Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  Roland placed himself on a hard chair. ‘I’ve come to find out if you two are married.’

  Viviane looked astonished at his words.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ Alain asked in an indignant tone. ‘Or are the lick-spittles in Vichy seeking to control the morals of France now?’

  Roland’s eyes narrowed. ‘I advise you not to be so disrespectful to the Government of the republic,’ he said.

  ‘Roland is right,’ Viviane said, quickly. She did not want to antagonise Roland at the best of times, not so much because he was a policeman but because Odette would hear of it. Now, with David in the house, she was even more anxious to keep Roland sweet.

  Her heart clenched suddenly. Is that why he was here? Had he heard about David and come to seize him? Seize her as well for sheltering him?

  ‘The reason I ask why you are married,’ Roland continued, his voice now less friendly than at first, ‘is this.’ He took the legal notice out of his pocket and handed it to Alain who read it with increasing astonishment.

  ‘I was right to call them lick-spittles,’ he said, passing the paper to Viviane. ‘They do whatever the Nazis want and more.’

  Viviane shot him a warning glance and then began to read the paper. She gasped and stared at Roland. ‘We’re not married,’ she said. ‘Does that mean I’m eligible for these regulations? Will I be sent away to work? To Germany perhaps.’

  Roland took the paper from her and replaced it in his pocket. ‘First of all, please remember that I haven’t shown you this. I haven’t even been here.’

  Alain gave him a grudging nod of thanks.

  ‘And now you must come with me to the Mayor,’ Roland said.

  ‘What?’ Alain cried. ‘Are we to ask that old fool for help? You talk nonsense.’

  ‘It is not I who talks so foolishly,’ Roland said. ‘We are going to the Mayor to ensure that Viviane becomes a married woman. Today, the very day the law has been announced. It will be foolish to wait until tomorrow.’

  Viviane turned in mute appeal to Alain.

  Alain sighed but gave a nod. ‘Fetch the children,’ he said.

  Then he turned to Roland. ‘Will you come with us? Be my witness?’

  Roland’s mind moved fast. He felt strangely moved to be asked by Alain but it might look as if he were complicit in this hasty subterfuge. But then again, what would be so peculiar about asking Viviane’s brother-in-law to be a witness? After all, they might claim that the wedding had been arranged long ago. And in any case, if he had to ask the Mayor to perform such a ceremony, his complicity was already apparent.

  ‘I shall be honoured,’ he said. ‘But Viviane will need a witness as well.’ He coughed. ‘It might be best not to ask Odette.’

  Viviane nodded. Her sister loathed Alain and rarely troubled to hide it. ‘We can call on Sylvie on the way to the Mayor,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent.’ Roland got to his feet. ‘We must hurry. Monsieur Bernard will not be so amenable if he’s delayed from his supper.’

  The Mayor was not amenable in the slightest and grumbled and tried to put them off. It was only when Roland insisted in no uncertain terms that he acquiesced and led them to his office. Fortunately, he had not read the new law so had no idea of the reason for haste.

  ‘I suppose she’s pregnant?’ Bernard whispered to Roland as his assistant prepared the records.

  Roland shrugged which was confirmation enough for him. The gossip would run like fire around the town tomorrow. Roland suddenly realised this and was disquieted by it.

  ‘Monsieur Mayor,’ he whispered. ‘I would view it as a special favour if you tell no one about this wedding. Stupid gossip does not sit well with my role, does not help me support you in your vital work.’

  He raised one eyebrow at the Mayor, a plea, a threat, a bargain.

  ‘Of course, my dear Capitaine, of course.’ The Mayor brushed his fingers across his lips as if he were wiping sauce from them. He gave a nasty smile. ‘But your wife will know, of course.’

  He pretended surprise. ‘Why is she not here, come to that?’

  Inspiration struck. ‘That is why I don’t want you to breathe a word about the ceremony,’ Roland said. ‘Odette thinks they are already married. She loves her niece Celeste and would be distraught to find out she is illegitimate.’ He placed his hand tightly on the Mayor’s arm, very tightly. ‘I would deem it a special favour if you help me keep our little secret.’

