by Martin Lake
She scowled at him, surprised at his quick and pointed response.
‘My husband —’ she began.
‘Is under the authority of Kriminaldirektor Schorn as am I. You would both do well to remember this.’
She gave him a venomous look and held the door open wider. Schorn was not a man to be antagonised. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
He took a seat at the table although she had not invited him to. Then he took out a pencil and notebook crammed with notes.
Despite herself, Odette was curious to see what was in the book. She took a seat beside him. He moved it away a little, as if they were children taking a test and he feared she was trying to copy his answers.
‘What’s in your book, Gerard?’ she asked. ‘Love poems to my sister?’
He looked horrified at her words, his face blushing a deep red.
Odette laughed. ‘I know you, Gerard Pithou and I know my sister. You’re pathetic and transparent. You’ve itched for her ever since you first clapped eyes on her. Don’t try to deny it. And she probably encouraged you.’
‘She did not,’ he said, angry at her insult to Viviane.
Odette chuckled quietly, pleased she had hit her target so deeply.
‘So what do you want, Romeo?’
‘I want to know where…’ he stopped himself in time. ‘I want to know where Alain Renaud is.’
‘And why would I know that?’
‘He’s your brother-in-law.’
She shrugged.
He licked the tip of his pencil and made a note, ostentatiously.
‘Your scrawls don’t frighten me,’ she said, leaning back in her chair as if to prove her lack of interest in what he wrote.
‘Even if you don’t know where Alain is,’ he said, ‘what about Viviane? You must know that.’
He glanced up as he said it and saw the blank look in her face.
‘You don’t know that either,’ he said, in surprise.
‘I don’t. And I care even less.’ She ran her fingers across her lips. ‘I suspect they’ve run into the hills. Or gone to Marseille to join Alain’s criminal friends. You’d know more about them than I do.’
Gerard did not respond. Despite his pleas, Alain had never taken him to see his contacts in Marseille. He was not going to admit this to Odette, though.
‘I doubt that Viviane would have taken the children to anywhere as dangerous as that,’ he said.
Odette laughed. ‘You’re a bigger fool than you look. The most dangerous place for her and the brat is here.’
‘Brat? You mean Celeste?’
‘No, you idiot. The boy.’
Gerard looked confused.
‘So you don’t know,’ Odette said, her face triumphant. She made a scissors movement with her fingers.
Gerard shook his head. ‘What does that mean?’
Odette grinned. ‘The boy’s been circumcised. I’ve seen it myself. He’s a Jew. Surely you didn’t believe the story she made up about him?’
Gerard snapped his notebook shut. ‘Thank you, Madame, you’ve been most helpful.’ He marched out of the house with Odette’s laughter following him.
OVERTURES
Villa Laurel, 5 December 1943
Weiser spent his first few days at the villa working from his bedroom although he could do very little, falling asleep almost as soon as he tried to read anything. He grew weary of the effort and spent long hours gazing out of the window at the mountains in the distance.
His leg pained him and he was extremely tired. This was partly from the trauma of his accident and the operation to put his bones back together. But it was also because of the Gestapo.
The first letter he had received after he was installed at the villa was from Kriminaldirektor Schorn. It pointedly informed him that his convalescence should in no way interfere with the army’s hunt for Jews and Gypsies. Weiser had railed and raged at the effrontery of the man. Even Mundt could not calm him.
‘Perhaps we should get rid of the bastard,’ Weiser said, finally.
‘An excellent idea, Ernst,’ Mundt said. ‘As long as you don’t get caught.’
Weiser did not answer. It was, of course, unthinkable that a German officer would murder a fellow German.
And he knew that the death of any senior German official, whether military or Gestapo, was inevitably blamed on the French and led to horrific reprisals on the local population.
He marvelled at his thoughts. Was he really thinking of murdering a colleague? And was he stopped only out of concern for enemy civilians? He shook his head. Morphine did peculiar things to the mind, it seemed.
