Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  But even as she wept, she wondered who her tears were for. Were they for her father, tears of sorrow at his passing or tears of joy at his release from pain?

  Or were they for her, for now she felt the last link with her family had been completely severed. And, if so, were they tears of sorrow or of release?

  The funeral feast was held at her father’s house. She looked at the food on the table ruefully. Alain may not have been invited to be a pall-bearer but Odette had been insistent with her demands on him to provide as much food as he could.

  He had certainly done that. Although annoyed at the way he had been snubbed, Alain had procured an amazing amount of food and drink. He had spent a fortune in doing so but he had no regrets. Although the guests thanked Marthe, as was appropriate, most realised that it was he and Viviane who had provided and were careful to quietly acknowledge this.

  Viviane was sitting alone near the window when Odette approached. Her face was hard and bitter. ‘I suppose you think you can buy your way into mother’s good books with this gross feast?’ she said.

  Viviane looked shocked. ‘It’s Papa’s funeral,’ she said. ‘You asked us to provide the food. We were happy to do it for him.’

  ‘Happy to flaunt your good fortune,’ Odette snapped. ‘My husband earns a modest salary from upholding the law. Whereas Alain…’ She stared at Viviane, all too aware that both of them knew how the sentence was meant to end.

  Viviane’s temper flared but she managed to keep it in check. ‘If you didn’t want us to contribute then you shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have had to ask,’ Odette said. ‘You should have offered. As it was, I had to plead and cajole.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Maman knows it is. The whole of the family knows it.’

  Viviane clamped her mouth shut. This was not the time for an argument.

  ‘Not that it cost him that much,’ Odette said quietly. ‘Yesterday, when Alain left after delivering the wine, I found that money had gone missing from Maman’s purse.’

  Viviane gasped in astonishment. ‘What are you insinuating?’

  ‘I’m insinuating nothing, just relating facts. When Alain came into the house there was money in Maman’s purse, coins and notes. When he left there were a few coins only.’

  ‘Perhaps Maman gave money to him. For the food.’

  Odette shook her head. ‘Maman was in bed. I was in the kitchen. Alain was alone in the room.’

  ‘He would never do such a thing.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he? Admit it, Viviane, it’s in his blood. Gypsies cannot help but steal and swindle.’

  ‘And bitches like you can’t help but lie and spread falsehoods.’

  Odette looked at her in rage. Her hand flashed out and she raked her fingers across Viviane’s cheek, drawing blood. ‘A mark of shame,’ she snarled as she headed back to their mother.

  ‘I’m never going back to that place,’ Viviane said when they had returned to their house. She dabbed at her cheek with a rag dipped in iodine. It stung but was like nothing to the pain caused by Odette’s behaviour.

  Alain did not answer. He was lost for words.

  ‘People will say it was my fault,’ Viviane continued. ‘That I goaded her when she was vulnerable in her grieving.’

  ‘You don’t know that —’

  ‘I do. For that’s precisely what Odette and Maman will say.’ She began to weep softly.

  ‘Why would someone be so cruel?’ she said. ‘To her own flesh and blood?’

  Alain pursed his lips, thinking it best not to answer.

  ‘How could she?’ Viviane said.

  Alain sighed. ‘You may be sisters,’ he began, ‘but you were never close.’

  ‘But to do this!’ She pointed at her cheek. ‘It’s monstrous.’

  She closed her eyes. She had never much cared for Odette and knew that she felt the same about her. But she was truly shocked at how she had behaved.

  Alain started to speak once more but thought better of it. He feared that Odette’s behaviour might prove to be merely the start of something even more cruel and vicious.

  VIVIANE AT VILLA LAUREL

  Grasse, 21 October 1943

  The trees were beginning to turn red and a golden haze had settled in the skies. October was normally one of Viviane’s favourite months and, in the past, she would often have taken Celeste for long walks in the hills surrounding the town. Now, the month had been tainted by the death of her father.