  The Mayor sighed, annoyed that his chance to spread a little mischief would be curtailed. But it would not do to cross Capitaine Boyer, he thought. These were dangerous times and he needed all the friends he could get.

  He conducted the ceremony as speedily as he could. His dinner was in the oven. His wife was equally keen to be finished and the paper-work was soon complete and the unwelcome visitors out of the way.

  Viviane glanced at the marriage papers in Alain’s hand. Neither of their families had wanted them to be together so this perfunctory ritual seemed appropriate. She experienced a tiny frisson of pleasure at it. But most of all she felt relief that she was now safe from being forced to work by the Government, or even worse, sent to Germany to do so.

  Alain shook Roland’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re very grateful.’

  ‘I did it for Celeste,’ Roland said.

  The he glanced at David. ‘You are happy taking in the child of Viviane’s friend?’

  ‘Not happy, but it is necessary.’

  Roland grunted.

  ‘In these strange times we must all do things we would not normally do,’ Alain said pointedly.

  Roland’s tongue prodded the loose tooth, pushing it backwards and forwards although he knew he shouldn’t weaken it.

  ‘All the boy’s paperwork is in order?’ he asked. ‘Ration book, birth certificate.’

  ‘Of course. Do you want to see them?

  Roland shook his head. ‘It’s not necessary. Not at the moment, at any rate.’

  ‘Will you join us for a drink?’ Alain asked. ‘To celebrate the wedding.’

  ‘One drink only. Then I must go home.’

  ‘Odette…?’

  ‘Yes, Odette.’

  WEISER AND MUNDT

  Dijon, October 1942

  Major Otto Mundt smiled at a pretty civilian typist as he strolled through the Wehrmacht headquarters. It was a beautiful autumn day with a sky which believed it was still summer. The leaves were turning gold, however, and a few had already fallen. He tried to banish the thought but the memory of the bitter winter warfare in the Soviet Union leapt into his mind. He shuddered. He dreaded winter now.

  ‘Does it get cold here?’ he demanded of the girl.

  ‘Oui, Major,’ she said. ‘Very cold.’

  He stared at her, thoughtfully. Perhaps she might keep him warm in the coming months. She blushed and glanced away which served only to pique his interest still more.

  ‘Oberstleutnant Weiser is waiting to see you,’ he said.

  He smiled. ‘Do you live in Dijon?’ he asked.

  ‘Oberstleutnant Weiser…’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He flashed her a winning smile and walked towards his friend’s office. But then he paused.

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  The girl blushed even more. ‘Lisette, sir.’

  ‘A pretty name,’ he said and rapped upon Weiser’s door.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Weiser cried. It was almost a snarl.

  Mundt was taken aback. He had never seen his friend like this before.

  Weiser rubbed his hand upon his forehead, as if it bore an irritating rash. He gestured Mundt to sit but did not speak, merely toyed with a pen.

  ‘Damn this headache,’ he said at last.

  ‘You should go to a doctor,’ Mundt said. He paused. ‘Is that it? A bad head is making you like a raging bear?’

  Weiser sighed and flung his pen down.

  ‘Not the migraine. It’s Barbie, the SS bastard.’

  Mundt r
aised an eyebrow. ‘What now?’

  ‘He’s arrested two dozen Jewish men. He accuses them of stealing and arson.’

  ‘And is there any proof?’

  ‘None which would satisfy you or me, Otto.’

  Mundt frowned. He disliked Barbie intensely, more for the arrogant way in which he treated his friend than anything else. But he realised that, despite being only a captain, the young man was a rising star in the SS and wielded a power far higher than his rank warranted.

  ‘So what will happen?’

  ‘There will be no trial,’ Weiser said. ‘Barbie has informed me, informed me would you believe, that he has all the evidence he needs. The men will be executed today. And I am supposed to have responsibility for the city.’

  ‘And what do the French say?’