A few days later he felt strong enough to leave his room. He curtly told his orderly exactly where he could put the wheelchair he brought for him and told him to find some crutches instead. He cursed that a mere road accident had led to this situation.
He was in a foul mood by the time the orderly returned with the crutches. He put them under his arms and started off. But it was far more difficult than he imagined. Swinging his whole body after the crutches was unnerving and the movement caused him pain in his leg. But he persevered, ignoring the orderly’s anxious gaze.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable with the wheelchair, Oberst,’ the man ventured at last.
Weiser shot him an angry glance and told him to fetch Mundt. He fled the room, gratefully.
‘Ah, you must be Long John Silver,’ Mundt said, when he arrived.
‘Don’t be so disrespectful,’ Weiser snapped.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Mundt said although he did not appear the least bit so.
‘Walk with me,’ Weiser said. ‘I want a report on everything.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Are we still winning the war?’
Mundt lowered his voice. ‘It’s all according to how you define war. For example, I heard a report that eighty of our soldiers were executed by guerrillas in Greece so we slaughtered a thousand civilians in retaliation. If that is winning the war then, yes, we’re doing really well.’
Weiser looked shocked, remembering his earlier thoughts about murdering Schorn. ‘Was it the SS who killed the civilians?’
Mundt shook his head. ‘A regular army division. They destroyed a whole village, smaller settlements and churches. And captured a thousand sheep and goats.’ He did not bother to hide the contempt in his voice.
This war is driving us mad, Weiser thought. For a moment he wished he had been killed in the car crash. But then he remembered his wife and family and recalled what he was really fighting for.
‘Any other news?’ he asked.
‘Berlin has been bombed by the RAF. Naturally, there was no damage whatsoever. Except to the British planes, of course.’ He spoke in a sceptical tone.
Weiser stared at his friend. ‘Careful Otto,’ he murmured. ‘As you said to me a few days ago, walls have ears.’
He had no sooner said this than he realised that someone was indeed close by and may well have overheard all that they had been discussing.’
‘You girl,’ he said, ‘come here.’
The girl came over. ‘You want some more glasses, Colonel? For your schnapps?’
Weiser stared at her, astonished at the trace of impudence in her tone. She did not flinch from his gaze.
‘Did you hear what we were saying?’ he asked.
‘No, Colonel. And even if I had, I cannot understand German.’
Weiser grunted.
‘You are one of Madame Pine’s servants?’ Mundt demanded.
‘Her cook.’
‘So why aren’t you in the kitchen?’
‘I came to call my children in from the garden. It’s time for their lunch.’
Weiser felt his heart ache. He missed his family dreadfully, especially now that Christmas was near.
‘How old are your children?’ he asked.
‘Eight and five.’
‘A delightful age.’
‘They’re a handful. I shall make sure they keep out of the way of both of you. Is there anything e
lse?’
Weiser did not reply but Mundt shook his head.
She turned to go.
‘One thing,’ Weiser said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Madame Viviane Renaud.’
‘And where is your husband?’
‘I’m not sure. He disappeared some while ago.’ She paused. ‘It’s not the first time.’
Weiser nodded. These Frenchmen were ruled by their loins. Little more than beasts in the barnyard. He was sure of one thing. If he were this woman’s husband, he would never leave her to go in search of other women.
‘You may go,’ he said.
‘So you don’t want any glasses?’ Viviane said.
Weiser shook his head and she hurried off.
‘A bit of a vixen,’ Mundt said appreciatively.
Weiser did not answer which was answer enough of itself.
Viviane pounded the meat to soften it; pounded harder than she actually needed to.
‘Something wrong?’ Marie asked as she entered the kitchen.
‘It’s those Germans. They make my flesh creep.’
Marie shrugged. ‘Some of them are pleasant enough, though. I quite like the Major.’
‘Mundt?’
‘Yes. He’s always friendly.’
