by Martin Lake
He forced his legs to move more swiftly, hoping that the persistent beating of his feet upon the ground would knock any unwanted imaginings from his mind. It must have worked for he suddenly found himself outside her door.
He stood, unmoving for several minutes. Now that he was here, he realised something chilling; he had no idea why he had come. Was it to warn his best friend of the peril he faced? Or was it to arrest him and bear him in triumph to the Gestapo chief?
He leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the window. How will Viviane react, he wondered. And how will I respond to her?
Still not knowing what he was going to do, he knocked upon the door. It did not open. He knocked again, slightly louder. No one answered. He stepped to the window and peered in. He could see no sign of anyone inside. He frowned. It was still early and a cold and bleak morning; surely they would not have left the house already?
He went back to the door and hammered on it even harder, then pressed his ear to the woodwork. Nothing. Taking a deep breath, he pushed on the handle. It moved and the door opened.
He hesitated for the briefest moment. But he was Alain’s best friend and no one would be surprised that he had gone in uninvited. No one would criticise him for it.
He stepped inside. He had a momentary attack of panic. Perhaps they had heard about the new Nazi law and killed themselves. But no, of course they wouldn’t do that.
He went from the living room into the kitchen and then out into the little backyard. He returned to the house and stood at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Alain,’ he called quietly. ‘Viviane.’
But no answer came. He glanced behind him, almost as if he feared someone was in the room with him. Then he began to climb the stairs.
He peered into the children’s room. The beds were made but something looked different. He could not think what it was for a moment. And then he realised that Celeste’s customary Teddy Bear was not on the bed. The one he had given her on her third birthday.
He stepped towards Alain and Viviane’s bedroom. He hesitated outside for a long while. He had been inside time without count in his imagination. Now, today, when he had the opportunity and the motive for entering, he found the deed almost impossible.
But finally, taking a deep breath, he entered. The bed was made, there was potpourri in a bowl, there were pictures of the children on a little table to the left of the bed, a book on a smaller table to the right.
His eyes scanned the room. The cupboard doors were open as was every drawer in a small chest. They were empty of all clothes. His heart quailed for a moment. The Nazis had been already. They had taken his friends to their deaths.
One item only lay on the floor, almost hidden in the shadows beside the bed. He bent down and picked it up. It was one of Viviane’s handkerchiefs. He put it to his nose and imagined he could smell her scent, imagined he could breathe it in.
Perhaps they’ve escaped, he thought, desperately. Perhaps they’ve had warning and fled in time.
He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and trudged down the stairs.
He wondered how Schorn would feel if they had escaped. He would find out that they were his friends and it would look bad for him. He took a deep breath. He would have to name many more people to outweigh such a disastrous failing. Many more Jews, defectives, Gypsies and undesirables. He closed his eyes. It might prove a terrible burden.
A VISITOR
Villa Laurel,1 December 1943
Alain had been gone for sixteen days. Every morning Viviane woke and counted the days. Every morning, Celeste climbed into Viviane’s bed and asked when he would return. She was used to him going away but she sensed that this visit to London seemed altogether more long-term.
‘I can’t say,’ Viviane said. ‘But he’ll be back soon, I promise.’
Viviane dressed and went downstairs. Marie had placed a baguette in the bread-basket. It was yesterday’s bread reheated, still warm from the oven. She got butter from the larder, hardly enough to scrape on the bread, and a small pot of preserve. Dorothy’s hitherto large reserves of food were dwindling.
She boiled some water and made coffee while Marie took a plate into the morning room where Dorothy liked to eat breakfast alone. Viviane and the children ate with Marie in the kitchen.
It was all that Viviane could do to even talk with the children. Every hour since he had left, she would suddenly stop what she was doing and think about Alain. Where had he gone? Had he travelled to Nice to join Gabriel or had he trekked overland to join one of the Resistance groups in the mountains? Whichever he had done, she knew his life would be in danger. But less danger than if he had stayed here, she tried to console herself.