  She could only watch the skies from the house for she feared going outside with David and dared not leave him alone at home. She would go out shopping when Alain was at home, keeping up appearances and taking Celeste with her. But she kept herself to herself far more than in the past and tried to avoid conversations.

  She kept thinking of her father, and how much she missed him. And then her hand would go to her cheek. The scars from Odette’s nails were beginning to fade but the memory of them was intense and burning.

  Whenever she thought about her family she felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach. And she imagined that they would watch her as she writhed on the floor in agony and laugh.

  ‘Maman,’ yelled Celeste one day from the living room. ‘It’s Auntie Dorothy.’

  Viviane came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. Dorothy was at the window peering in.

  ‘I didn’t want to knock too loud,’ she announced as Viviane opened the door to her. ‘I know what gossipy neighbours can be like.’

  ‘I’m not sure that standing on the street and starring into my window will stop the gossip,’ Viviane said, in a more annoyed tone than she intended.

  ‘Apologies, darling,’ Dorothy said, not at all offended. She swept into the house and threw herself in a chair. ‘I’ve come to ask you a favour.’

  ‘What is it?’ Viviane asked, embarrassed that she had been so curt. ‘I’ll help if I can.’

  ‘Lucile’s mother has fallen ill and she’s had to leave my employ to look after her. I can’t cook a thing; I’ve had people do it for me this past thirty years. Would you take her place?’

  ‘Can’t Marie?’

  Dorothy reddened and shook her head. ‘Marie has neither the skill nor the inclination to cook.’

  Viviane was dumbfounded. ‘I’m not trained. I couldn’t do what Lucile does.’

  ‘I know that, darling. But I’ve eaten what you’ve made, don’t forget. It’s not haute cuisine, I admit, but you simply do wonders with whatever you lay your hands on.’ She gave an outrageous pout. ‘But don’t trouble yourself if it’s too much bother, of course. Not if you’d like to see me starve to death.’

  Viviane laughed aloud. ‘I can’t promise you great wonders.’

  ‘Just an egg or two on a plate would suffice, darling. You know I have simple tastes.’

  Viviane smiled. Simple was not how she would describe Dorothy’s appetites. ‘How often will you want me?’

  ‘Three times a day, of course. I believe that a regular health and dietary regime is of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Breakfast, lunch and dinner?’

  ‘Not breakfast, I couldn’t possibly do with people at breakfast. But lunch and dinner, yes. And possibly morning coffee and afternoon tea. Not every day, though. On occasion you can leave the fixings out for me.’

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘Bring ‘em with you.’

  Viviane stared at Dorothy for a moment. She suspected that her request was not entirely self-centred. The American had a warm heart. If the children were there they would be fed, as Dorothy probably intended, all along.

  ‘I wonder if you can afford me,’ Viviane said with a smile.

  ‘Tosh. I could buy your little house, motorbike and husband and still have change in my purse. Anyway, don’t fret, the wages will be minimal as suits your lack of training. But in addition to this pittance you can dine with me. You and the children. And Alain if he brings you over.’

  The tears s
tarted in Viviane’s eyes and she knelt on the floor in front of Dorothy, taking her hands in hers and kissing them.

  ‘How very Medieval,’ Dorothy said. ‘I bet Doug Fairbanks could have made something of this.’

  Viviane got to her feet, face crimson at what she had just done. She was going to say something, some words of thanks and gratitude, but none seemed large enough. All she could do was stare speechless at her friend.

  Dorothy insisted that she start straight away. ‘All I’ve got,’ she said, ‘is a stone hard piece of bread and some butter which has lingered on the plate so long it’s returning to its milky provenance.’

  ‘Do I need to do any shopping?’

  ‘Nope. Marie has that in hand. Come on, get your things and tell Alain he can come for lunch.’

  Viviane scribbled a note for Alain telling him what had happened. She scanned it briefly when she had written it. She suddenly felt shocked. This was an innocent message but she found that she was scrutinising it for anything which might be incriminating.

