the back streets of Montmartre, a hotel two windows wide and six floors tall, the smell of the toilet in the hall good and strong on the fiery August day.
He knocked.
“Yes?”
“Monsieur Gris. From Lille.”
She was five feet tall, blond hair cut back to a boyish cap above a round face and a snub nose. Scared to death, intrepid, Polish.
“How old are you?” he asked in French. She just stood there. He tried again in Polish.
“Seventeen,” she said.
She went to the peeling armoire and opened the door. The suitcase radio was open and ready to transmit. “You are not to be here when I send,” she explained. “An order.”
He indicated that he understood.
She went on, a carefully memorized speech. “Colonel Vyborg sends his regards. You are to occupy yourself with information pertinent to the German plan to attack Great Britain. Where, how, and when. He tells you that the Eng
lish are the only hope now—airplane drops of ammunition and money and specialists are planned for Poland. For their part, they ask our help in France, in any way we are able. I am to transmit for you, whenever you like, as much as you like.”
“How did you come?”
“Fishing boat to the Brittany coast, from Scotland. Then on a train.”
“With the suitcase in hand.”
She shrugged. “There is no control on the trains. It’s very different here.”
“Where were you in Poland?”
“Lodz. I came to France as a courier, then we fled on the ship Batory, from Bordeaux. On the twenty-second of June, after the surren
der. We were the last ship to leave France.”
“What name do I call you?” he asked.
“Janina,” she said. Her smile was radiant, they were comrades in arms, she was proud to serve at his side. She returned to the armoire, brought out a thick packet of French francs. “We will beat them, Monsieur Gris. We will certainly beat them.”
The two brothers owned a garage in Saclay, in the poor southern suburbs of Paris. This was Wednesday, another three days until the Saturday shave, the white bristle on their cheeks was shiny with motor oil and dark with grime. Hidden somewhere in the complex of fallen-down sheds was a pig they were fattening for market; de Milja and Fedin could hear it grunting and snuffling in the mud.
“When will the pig be ready?” de Milja said.
“October,” one of the brothers said. “‘Cannibal,’ we call him.”
“We need a little Citroen truck, a delivery truck.”
“Expensive, such things.”
“We know.”
“Could be fifteen thousand francs.”
“Maybe nine.”
“Fifteen, I think I said.”
“Eleven, then.”
“What money?”
“French francs.”
“We like those American dollars.”