The Germans had been ruthless in capturing any Gypsies or part-Gypsies in the south of France. Camps had been attacked, men murdered, women raped and beaten. The SS and Gestapo systematically criss-crossed the countryside in search of Gypsies and Jews as well as any others they deemed undesirable.
Yes, Alain’s escape might mean he’d be safe.
She took a deep breath. She was grateful that Dorothy had taken her in. She and the children were safer here than in Grasse. No one, apart from Roland, knew they were here.
And then a knock came on the door.
Marie looked up in surprise. ‘Who could want Madame Pine at this hour?’ she said.
‘Perhaps it’s not Dorothy they want,’ Viviane said. Her mind began to race with fears. That it might be someone with awful news about Alain, a policeman demanding that she return to her home or a member of the Gestapo come to arrest them all.
Marie patted her gently on the arm and went to see who it was.
She returned a moment later. ‘It’s someone for you, Viviane,’ she said.
Viviane glanced at the back door, wondering if she could grab the children and make it into the trees before she was seen.
‘It’s alright,’ Marie continued. ‘She said she’s a friend of yours. Sylvie Duchamp. And she has a little girl with her.’
‘Monique,’ yelled Celeste, racing for the door. Viviane was powerless to stop her but ran after her, fearing that it may be a trap.
But Sylvie and Monique were alone at the door, shivering in the cold.
‘I’ve found you at last,’ Sylvie said. ‘Can we come in? It’s freezing out here.’
Viviane gestured them to go to the kitchen. Marie put some water on to heat. ‘Would you like coffee?’ she asked.
‘Yes please,’ Sylvie said, sinking into a chair. ‘It’s a longer walk than I thought.’
‘Why are you here?’ Viviane said. ‘And how did you know I’d be here.’
‘I didn’t know for sure. I thought that you and Alain had fled the area, gone to Menton where he was born, perhaps.
‘But then I remembered that you’d got friendly with some American woman. It took a bit of hunting but I finally found out where she lived.’
‘Who did you ask?’ Viviane said, her voice cracking with alarm. ‘Nobody must know we’re here.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I asked Isabelle Blois at Café Terminus. I said I wanted to ask Dorothy about how much I could charge American boys when they invade.’ She glanced at the children and blushed. Marie raised an eyebrow but did not comment.
‘So nothing changes,’ Viviane said. But she squeezed Sylvie’s hand in delight.
Marie gave them coffee then went out to resume her duties. They could hear the sound of a gramophone playing Gershwin from the Morning Room. Dorothy would be lying on the chaise longue, no doubt, dreaming of better places than here.
‘There is a change, to be honest,’ Sylvie said.
Viviane raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘See how well Monique looks now,’ Sylvie began. ‘And me as well. Better food, better clothes.’
‘You’ve got married?’ Viviane’s eyes opened wide in delight.
‘If only. No, but I’ve got the next best thing. A boyfriend. One who’s very generous.’
So
mething in her tone made Viviane feel a prickle of unease.
‘Do I know him?’
Sylvie shook her head and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ‘He’s a German officer.’ Her voice was deliberately matter of fact.
‘What?’ Viviane looked horrified.
‘I had to do it,’ Sylvie said. ‘Honestly, Viv I had to. The Government stopped paying Louis’s salary six months ago and my regulars were running out of money for my services. It was that or starve.’
‘But the Germans!’
‘Not the whole bloody army.’
Viviane and Sylvie stared at each for a moment and then both burst into gales of laughter.
When they had calmed down, Viviane reached out and held her hand. ‘But isn’t it risky, Sylvie? Sleeping with the enemy?’
‘Not as risky as starving to death. And let’s face it, plenty of people down here are happy to be friends with the Bosch. There’s more than one way to get into bed with them. Restaurant owners giving them the best tables, wine-growers selling them the best vintages, people eager to fawn and scrape around them. Believe me, there are more rats than we cats playing with the Germans.’