  Weiser snorted. ‘They’ve already been in my office, protesting. I don’t much care what happens to the Jews but I care about the repercussions.’

  He stared out of the window. The biggest surprise he had discovered since coming to Dijon was how the French authorities were getting ever more difficult concerning the Jews. They trod a fine line between acquiescence and defiance but they were definitely proving a thorn in his side. They seemed to have discovered a new determination to protect their Jewish citizens.

  ‘Perhaps you should leave it to the SS and the Gestapo,’ Mundt said.

  ‘Really?’ Weiser’s voice cloyed with sarcasm.

  ‘Maybe.’ He cocked his head and regarded his friend quizzically. ‘We’re soldiers, Ernst. I think you should leave such matters to the Gestapo. Don’t get your hands dirty.’

  Weiser glared at him but finally gave a tiny shrug. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said.

  ‘I am, I think.’ He sighed. ‘God, why are the Jews such a problem?’

  ‘Isn’t that what Pontius Pilate asked?’ Weiser said. ‘Before washing his hands of everything?’

  ‘I’ve always thought that a fable.’

  Despite the casualness of his words, Mundt looked troubled by the conversation.

  Weiser raised an eyebrow, pulled two cigarettes from his case and flicked one to Mundt. It was Turkish, rather mild but aromatic. Mundt struck a match, lit his friend’s cigarette and then his own.

  ‘When do you think the war will be over?’ Weiser asked, quietly.

  Mundt was shocked at the question and his eyes darted around the room as if it might be filled with invisible Gestapo officers. Then he took a deep pull on his cigarette and began to relax.

  ‘Soon, I should think. The war in the east is going well?’

  Weiser nodded and extended a map on the desk. He had sketched the German army’s advance on it. ‘The army has captured most of the Russian oil fields and is at the gates of Stalingrad. I doubt the Soviets have any resources or stomach to fight on.’

  ‘And then we’ll sweep south through Persia and join the Japanese in India. That will be the Soviets out of the war and the British Empire on its knees.’

  ‘It can’t come soon enough for me, Otto. I miss Hilda and the children. Hans will be eighteen in January. I don’t want him fighting in Russia.’

  ‘It won’t come to that. The war will be over by next spring, mark my words.’

  ‘And the Americans?’ Weiser asked.

  Mundt flicked the ash from his cigarette into an ash tray. ‘I don’t think we have anything to fear from them. They have little appetite for war and, besides, our yellow friends are keeping them busy in the Pacific.

  ‘And if the British surrender,’ he continued, ‘which they’re bound to with all their shipping losses in the Atlantic, then the Americans will give up as well. They can’t fight us on their own.’

  Weiser frowned. ‘You’re so sure the British will give up?’

  ‘The U-boats will guarantee it. Hardly any allied ships get through to England now. The population must be starving. Churchill will be overthrown.’

  Weiser lit another cigarette. He always felt better talking with Otto, an eternal optimist. He, on the other hand, felt a tide of pessimism sweeping over him, threatening to send him plummeting who knows where. He took a heavy drag on his cigarette.

  ‘But in the meantime I have to deal with the likes of Barbie.’

  Otto leaned forward, his face suddenly grave. ‘Listen to me, Ernst. Do not attempt to fight against Barbie, or anyone else in the SS or Gestapo. You’ll only come to grief.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ Weiser said at last. ‘It’s just not right for a jumped-up little swine like Barbie to have such power.’

  ‘He could be worse. Like the criminals and perverts rampaging around the east.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. Maybe we should be thankful for small mercies. As should the French.’

  ‘In the meanwhile,’ Mundt said, ‘we should learn to enjoy ourselves more. The grape harvest is about to begin. There will be plenty of good wine to enjoy.’ The image of Lisette, the young typist came to his mind. And more than just wine, I hope, he thought with anticipation.

  WHISPERS IN THE STREET

  Grasse, October 1942

  It had been a trying month. David had cried each morning for an hour on waking and then, periodically throughout the day. Viviane had tried her best to encourage him out of it but she found it hard and she grew increasingly resentful. Celeste was the one who helped him most, letting him play with her toys, encouraging him to take part in games with her friend Monique and even cuddling him and wiping his face when he was at his most weepy. She’s a better mother to him than I am, Viviane sometimes thought.

