by Alex Gerlis
‘We can do one of three things with this information, Georg. It can go to the authorities and you will face a war crimes trial. I would have thought we are looking at a minimum of ten years before you see Helga, Charlotte and Maria and Mainz again, that is if they wait for you that long. Mainz will, of course, but possibly not Helga. And Charlotte and Maria will not remember you in any event. And then that evidence from Boulogne is very damning. They may even seek the death penalty there. There’s only one way to find out.
‘The second thing we could do would be for you to be transferred from here tonight and your car intercepted on the way by the FFI. Do you want me to describe to you what they would do? No? I can promise you, ten years in prison will be a very attractive alternative even if it will last a lot longer.’
There was a long pause now, during which Lange lurched forward and vomited down the front of his grey uniform. When he lifted his stained head up, his eyes were red with tears. His mouth was half open, flecks of vomit and saliva dripping down his chin. The cell now had a rank and fetid air smell. Lange was trembling violently.
‘I can appreciate your discomfort, Georg. Are you ready for me to tell you the third alternative? All of these documents can be destroyed. They would be burned, in your presence and the minute the war is over, you would be released and free to go back to Helga, Charlotte and Maria in Mainz. If it was me, I would see that as the most preferable of the three options. And you want to know how you can get us to do that? It’s simple. You tell us everything you know about this woman.’ Gaston slapped the photograph of Nathalie down on the table. ‘Everything. You have our word that if we find out that you have been telling us the truth, all of this will be destroyed.’
There was a long silence as Lange stared at the photograph and the documents laid out on the table in front of him. He was rocking very slightly in his chair.
‘And how can I trust you?’ Lange’s voice was quavering.
‘You can’t. It is a gamble,’ said André. He waited before continuing. ‘But I would have thought the alternatives to not trusting us are far worse. It is a risk you have to take.’
‘Do you want some time to think about, Georg?’ asked Gaston.
The German looked up slowly and his gaze took in all three of them. Any pretence at composure was long gone. He was broken. His face betrayed a mixture of fear and hatred. Within the space of less than ten minutes he had gone from a sophisticated and professional officer to a broken man.
‘Of course not. I’ll tell you everything I know. But I want to tell you something first. It was not difficult to recruit her. She came to us.’
ooo000ooo
There was an air of definite satisfaction in the Renault as it headed back to Paris that night and they discussed everything that Lange had told them. It was in marked contrast to the gloom that had accompanied the journey back the previous Saturday. Owen even noticed that there was some life in Émile’s eyes as the driver kept looking at them, taking everything in.
Had they not been so tired, they might have been tempted to stop for a drink in one of the bars around the Avenue des Champs Élysées and had they done that, they could well have been spotted by the tall Englishman in the long dark greatcoat and wide-brimmed trilby. Some of the bar owners had spotted him more than once over the previous days, peering into the bars, looking around and never buying a drink – which is what bothered them most. One or two had asked him his business and he produced a pocketful of accreditation that quickly persuaded them to mind their own business.
Major Edgar was seething. There was no sign of Quinn. He had established that he had arrived at the Gare du Nord, since when he had vanished. He could be anywhere, though his instinct told him that he was still in the city. There was no joy with the hotel registration cards. Either Quinn was not in a hotel or the French were just being inefficient.
Had someone told him that at one stage that night as he crossed the Rue du Colisée he was probably no more than a couple of hundred yards from Owen Quinn as his car headed towards Boulevard Haussmann, Edgar would not have been altogether surprised.
It had turned into that kind of chase.
ooo000ooo
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
France
February 1945
They did not leave Paris until the Friday, which was 2 February.
There was good reason to delay their departure. Paris was a city sustained by rumours, most of which arrived with a clamour one day, only to disappear silently and forgotten the next. But the weekend that Owen had arrived, a rumour emerged that appeared to have more substance to it. By the beginning of the week it was confirmed. On the day after Owen had travelled from London to Paris, the Red Army had entered a concentration camp near Kraków in southern Poland. It was called Auschwitz and was where André and his family and most of the other seventy-five thousand Jews deported from Paris had been taken. André was so desperate to find out if anyone from his extended family or among his friends had survived that he spent most of the Thursday at a Jewish community centre trying to find out.
But the message was confused. The Russians had found seven thousand survivors in the camp, most barely alive. Many other prisoners had been taken away from the camp in the days and weeks before. It would be some time before they knew the names of who was still alive, if that was the right word to describe them.
Early on the Friday morning they set off. André had borrowed a car from a friend and had managed to get hold of enough petrol to get them to their destination (‘We may have to push it for the last few miles’). The car was a snub-nosed Peugeot, more reliable than handsome. They headed north east from Paris, which was a longer route but there had been reports of some fighting just to the south of where they were heading and André wanted to make sure they kept well away from it. For most of the morning they were in the Champagne region, their progress slowed considerably by long military convoys heading east and long lines of German prisoners of war trudging in the other direction. They were stopped at a few checkpoints and Owen’s Royal Navy identification helped. At one checkpoint, some American troops even allowed them to siphon off some petrol from an abandoned German staff car. It meant that they now had enough fuel to be sure of reaching their destination.