‘I don’t care about all the others. I care about you.’
‘And I care about you,’ Sylvie said swiftly. She picked her words with care. ‘I heard that Alain had disappeared. After the Germans had cracked down on…you know.’
‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ Viviane said.
‘I’m glad to hear it. And if you do know, I hope you’d never tell a soul, not even me.’
‘I don’t, Sylvie, I really don’t. I wish I did.’
Sylvie pulled Viviane’s hand to her lips and kissed it lightly. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. Alain’s always survived setbacks with a smile on his face. And usually a coin in his hand.’
‘Until now,’ Viviane said bleakly.
‘Now and always,’ Sylvie said emphatically.
The door opened and Dorothy walked in. ‘You must be Viviane’s friend,’ she said.
Sylvie nodded and offered her a cigarette.
‘I don’t,’ Dorothy said. ‘Not unless it’s Marijuana.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s heaven in a roll of paper. Or maybe hell.’ She paused. ‘Every bit as much as sex.’
Sylvie blushed. ‘How did you know? About me and the Germans?’
‘I didn’t know about that,’ Dorothy said. ‘But I saw how well you look and realised that you were being looked after by someone very powerful. And nowadays, that means a Kraut.’
‘I had no choice,’ Sylvie said, sulkily.
‘I’m not judging, darling. We all must do what we can to survive. I suspect some folk think I did the same with my little Italian soldier. But the most he got from me was a kiss goodnight.’
‘That wouldn’t put food on the plate,’ Sylvie said.
‘No. I’m luckier than most, I guess. When it comes to the readies.’
Dorothy sat down and stared at Sylvie. ‘So why are you here, sweetheart? Should we be worried by your presence?’
‘If you think I’m going to betray Viviane, you must be mad.’
‘I didn’t think that at all. Not until you mentioned it, at any rate.’ She leaned back in the chair. ‘I was thinking more that you might have worrying news.’
‘Oh, yes I have.’ Sylvie’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘The Germans are winning the war. We’re a conquered people and will be for the rest of our lives. Is that news enough for you?’
Dorothy patted her on the hand. ‘The only people who are conquered are those who think they are. Somehow, I don’t think any of us are included in that category.’
She got up and made for the door but then paused. ‘Stay for lunch, why don’t you. It will be nice company for Viviane.’ She didn’t wait for an answer but left the room, shutting the door behind her.
‘Dorothy’s been very kind to me,’ Viviane said, annoyed at Sylvie’s tone.
‘I’m sorry, Viv. It’s just that I didn’t care for her suspicious attitude.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘I came here for two reasons. One was to see if you were alright. The other was…well.’
She passed a roll of notes to Viviane. Hundreds of francs.
‘You can’t do this,’ Viviane cried.
‘I can, and I am. Friends have to stick together, Viv. Now more than ever.’
WEISER AT VILLA LAUREL
Grasse, 2 December 1943
Oberst Weiser was in a hurry. He had been at Police Headquarters, in conference with Schorn and the other Gestapo operatives. It had not been a successful meeting.
Schorn had been friendly, almost unctuous, but his subordinates had been demanding and insulting. They appeared to believe that the only rationale for the war was the annihilation of the Jews and that the army was there solely to see it done. Weiser had finally lost his patience, cursed them and stormed out.
‘That was not altogether wise,’ Otto Mundt said as they drove off.
Weiser scoffed at his words. ‘If you think that Nazi rats like that are going to worry me, then think again.’
‘Nevertheless, Ernst, the Gestapo are a power to be reckoned with.’
‘Do you think they can control the Army?’ Weiser said.
Mundt did not answer for a moment. ‘Adolf Hitler controls the Army. And who on earth would credit that?’