  A feeling of alarm swept over her but then she saw how excited Celeste and David were at the thought of playing with Dorothy’s cat, Groucho. She helped David into his coat and followed Dorothy out to her car.

  The roads were empty save for the occasional German military vehicle. David got excited at the sight of them and pressed his nose to the window.

  ‘Let him be,’ Dorothy said, sensing that Viviane was about to tell him to get away from the glass. ‘He needs a little fun and besides, the Krauts will expect a little boy to want to look at them.’

  They drew up at the villa and Groucho ran out to greet them. ‘Well that’s them taken care of,’ Viviane said as the children crouched down and petted him.

  Dorothy led the way into the kitchen where Marie was picking the eyes out of two potatoes.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ she said, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. ‘I was not born to be a cook.’

  ‘Me neither, sweetheart.’ Dorothy said. ‘The only affinity I have with food is to eat it. But Viviane’s gonna cook so you can hang up the apron.’

  Dorothy and Marie showed Viviane where things were. She stifled a grin. They stumbled upon things by accident rather than design and some of the utensils clearly had them completely baffled. Viviane guessed that Lucile hadn’t often let them into the kitchen.

  ‘I think I’ve got it all, now,’ Viviane said, putting away the knife sharpener which Dorothy had hypothesised was a decorative roller for crimping pastry. ‘I’ll check out the food cupboards and prepare some lunch.’

  ‘Four adults including you and me, Marie and Pierre,’ Dorothy said. ‘But best make it five in case Alain comes over. And the two children, of course.’

  Viviane set to with a will. She was careful with Dorothy’s provisions for they were no longer easily replaced. She smiled with pleasure as she worked. It had been a long time since she had been able to put the right ingredients into a meal rather than scraping around for what little was available, suitable or not.

  Within an hour she had produced a mushroom omelette, a carrot and haricot bean salad and an apple tart. Alain arrived as it was being served, almost as if he had smelled it from a distance.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me taking Viviane away from you,’ Dorothy said as she watched him tuck into the meal with gusto.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said happily. ‘Anything to help, Dorothy; you know that.’

  ‘And the children can play here, safely,’ Dorothy said, casually, almost as if it were an afterthought. ‘It will be good for them to fuss the cat and roam around the grounds.’

  ‘I’ll bring what food I can,’ Alain said. ‘Although it’s not getting as easy as it was.’

  ‘Whatever you can manage, dear man.’ Dorothy gave a little sigh. ‘I must admit to missing Emilio Marinelli. Not just for the food but for the company. He was a charming man. I doubt that any of the Krauts will be of similar nature.’

  ‘Not according to my brother-in-law,’ Viviane said. ‘The Gestapo have moved into Police Headquarters. Their chief has helped himself to his office.’

  ‘Is he surprised?’ Dorothy asked. ‘After all they’ve helped themselves to your country.’

  Alain frowned. ‘You’re right. And I can see little end to the nightmare.’

  ‘It will come,’ said Dorothy, soothingly. ‘I feel it in the water.’

  DENUNCIATIONS

  Grasse, November 1943

  Heinrich Schorn lay on the couch in his hotel room, reading avidly. He had taken two rooms in the Auberge Beauville, keeping one as a bedroom with an adjacent one rearranged as a sitting room. The proprietor, Monsieur Favart, had exhibited no qualms about having members of the Gestapo in his hotel. Business was business and he had always turned his gaze from the assorted lovers, prostitutes and criminals who had enjoyed his facilities. He was, and always had been, a double-dealer, as anxious to keep on the good side of the police as to take money from the nefarious. He had grown wealthy as a result, although he was always careful to hide the fact.

  A knock came on the door.

  Schorn put down his book and reached for his revolver. ‘Enter,’ he said.

  Favart was tall with a long face containing searching eyes. A man born to spy, Roland Boyer always said.

  ‘There are two women to see you, Herr Schorn,’ he said.