By early afternoon they had dropped down into Lorraine, where there was evidence of more recent fighting. Paris had suffered the deprivations of war, but had emerged unscathed in terms of damage. The same could not be said for Metz and the small towns and villages they drove through. If anything, thought Owen, it was worse than the Pas de Calais.
By the time they had driven through Nancy it was getting dark. They decided to press on: they knew that the roads would be difficult, but neither of them wanted to hang around. There was an air of anarchy in the area. Any time the car stopped it was quickly surrounded by people desperate for food and water. Young children pressed their faces against the windows. When they drove off, people would kick out at the car and some stones were thrown at them. They knew if they did find somewhere to stay the night, it would be too risky to leave the car unattended.
The checkpoints were getting trickier now. So far, Owen’s Royal Navy identification had helped them through them. But as they drove, they had been discussing to what extent Edgar might be going through to track him down, which Owen was in no doubt he would be doing. What about if he had put out an alert for Owen Quinn? It was perfectly feasible that he could put out a notification that he was a deserter, or worse. So they decided to rely on André’s cunning and his FFI identification.
As they entered Alsace, the atmosphere changed. It felt as if they were driving through Germany. The road signs and village and town names were only in German and the buildings were noticeably Germanic in appearance.
‘I’ll give you a quick history lesson, Owen. Alsace has always been a mixture of German and French. Before 1870, it was part of France. Then there was the Franco-Prussian War, which we lost, and Alsace and parts of Lorraine became part of Ger
many. After the Great War, they came back to France. In 1940, the Germans returned. This area was not part of Occupied France or even Vichy. The Germans made it part of Greater Germany. Now, it has come back to France. So if anyone here who was born in the 1860s and is still alive, they would have lived under German rule twice and French rule three times. When the Germans have run the region, they have discriminated against everything French and I daresay that when we have ruled the area we have not exactly encouraged the German language and culture, not that you can blame us.’
He turned to Owen and laughed.
‘But it does explain why this is a rather strange part of the world and why so many people here are so strange. But then, I think you know that, don’t you, Owen?’
They entered Strasbourg just before six o’clock. Their original plan had been to seek somewhere to stay that night and try to find Nathalie in the morning. But nothing prepared them for the devastation. The city had been heavily bombed by the Allies and then there had been bitter fighting before General Leclerc’s French troops took the city at the end of November.
Although still identifiable as a city, it was only just functioning as one. The damage was everywhere to be seen. People were still huddled in the ruins of buildings, whose darkened shells were lit by dozens of small fires as people tried to keep warm. Owen realised that you needed to be close to the damage to realise that war caused more than physical damage and psychological suffering. There was a smell to it, a fetid taste that stuck to the back of the throat.
Enquiries about hotels were met with confused smiles, so they did what all travellers unsure of their final destination do and headed for the centre. Just off the Place du Temple Neuf they found a small café in a narrow street, where the white walls were pockmarked with bullet holes. They were able to park the Peugeot across the street from where they could see it from their table in the window.
Owen was beginning to learn that André always had a plan. He was not complaining. André’s forgery plan had worked so well that as a result of it they were now in Strasbourg armed with Nathalie’s apparently real name and an address. Lange had also confirmed that she had indeed been a nurse when the Germans recruited her.
As they sat in the café they agreed that their priority was to go the address that Lange had given them. He had warned them that the address was from before the war and he could not guarantee she would be there. He was certain though about her real name.
The owner of the café just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head when they asked him if he knew the road. He eyed them suspiciously as they left the café. None of the passers-by wanted to know. People were naturally suspicious and Owen noticed that most of them were speaking French with a distinct German pronunciation. André appeared to be having trouble finding directions as they wondered around the centre of the city.
Eventually a couple walked by who were happy to help. Yes, they did know this area, but you must realise it was damaged when the Germans invaded in 1940 and was bombed last year. Not many buildings are left standing. Come, we’ll show you where it is. We’re heading that way ourselves.
The area was barren. Few buildings were left standing in the road where her house was meant to be and none of them intact. They thanked the couple, who hurried along. On both sides of the road and for blocks either side, there were piles of rubble, punctuated by the jagged remains of trees, whose top halves had been snapped off by the force of explosions or burned by fire. There was no sign of life, other than some children pulling a wooden trolley, laden with wood and scraps. They went over to talk to them, but the children abandoned their trolley and ran off. They drove round the area and eventually came across an elderly lady dressed all in black, walking a skeletal black Labrador.
No, no one has lived in this area for some time. Most people moved out in 1940 and the few that remained left when the Allied bombing started. Her French was slow and difficult to make out. André asked whether she would prefer to speak German. She nodded. They spoke for a couple of minutes and then she merged back into the shadows, pulled along by her dog.