Weiser scowled. He thought of how General Blaskowitz had been treated by Hitler and his accomplices. Awarded an Iron Cross for heroism in the First World War, Blaskowitz had been instrumental in Germany’s conquest of Poland. But while Commander-in-Chief in Poland he fell foul of the SS because he made an official complaint about their treatment of Jews and Poles. Because of this, his later assignments were continually blocked and his career had stalled. Now, he was in command of a second-rate army in a third-rate theatre of war.
Mundt was right. The Army was no longer in control of its destiny.
The meeting with the Gestapo had left Weiser feeling unclean and he wanted a bath and some dinner. He leaned over to the driver and told him to speed up.
The soldier put his foot down hard. The wind in the open-top car helped make Weiser feel better and he sat back in his seat with a sigh of relief. But the driver was driving too fast for the winding road and struggled to turn into a sudden curve. He managed to round the bend, only just, then saw to his horror a farm-cart straddling the road in front of him.
He never had a chance. The car collided with the cart and spun off the road, smashing through rocks and bushes on the steep incline to the side. It came to a halt fifty yards below the road.
The driver had been thrown through the windscreen and lay against a boulder with his neck broken. Mundt had been thrown clear but Weiser was still in the car, his foot caught under the seat. Smoke began to pour out of the engine.
Mundt yelled in alarm and clambered to his feet. There was an excruciating pain in his leg and arm and he felt dizzy but despite this he staggered over to the car and clawed the door open. Weiser was barely conscious so Mundt hooked his hands under his arms and dragged him from the vehicle, ignoring his friend’s agonised groans.
He was only just in time. He managed to drag Weiser ten feet away when the car burst into flames. He examined his friend. His leg was broken in two places, the bones sticking through his trouser legs. Blood was everywhere. He threw off his uniform, tore his shirt into strips and tied a tourniquet around Weiser’s thigh. The pain in his own leg was making him feel faint and he glanced up at the road to see soldiers from the escort racing down towards them. Then he fainted.
He woke in the middle of the night. He was in a bed with his arm in a sling and a bandage on his leg. He glanced to his left and saw Weiser in the next bed. He was not moving and for a moment he thought his friend was dead. But then Weiser turned and gave him a grin.
‘Awake at last, Otto,’ he said.
Mundt shook his head in confusion. ‘The last thing I remember was dragging you out of the car.’
Mundt whistled. ‘What have I done to myself?’
‘Pulled some ligaments in your leg, wrenched your shoulder and given yourself mild concussion. The doctors say you landed on your head. The hardest part of you.’ He chuckled, quietly.
‘And you, Ernst?’
‘My leg is fractured in two places. The doctors have set it but say I’ll limp for the rest of my days.’
‘A home-going wound?’
Weiser shrugged. ‘I doubt it. In any case, I’m not allowed to travel for a while. It seems I’m stuck here for some time.’
Mundt nodded. ‘And the driver?’
‘Dead. Fractured neck. I suppose it saved him from a court martial. Apparently, he was a substitute driver, not very experienced at all.’
Mundt nodded. He thought it wise not to say that the soldier had driven so fast because he was following Weiser’s orders.
A doctor approached their bed.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked. He was French and his tone was decidedly cool.
‘I’ve felt better,’ Mundt said. ‘Where the hell are we?’
‘In the civic hospital,’ the doctor replied. ‘One of your officers had the good sense to rush you here rather than leave you at the mercy of your own orderlies. You would have survived if you’d gone there, Major but your colonel would probably have died.’ He gave a chill smile. ‘May I congratulate you on your tourniquet. It staunched the blood and saved his life.’
Mundt shrugged. ‘He owes me money. I need him to live so I can collect it.’
The Frenchman made no response to this jest.
‘What happens now?’ Weiser asked.
The doctor’s eyes narrowed. ‘My diagnosis hasn’t altered since last I told you, Colonel. You must stay here overnight and then rest for a month at least. No travel, no great exertion, no walking unless with crutches.’
‘Can I work?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘If you must.’
‘And Major Mundt?’
‘He has concussion and should stay here overnight. Then he can return with you to barracks.’
