Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  He gave a crooked smile. ‘But we’ll have to come up with a good story. A very good one.’

  ‘I have a story,’ Viviane said. ‘I’m not sure how good it is but I’ve told my family already.’

  ‘So you won’t be able to change it without Odette and your mother getting suspicious?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He opened his arms widely. ‘Come on then. Tell me the story so I can remember it.’

  She did so with a heavy heart, knowing that it was full of weaknesses and that he would have been able to fabricate something much more convincing.

  But when she finished, he beamed at her.

  ‘That’s pretty good, Viv. Especially when you think how rushed you must have been to come up with it.’

  ‘You don’t think we should change it? Or add to it, perhaps?’

  He shook his head. ‘We can’t change it now. And the simpler the better. It doesn’t matter that it’s a little fantastic. The whole world has gone crazy, what’s a little extra madness about your pen-friend matter in comparison?’ His rubbed his fingers on his lips. ‘Did you really have a pen-friend?’

  Viviane nodded. ‘But we only wrote two letters each. Simone’s writing was very hard to read and my letters were full of ink-blots.’

  ‘Have you kept hers?’

  ‘Possibly. Why?’

  ‘Another bit of proof, should we need it.’ He rubbed his hands together. He was beginning to get excited about the intrigue.

  ‘There’s something more,’ she said. She opened her bag and pulled out the wad of money Rachael had given to her.

  Alain whistled in astonishment. ‘That’s a lot of cash. A lot.’

  ‘It’s enough to feed the boy for several years.’

  ‘It’s a start.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll need longer?’ Tears began to well in her eyes. ‘Oh, Alain, how long do you think this wretched war will go on? Will Celeste ever have a normal life?’

  He took her hand in his. ‘General de Gaulle says we will be free one day. And the British are still fighting.’

  ‘But Gerard says London is in ruins.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put too much faith in what Gerard says. And even if the British are defeated there’s the Americans.’

  ‘Gerard said that the Luftwaffe are bombing New York as well.’

  Alain shook his head. ‘I can’t see that, Viv, it’s too far away.’

  ‘Not even with secret weapons?’

  Alain sighed. It was getting more difficult to stay optimistic.

  ‘Let’s not think about all that,’ he said. ‘Let’s think about our future and how we make the best of it.’ He pulled another wad of notes from his pocket. ‘And see, you’re not the only one with a pile of banknotes.’

  MAJOR WEISER

  Paris and Dijon, September 1942

  Major Ernst Weiser swallowed the rest of his wine in one mouthful; a waste because it was a fine Burgundy. His eyes were gripped by the lorries careering along the road towards the north-east. Lorries packed with people.

  ‘The French are taking them to Drancy,’ his friend Otto Mundt said.

  ‘Jews?’

  ‘Yes. And then on to the work camps in the east.’

  Weiser raised one eyebrow. He had little liking for Jews but he suspected that they would be worked to death in the camps. He’d always favoured sending them to Madagascar but when he argued this once too often his commanding officer advised him to keep such views to himself. He had done so ever since, scrupulously.

  ‘The French are keen to help us in this task,’ Mundt said.

  ‘They know what’s good for them,’ Weiser said. ‘The more they co-operate, the better life will be for them. That old fool Pétain understands that, at least.’

  The last of the lorries disappeared, leaving a smell of diesel and something else lingering on the air.

  Weiser sniffed. ‘Shit and piss and vomit. And terror.’ He shook his head, wearily.

  ‘Are you surprised?’ Mundt asked. ‘They’re civilians and they must be terrified.’

  ‘I pissed and shit and vomited at Leningrad,’ Weiser said. ‘As did you, I recall.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, but even at the time I was proud that I could claim it was good Aryan waste matter.’

  ‘Careful, Otto,’ Weiser said. ‘Walls have ears.’

  Mundt shrugged, unconcerned. ‘I suppose Hitler’s made us great again. Better than the old Kaiser did at any rate. Better even than Napoleon achieved for the French.’