‘She thought we were from the authorities. Many people here are worried that they may be called collaborators, so people are going to be suspicious of us. She told me she lived in this area most of her life and didn’t seem to recognise the name, but she told me that her memory is not good. Maybe there was a family of that name that lived here ten years ago, she is not sure. But if they did, they would have left long ago.’
‘We could go to the police,’ said Owen, ‘they may have a record of the surname.’
‘I am worried about alerting her in some way. We just don’t know who to trust around here. I mean look at us,’ said André, pointing at the two of them, ‘a Jew and an Englishman. We don’t exactly blend in, do we? As soon as we walk into a police station or the Hôtel de Ville, people will notice us. We need to be cautious. If someone alerts her then you may never see your child. Jean did give me the name of a contact here, but apparently he will not be back in Strasbourg until Monday. Shall we wait until then?’
Owen thought about it. Perhaps they had no alternative. Then it was his turn to have a plan.
André liked it.
ooo000ooo
A few hours after André and Owen arrived in Strasbourg that Friday night, Edgar had his first breakthrough.
Since arriving in Paris the previous Saturday, Edgar had used all the influence he could muster to ensure maximum co-operation from the British Embassy. It worked. When he turned up at the British Embassy in the Rue Faubourg St-Honoré that Monday morning Edgar was able to see the ambassador straight away. By the end of the meeting he had been promised the full co-operation of the British Embassy. No question about it. Winston clearly thinks this is important. We’ll do what we can to help.
Edgar commandeered Embassy staff to help monitor all the hotel registration cards. They spoke to police and any other officials they could find. He had scoured the streets and the bars. But there was no trace of Quinn. There was always the possibility that he had left Paris, but Edgar felt that even if he had only stayed in the city for a day or two, there would be some clue here as to where he had headed next.
The breakthrough came late on the Friday afternoon. One of the military attachés at the Embassy had been speaking to a contact in the resistance the previous day about another matter and that contact had happened to mention that one of his comrades, a man called Gaston, had been assisting a British Royal Navy officer. The attaché did not think to mention it to Edgar until the next day. Edgar kept very calm. It would not help matters if he held this blithering idiot up against a wall and asked him why, precisely, he had waited a whole day to tell him this? That could be dealt with later. He would arrange a transfer to somewhere more unpleasant than Paris. There were plenty of options. Right now, he needed to track this Gaston down.
It took a couple of hours. Edgar was being cautious. If Gaston had been helping Owen then he may well be better disposed towards him than the British authorities.
They found out where he lived, which was in the rundown Marais quarter on the eastern edge of the city centre. Gaston was in a nearby bar, in an alleyway off the Rue des Rosiers. We appreciate you helping Owen,’ Edgar told him. ‘He was one of my best agents. He has a lot of problems. You will understand. We need to find that woman before he does. For her own protection. Where is Owen now? It is in his interests for you to tell us. And yours.’
Gaston said nothing. He slid his glass across the zinc-topped bar for it to be refilled with a large Armagnac. The barman understood and reached for his oldest Armagnac. The Englishman was paying. Gaston was not sure whether to believe him. He had only become involved in the first place to help André and André had been so unsettled since he returned to Paris that maybe this Englishman was telling the truth. But then, he had liked Owen and he believed him.
So he decided to give the Englishman part of what he wanted. Not the name or any other details, though. Maybe that was the soluti
on. Something, but not too much.
‘They left for Alsace this morning.’
‘Do you know where in Alsace?’
‘No.’
‘Strasbourg?’
‘Possibly.’
‘And can you give me any details about the name and address they may have been given?’
Gaston shook his head. He was regretting this now. He shouldn’t have said anything.
‘How did he get this information?’
Gaston shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I only saw him once or twice. He seemed to have a contact. I don’t know whom.’
Edgar gestured to the barman to fill up Gaston’s glass again. Maybe that would loosen his tongue. But he ought to have known better. Try as he might, he got nowhere. The Frenchman was polite. He would like to help. But he had told him all he knew and repeated it. ‘He had headed for Alsace, possibly Strasbourg.’
Edgar thanked Gaston, gave him a piece of paper with the phone number of the British Embassy on it and in return Gaston promised to contact him if he heard anything. Of course. Edgar left enough money with the barman to pay for Gaston to finish what little was left of the bottle and headed back to the Embassy.
It was late now, gone nine o’clock. He had been promised he would have whatever help needed and right now he needed a good car and a reliable driver who knew the way to Strasbourg.
Gaston stayed in the bar until late. The Englishman’s money was going a long way. He was bothered. He should have relied on his instinct and not trusted the Englishman. Émile joined him at nine o’clock that night and listened silently as Gaston recounted what had happened. ‘Should I have trusted the Englishman?’ he asked Émile. Émile shook his head, thanked Gaston for the drink and left the bar in a hurry. Gaston realised that it was foolish to ask Émile. He trusted no one these days. After what he had been through, who could blame him?