‘He’s got his eye on you, Marie. That’s the only reason.’
Marie glanced at her reflection in the glass door in a cupboard. She had never exactly had many admirers. Only a couple of boys had been in any way serious and Mathieu, the one who she liked most, was in the Vichy army in the Indo-China. He might be dead now, for all she knew. And nowadays, she rarely gave him or any man a passing thought.
‘And Colonel Weiser is very polite,’ she continued, suddenly keen to change the focus of the conversation. ‘I feel rather sorry for him, actually. With his broken leg.’
‘I don’t,’ Viviane snapped. ‘It’s a pity it was only his leg that was broken.’ She flung the meat into an oven dish. ‘I just wish they’d leave.’
Marie nodded sympathetically. ‘Do you think they have any idea? About David?’
‘No. They’re too stupid or too busy making plans to conquer the world.’ She closed her eyes. How she missed Alain and his calm, good sense.
She placed the meat in the oven. One good thing about the German presence in the villa was that food was now plentiful. Most of it was eaten by the Germans themselves, of course. With the two officers and men to guard the villa, there were a dozen gaping mouths to feed. But there was enough left over for Viviane to augment Dorothy’s dwindling supply.
The food for the soldiers had been cooked by her at first but Dorothy had told Weiser that this led to long delays. So an army cook had been brought over from the barracks. He was a clumsy, clueless man, who tried to monopolise the kitchen so much that Viviane complained to Dorothy.
Dorothy didn’t bother to talk to Weiser about it but marched straight into the kitchen. The image of the cook cowering before her wrath was one of the few happy memories Viviane had. Now he worked in a corner of the kitchen, avoiding her as much as possible. All he seemed capable of cooking were stews.
‘Do you want help with the vegetables?’ Marie asked.
‘If you’d like to stay and talk that would be good,’ Viviane said.
The two young women had grown close over the last month and they stood together at the counter, peeling and chopping the vegetables. They worked for the most part in companionable silence. They both found there was little to talk about, less and less with each passing day. So many topics seemed not out of bounds. Talk of friends, love, the children, the war seemed too fraught with pain. Even gossip about the townspeople felt dangerous, nowadays. And talk of the future was too full of anguish to even contemplate.
The door was flung open and Dorothy walked in. She marched over to where the huge stew-pot was bubbling on the range. The German cook flinched under her gaze. She signalled to him to lift the lid and he obeyed with alacrity. Viviane and Marie watched all this with amusement.
‘It smells disgusting,’ she murmured.
She looked the cook in the eye. ‘Your Colonel and Major have been complaining about your food,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided that you’re no longer to cook for them. My cook will prepare their food. Savvy?’
The German didn’t understand a word but he nodded eagerly, desperate for her to leave him alone.
She nodded and approached Viviane and Marie. ‘Is that alright with you ladies?’ she asked.
‘If you say so,’ Viviane said. ‘But I’m not sure I understand why.’
‘It will please them and put them in my favour,’ Dorothy explained. ‘Give me a little leverage over the bastards.’
‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ Marie said. She glanced at Dorothy and blushed a little, sorry that she had said it.
‘I doubt either of them have much heart left,’ Dorothy said. She sighed. ‘And not because they’re Germans. Because they have to fight this wretched war.’
She gave a huge sigh but then shook herself. ‘What are you cooking, Viv?’
‘Roast lamb and vegetables.’
‘Enough for the Krauts?’
‘I could add more vegetables.’
‘Then do that. I’ll go and tell the Colonel.’
It was the first good meal that Weiser and Mundt had eaten since leaving Dijon. Dorothy had decided that they would eat with her, to try to build a relationship. They seemed very pleased. They must crave female company, she realised.
They conversed in French, chiefly about films, which she discovered was something of a passion of Mundt’s. Weiser was more interested in literature. Dorothy decided to keep the fact that she had been a scriptwriter to herself for a little longer. She always found that book-lovers were fascinated by the idea of writing for films, often because they thought it was a bastard craft rather than an art. She had the feeling that Weiser would think the same.