  ‘It was we who defeated Napoleon,’ Weiser said. ‘Blücher cut him down to size at Waterloo. The French still hate us for it.’

  ‘Let them hate.’ Mundt swigged the last of his wine and gestured to a waiter to bring another bottle. ‘As long as they continue making such excellent wine.’

  Their food arrived shortly after. Weiser had ordered a steak, cooked rare, with green beans and fried potatoes. Mundt’s was a delicate river trout with little peas and carrots.

  ‘The French know how to cook,’ Weiser said.

  ‘Except they get little food to cook with anymore,’ Mundt said with a chuckle.

  Weiser glanced at the passers-by. They were skinny, many with sunken cheeks and dark eyes. A quarter of the food produced in France was shipped off to Germany, leaving the people on the edge of starvation.

  Weiser examined the steak on his fork. This, presumably, came from French farms. He put it in his mouth, savouring the excellent taste. Such was the fate of conquered people the world over. And such was the reward of their conquerors.

  ‘I’ve got some disappointing news for us both,’ Weiser said when they had finished their meal and were sipping some cognac.

  Mundt’s eyes widened with alarm. They had already spent two winters in the horror of Russia; surely that must be enough for any man.

  Weiser shook his head, guessing what was going through his friend’s mind. ‘Not as disappointing as you fear,’ he said. ‘We’re being sent somewhere warmer. Burgundy, in fact.’

  Mundt sighed in relief. ‘I like Paris but I’m sure I’ll manage in the land of wine. How did you wangle such a good posting?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ Weiser’s face became more serious. ‘I’m guessing that we’re not being sent for our health.’ He slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Certainly not your health, with so much wine close to hand.’

  Mundt laughed and took out a pack of cigarettes. He struck a match but did not light it. His face changed, looked perplexed, confused. ‘Ernst, how did you know about the posting and I didn’t?’ he asked.

  Weiser passed a piece of paper across to him. ‘Because I’ve been promoted, Otto. I’m now an Oberstleutnant.’

  ‘And me? You said we’re both going south. Am I to serve with you?’

  For answer Weiser passed another document over. ‘I asked for you especially, heaven knows why.’ He smiled. ‘You’re to be on my staff. My aide-de-camp.’

  Mundt clicked his fingers to a waiter. ‘Champagne,’ he said. ‘We’ve something to celebrate.’

  ‘And then I must write to my wife,’ Weiser said. ‘Hilda will be delighted to hear the news.’

  Dijon was the most beautiful city Weiser had ever seen. He was the officer in charge of the city and his headquarters were in the old Ducal Palace. The courtyard outside contained a range of military vehicles: armoured cars, trucks of all sizes and half a dozen motorcycles, two with side-cars. Soldiers stood to attention in sentry boxes on either side of the gates while others hurried across the courtyard on ceaseless errands.

  His personal office was spacious, with high ceilings, polished wooden floor and sturdy old furniture. There were some paintings on the walls but these were overshadowed by two huge Nazi banners on either side of the fireplace. A photograph of the Führer hung on one wall, in his eye-line. Another sat upon his desk, glaring at him.

  For a moment he contemplated putting this in a drawer but the palace also contained the office of the Gestapo and the headquarters
of the SS so to do this would have been unwise.

  He paced up and down the office, from side to side and from front to back, noting the number of steps scrupulously, neither adding to them nor subtracting. He would tell Hilda and the children the number of steps he took. The children would be proud that their papa had such an imposing place of work all to himself. His own father would be less proud, of course.

  He put all his belongings in the centre of the desk and then set about placing them where they would be close to hand. His father’s writing case he placed on the right, complete with ink-well and slots for several pens and pencils. His spectacle case went to his left and beside that a magnifying glass which was useful in scrutinising detailed maps. A German-French dictionary was placed beside the telephone which he pulled closer towards him, within easy reach.

  On the far side of the desk he put a map of France and maps of Dijon and the surrounding area. Next to these he placed a copy of Melancholie, a romantic novel by his ancestor Ernst Keil, who he was named after.