  Schorn looked perplexed. He was a man of fixed habits. Prostitutes arrived on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Today was Wednesday.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Favart shrugged. ‘They’re wearing hoods to conceal their faces.’

  Schorn frowned. It seemed to him unlikely that anyone would be able to keep their identity secret from Favart unless he chose to allow them to.

  ‘Send them up,’ Schorn said. ‘And don’t disturb us.’

  He sat up and put the book face down on the coffee table. It was a dog-eared copy of The Maltese Falcon. Sam Spade was his hero, the spare, needle prose of Dashiell Hammett a constant delight. He covered the book with a newspaper. It would be unfortunate if these French women were to see him reading a decadent American novel. Besides, he didn’t want anyone to cast their eyes upon his most treasured possession.

  A second knock came upon the door and this time, Schorn rose to answer it. His hand gripped the pistol in his pocket as he opened the door a crack. He could see only two women but he took one step outside to check the corridor before gesturing them to go into the room. He gave another quick look up and down before shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Pull your hoods back,’ he commanded. The women obeyed instantly.

  With their drab clothes and pinched, hungry, watchful faces they looked to be in their forties although he thought they might actually be ten years younger. No pleasure to be had with either of them, he thought. Unless he took them to a ditch on some lonely road where he could screw them without having to look them in the face. Where the sound of their screams and the gun-shots to their heads would be minimised.

  One had olive skin and eyes so dark they were almost black. Her hair was long and untidy, it looked as if she had not washed it in weeks. She might have been attractive in her youth although any charm had long since gone. The other had a pale complexion, blue eyes and blond hair. She might almost have been Aryan. He stared at her for a little longer. Her eyes lacked all warmth and her jaw was set in a manner suggesting anger and truculence.

  ‘Sit, ladies, please,’ he said, indicating the couch. He pulled up a straight-back chair, the better to loom over them. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

  ‘We have names for you, Monsieur,’ said the olive-skinned woman. ‘Black-marketeers, prostitutes, Gypsies, people who secretly support the Resistance.’

  Schorn feigned a look of disinterest. It would never to do to show these people they were of the slightest value to him. But his pulse quickened at what she said. He had very few men and only Buchner had any real flair for detective work. As with most Gestapo officers, nin
e out of ten of his arrests were due to the work of informers.

  The Gestapo had a fearsome reputation but it was in reality, a house of cards. Sam Spade could have done the work of two dozen Gestapo without breaking sweat. It was the informers who allowed them to function, who enabled their success and bolstered their reputation.

  Why people were so keen to inform was an endless source of debate amongst his colleagues. Some argued that it was for monetary reward, others because of fear or to curry favour with their conquerors.

  But Schorn believed that most informers were motivated by one of two reasons. The first was lust for a shred of power. The other was to wreak revenge on someone they hated.

  ‘Names?’ Schorn said, holding out his hand. ‘Let me see.’

  The woman gave him a list written in pencil. It was incredibly neat and easy to read, as if the woman had laboured over it with utmost care. It was headed by the Mayor’s name, which was the norm for such documents. Every planning application the man had refused and every regulation he had promulgated appeared to be reason enough for him to lose his life.

  Most names were dispiritingly familiar to him. Doctors featured heavily, solicitors and dentists even more. School teachers who were still working were occasionally named, those who had retired much more so. Old grudges rankled more strongly than new ones, it seemed.

  Butchers, bakers and grocers featured in the list, as usual, an attempt to get revenge for selling poor produce.

  ‘No Jews?’ he asked.

  The woman leaned over and pointed out a name. ‘I have heard that this man might have a Jewish grandfather.’

  Schorn took a pencil and swiftly drew a star against it.

  ‘Gypsies?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘This is most valuable, Madame,’ he said, giving a warm smile. He folded the paper in two and placed it beside the table. Then he reached inside his pocket. The women tensed, wondering what he was going for, fearing it would be a pistol or a blade.