  But gradually, as the days passed and there was no sign of his mother returning, David appeared to grow more accustomed to the fact. He asked her every day when his maman would return but by the end of September he sobbed only on waking and at bedtimes.

  One day, he stood rapt as Alain tinkered with his motorbike, pointing out bits of the machinery and demanding to know their names. He even helped mop up surplus oil around the engine and as reward Alain took him for a ride on the bike, seating him in front of him with one arm wrapped around his chest to keep him secure. David was delighted and could not control his laughter and his joy.

  When they returned, he seemed a different boy, almost, following Alain around the house and asking when they go could out on the bike again.

  Viviane felt overwhelming relief. ‘Maybe he’ll settle now,’ she said. ‘But be careful next time you take him out, Alain. We don’t want him having an accident nor too much attention drawn to him.’

  This was easier said than done. Generally nowadays, people were wary of asking too many questions. But not everybody. Busy-bodies existed in Grasse as much as any town but those who relished gossip were now in their element and thrived.

  Much of the talk was about those women who managed to persuade the shopkeepers to sell them the best food. Bribery was the most common explanation for this, although a few hinted that more than money paid for the purchases. Working men might grow suspicious of any work-colleagues who had more cash for wine or cigarettes. Older men would look suspiciously at younger men and ponder why they weren’t prisoners of war, or dead from the battles of 1940.

  But most venomous were the whispers and innuendo about young women whose husbands were prisoner-of-war or dead. They received a pension from the government, it was true, but this was pitifully small. Most had to try to find employment, something difficult for those with young children. A few, like Sylvie Duchamp, earned their money in more scandalous ways. The gossip concerning this had become so wearing that a few women grew brazen about their activities although most were ashamed and kept it secret.

  On the other hand, there was less resentment of Alain than there had ever been. He had often been sneered at because his mother was Roma and he had fought many a playground battle with boys who taunted him by calling him Gypsy or told him that he would grow up to become a thief.

  When he began his market business he got a reputation as a sharp operator, which was true, and a cheat,
which was not. But since the start of the war, the skills which had been so derided were now admired. Alain could lay his hands on things which other traders could not and he was applauded for it. Many a vehicle was kept going on the engine parts which Alain produced from his stores, many a shopkeeper was able to sell black market wine, cigarettes, food and clothes because of his contacts. Even the police turned a blind eye to his activities, and not entirely because Capitaine Boyer was Viviane’s brother-in-law. Alain showered every policeman with gifts and inducements and they suffered a collective short-sightedness because of it.

  ‘Greasing palms seals even the biggest mouths,’ he told his friend Gerard on more than one occasion.

  Perhaps it was because of this, or because most people preferred to live and let live, but Viviane found her fears of gossip about David unfounded for the most part.

  This was not true in her own family, however. Her mother and sister could not look at David except maliciously and never spoke to him. It was her mother’s friends who cast the most baleful glances at her when Viviane walked took the children anywhere. And it was Odette’s few friends who were keen to ask who David was and where he came from. The foreign boy was the epithet which they used most often to describe him. Foreign to Grasse, some might charitably imagine they meant. Foreign in other ways, was a more accurate interpretation of their words.

  Some went even further than tittle-tattle on the streets.

  Roland Boyer called to his wife when he arrived home one evening.

  ‘I’m making your omelette,’ she called. ‘It will be ready in a minute.’

  He grunted and sat at the table.

  ‘Jeanne Greuze came to see me today,’ he said when she appeared.

  Odette could sense his anger and decided on a strategy of appeasement combined with threat. She threw the plate on the table.

  ‘What’s it to me?’ she asked, her tone challenging. She pushed the bottle of wine to him but did not pour it.

  ‘She wants to know about the boy who is staying with Viviane,’ Boyer said. ‘Or more accurately, she demands to know all about him.’