  He stood up and surveyed the desk from behind the chair, then strolled around it, examining it from every viewpoint, particularly that of any subordinates and superiors who might be visiting.

  He sat down in a seat drawn up opposite his own chair and moved a few items in order to give a better idea of order and efficiency. Then he went back to his own seat and gave the desk a final scrutiny. He sighed with pleasure and then placed the picture of the Führer face down on the desk.

  He was going to enjoy his new position. And enjoy being in Dijon.

  There was a knock on his door and his adjutant entered. He looked angry and uncertain.

  ‘My apologies, Oberstleutnant ,’ he said. ‘There is a man demanding to see you. He is most insistent although he is only a captain.’

  ‘A captain?’ Weiser said in surprise. ‘What makes a captain think he can demand the attention of an officer two ranks above him.’

  ‘He is a Hauptsturmführer, sir,’ the adjutant said, ‘a member of the SS.’

  For the moment, Weiser said nothing. He did not know his adjutant well and decided it would be safest if he kept his thoughts about the SS to himself.

  ‘Send the Hauptsturmführer in, please,’ he said.

  Almost immediately, the door was opened and a man entered the office. He was young, in his twenties by his appearance, good-looking although with eyes which seemed distant, as though they were searching for something not of this world.

  Weiser waited for him to salute but he waited in vain.

  ‘Good morning, Oberstleutnant,’ he said. ‘I am Hauptsturmführer Barbie. I am the SS officer with responsibility for Dijon.’

  ‘And I am the Wehrmacht officer with responsibility for it,’ Weiser said.

  Barbie shrugged, as if that was of little concern to him.

  He sat down in a chair without Weiser’s invitation.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let me tell you about my view of Dijon.’

  TANTAMOUNT TO SLAVERY

  Grasse, September 1942

  Roland Boyer read the paper once again. It was about the new law, called The Law of 4 September on the Use and Guidance of the Workforce. Boyer gave a bleak smile. You could never accuse the Government of not being explicit in the naming of its laws. Nor anything less than explicit in their demands.

  The relève was not working. Too few people volunteered to go to work in Germany, even if it meant the release of French prisoners-of-war. Fewer than 100,000 had volunteered, in fact, and the Germans were demanding far more. Prime Minister Darlan had refused to send more than that number of skilled workers to Germany and the Germans insisted on his dismissal and replacement by Pierre Laval, Darlan’s rival. Laval’s new law meant that all able-bodied men aged 18 to 50 and single women aged 21 to 35 were obliged to do any work that the Government deemed necessary.

  Boyer shook his head at this folly. He could see that this would mean trouble on the streets and he was a mere provincial policeman. Why couldn’t Pétain and Laval see the same?

  There was a sudden noise in the office outside. He leapt from his chair, assuming that the tumult was caused by someone angry at being arrested. Not a hardened criminal for they were always compliant, but some hitherto pillar of society who had been arrested for trading on the black market or some other misdemeanour.

  He walked into the outer office and stopped dead in his tracks. The noise was not caused by members of the public but by his own men.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he cried.

  His voice had the desired effect and the shouts and yells calmed down.

  ‘It’s because of this, Capitaine,’ said Sergeant Lassals, one of the most experienced on his force. He waved a paper in the air but Boyer had no need to look at it to realise that it was a copy of the new law.

  ‘It’s an outrage, Capitaine,’ Lassals said. ‘Every man and woman to be subject to the Government.’

  ‘The French Government,’ Boyer said sternly. ‘The Government of France.’

  He knew he was on tricky ground here for even some in his own force had doubts about Maréchal Pétain’s government. He suspected that some were even supporters of General de Gaulle, a man denounced as a traitor.

  ‘But every man and woman —’ continued the sergeant.

  ‘Not every man and woman,’ Boyer said, snatching the paper from Lassals’s hand. ‘It exempts married women, for example.’