‘Your chef is very good,’ Weiser said, as he put down his knife and fork. ‘Where did she train?’
‘At her mother’s side, I imagine. She’s French. All French women cook well.’
Mundt smiled at Weiser. That was not the only reputation that French women had. Weiser studiously ignored his glance.
‘She tells me that her husband has disappeared,’ he said.
Dorothy grew tense. What had he heard?
‘She told me it was not the first time,’ he continued.
‘I guess so,’ Dorothy said cautiously, unsure why Viviane would have said such a thing. Perhaps she feared the Colonel would suspect Alain was in the Resistance. She nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve heard the same, to be honest.’
‘I assume he is a philanderer,’ Weiser said.
‘I couldn’t say. More vegetables, Colonel?’ She heaped some carrots on his plate.
‘The children are very well behaved,’ Weiser continued.
Dorothy swallowed hard. This conversation was getting too perilous. She suddenly regretted her decision to dine with them.
Weiser felt inside his tunic and passed her a photograph. ‘These are my children. And their mother. My wife.’
Dorothy looked at the picture. Her fears began to ease.
‘You have a lovely family, Colonel.’
‘Thank you.’ He bobbed his head.
‘And you Major Mundt?’ she asked. ‘Do you have family?’
‘Alas not. My fiancée was…’ he paused. ‘My parents did not think my fiancée was suitable.’
Weiser stared at him in surprise. He had not realised that his friend had been engaged.
‘That’s sad,’ Dorothy said, after a few moments of silence. ‘I wish my mother had thought the same about my husband.’
Mundt smiled but both of his companions could see that it was a forced one.
‘I think there’s dessert,’ Dorothy said. ‘I’ll go and check.’ She left the room, closing the door behind her.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Mundt said, avoiding Weiser�
�s glance.
‘I wasn’t going to ask,’ his friend replied. ‘It’s your business, not mine.’
FOUND HER
Villa Laurel, 8 December 1943
Gerard got off his bicycle and propped it against the wall of Villa Laurel. It had taken painstaking work but one of Viviane’s neighbours had let slip that she was friends with an Englishwoman. There were no Englishwomen in the area, of course. But he had soon found out that there was an American.
He rang on the doorbell and a maid answered. He was a little overawed by the fact of anyone having a servant but he rose to his full height and made his voice stern.
‘Is your mistress in?’
‘Madame Pine? She’s taken the children for a walk.’
‘Children?’
Marie regretted what she’d said. ‘What’s it to do with you anyway?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘I’m a member of the Milice,’ he said. He could not hide the smirk on his face. ‘If I ask a question, you must answer.’
Marie swallowed, hard. She did not like the idea of the Milice at all, and even less the fact that she was talking to a member of it. She felt sure she might give away something she shouldn’t.
‘Their mother’s here,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should talk to her.’
‘And what is her name?’
‘Viviane Renaud.’
Gerard gave a shrug as if he were barely interested in speaking to her. But his heart turned somersaults.
‘Wipe your feet,’ Marie said as she let him enter.
He paused as he was about to step inside, imagining that he had caught a glimpse of a man in uniform going into a room. But he shook the notion away and followed Marie into the house.
‘Viviane,’ Marie said, as they reached the kitchen. ‘There’s a visitor.’
Viviane turned and gasped in surprise. ‘Gerard. What are you doing here?’
‘I might ask the same about you,’ he said.
He gave Marie a pointed look. She took the hint and left.
‘I work here,’ Viviane said. ‘I’m Madame Pine’s cook.’
‘I didn’t know you were a cook.’
‘It appears I am.’ She was curious about why he was here, a little suspicious even.
Gerard pointed to a chair at the table and she nodded. She went over to the oven to check that the pan of vegetables was simmering slowly and then sat down opposite him.