  ‘Well that’s a relief,’ cried Gendarme Villiers with heavy sarcasm. ‘At least married women will be allowed to live at home to feed their children. While their unmarried sisters will be forced to work on the roads. Or sent to Germany to slave in factories making weapons.’

  Boyer gave him a nasty look. He had always suspected that the man was a socialist, possibly even a communist.

  ‘Button it, Villiers,’ Lassals said, anxious in case the young man talked himself into a disciplinary charge.

  ‘But this is tantamount to slavery,’ Villiers said.

  ‘I’ll teach you the meaning of slavery, unless you show more respect to Capitaine Boyer,’ the sergeant said.

  But nevertheless, he turned to Boyer with an aggrieved expression still etched on his face. ‘Are we expected to enforce this law?’ he asked.

  ‘A law is a law, sergeant,’ Boyer said. ‘Whether we agree with it or not, our clear duty is to enforce it.’

  These words subdued any inclination on the rest of the men to continue their protest. Some even went so far as to give Villiers a look of harsh rebuke.

  ‘Tantamount to slavery,’ Villiers repeated.

  For once Boyer chose to ignore it. ‘Now get back to work,’ he said. He gave Villiers a meaningful glance. ‘And let’s have done with any socialist sympathies and Stalinist notions.’ He strode back to his office.

  ‘Careful boy,’ he heard Lassals say to Villiers. ‘The Capitaine is a good man and he likes you, but don’t push him too hard or you’ll suffer the consequences.’

  Boyer sat at his desk and rubbed his neck irritably. If even his own men were infuriated by the new law, how would the rest of the population react? He read the details of the new law once again. He sympathised with the Maréchal but wondered, not for the first time, if he wasn’t going too far to appease the Germans.

  ‘Bloody Churchill,’ he muttered. Like many Frenchmen, Boyer believed that were it not for Churchill’s intransigence the war would have ended two years before and France would now be free.

  ‘And damn bloody Attlee.’ Boyer had a particular dislike for the leader of the British Labour party because he had demanded that the King should make Churchill Prime Minister. He was convinced that Attlee was a communist and that Churchill danced to his tune.

  He glanced at the clock. Time to go home.

  He sighed, wondering how Odette’s day had been. At least, as a married woman, she would be spared being registered for any work the government deemed fit.

  He stretched wearily but then stopped. But what about Viviane? Was sh
e married or merely living with Alain? He certainly hadn’t been invited to a wedding but knowing the relations between the two sisters that was no great surprise. And perhaps the family had forbidden her to marry a man with Gypsy blood.

  He worried at a loose tooth with his tongue. If Viviane and Alain weren’t married, she would be classed as single and eligible for the work obligation. He read the new law swiftly, fearing it might be too late for her now.

  Then he took a deep breath and his rigorous and analytical brain ran through the law yet again, even more carefully. No, there was enough ambiguity within it. There was no indication of a date by which women must have been married in order to avoid the work obligation, no long past deadline that Viviane may have missed. Nevertheless, it would be sensible to arrange things as soon as could be, today if possible.

  He would call in on Viviane on his way home and tell her that she should get married. The Mayor would be happy to do it this evening if he requested it, which was just as well. Better to be on the safe side.

  He cleared his desk and reached for his cap. He would have to hurry. And he mustn’t be seen to have told her about the new law. Who will be their witnesses, he wondered? Probably her old friend Sylvie. He paused on the threshold. She was little more than a prostitute now, he thought sadly. And such a lovely young woman.

  He knocked at Viviane’s house on his way home, pretending not to notice the fluttering of the curtains and how Viviane looked out of the door with uncharacteristic caution. Not like in the past when she was one of the most vivacious and daring women in the town.

  Too vivacious, too daring, just like her friend Sylvie. Had they been a little less wild he might have asked one or other of them to accompany him to a dance and then who knew how things might have turned out.

  The door opened a crack and Viviane beckoned him to enter.

  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’ Alain asked loudly from his chair.

  As usual Roland could not be sure whether he was being friendly or insulting. Or maybe he did not know how to behave in civilised company, his mother being the daughter of a Romany elder.