by Martin Lake
Then she saw a movement behind the bushes. Her heart hammered in terror. It must be the Gestapo, she thought. Who else would be in the gardens at so early an hour? They had come to spy on her, or worse.
She stepped slowly towards the figure, trying her best to keep silent. She had to see if it was the Gestapo, risky though it was.
Then she stopped and sighed. It was the colonel. Her heart began to quieten.
He was sitting on a tree stump, gazing at the mountains to the north. He was clutching a book although it was not open.
She made to move away, wishing not to disturb him, but she stepped on a twig and he spun around at the noise. He struggled to his feet the moment he saw her.
‘Please, Colonel,’ she said. ‘There is no need for you to get up. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘You did not disturb me, Madame Renaud. I was in a dream but not a very engrossing one.’ He paused a moment, his mind working. ‘Please join me. Reality is so much better than dreams.’
She meant to refuse him but thought it impolite and risky to do so. She came over and gave him a little curtsy. He chuckled at it and shook his head slightly.
‘You are on your own?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I wanted some fresh air after being cooped up in the house.’
‘Me too. And I wanted some peace.’
Silence dropped between them.
‘You like the mountains?’ she said, after a while.
‘Very much. I was brought up in Leipzig and I liked to hike in the mountains to the south. Would you care to walk, Madame? It’s still quite chilly.’
She meant to refuse but thought it would look impolite. He picked up his walking stick and led the way towards the more level ground further from the house.
‘What are you reading?’ she asked.
‘This? It is called Melancholie, by Ernst Keil. He was one of my ancestors. But he is better known for the magazine which he owned, Die Gartenlaube. Have you heard of it? For many years it was the most popular magazine in the world.’
She shook her head.
‘It means Gazebo in French,’ he continued. His voice sounded proud. ‘The title was, let us say, camouflage. He intended the magazine to spread liberal and democratic ideas in the German states but he hid such notions by producing the magazine like an encyclopaedia, with articles designed to educate the readers. But he carefully chose the articles to espouse his views.’
‘And what were they?’
‘Democracy, liberalism, kindness. It must have worked because the Prussians banned it until Bismarck rescinded the ban. Perhaps Bismarck’s support explains why Ernst was an advocate for a united Germany.’
He gave her a swift, sidelong glance, worried in case he was boring her. On the contrary, she appeared to be listening with the greatest interest.
‘In the beginning,’ he continued, ‘under Ernst’s leadership, the magazine was very sympathetic to the Jews. After he lost control it became anti-Semitic. Now it is owned by the Nazi party. It no longer has many readers, I’m glad to say.’
She inhaled sharply. This man was full of contradictions. All her life she had thought of Germans as the enemy. The people who had wounded her father in the first war, ruined his life. Yet Weiser, despite being a German officer, did not seem the sort of savage brute she imagined he would be. And he was certainly not like a Nazi. She shuddered. Not like that Gestapo officer. Not even like Gerard.
In fact, the colonel showed nothing but scrupulous correctness towards her. More like English gentlemen in films, in fact. She glanced at him. How old is he? she wondered.
He stopped suddenly and turned to her. She was embarrassed to see that his eyes were wet. ‘I’m so sorry about what is happening to you, Madame Renaud. About how my compatriots treat Jews. Sometimes, I am ashamed to be German.’
‘Then I think your ancestor would be proud of you,’ she said, touching the book.
He smiled. ‘Well I am certainly suffering from melancholy.’ He avoided looking at her. If one thing was combating his misery it was whenever he caught sight of her.
‘I hate this war,’ he continued. ‘I wish it were over.’
‘We all do. Do you think that France will be treated more generously when Germany wins?’
He looked at her in surprise.
‘You think we will win the war?’
She nodded. ‘That is what we hear all the time. Britain has been bombed to rubble and even the Americans are planning to capitulate.’
He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Herr Goebbels would be pleased to hear that his propaganda is so effective.’
‘But isn’t that the case?’ She felt confused; hopeful and yet distrustful.
Dorothy was convinced that the Americans would defeat the Germans but that was understandable, of course. Nobody else believed it. The Resistance might fight and die but theirs was a hopeless cause.
The image of Alain came to her mind but she pushed it away. She had convinced herself that he was in Nice with Gabriel Chiappe, not fighting some futile battle as part of the Maquis.
Weiser gave her a thoughtful look. ‘You really do believe Germany will win?’ he repeated.
She nodded.
He sighed. ‘Well I have my doubts. I have been on the Russian Front, Madame Renaud. The communists will never surrender. They have fought us to a standstill and now they are pushing us back. And look at North Africa. Even Rommel has been defeated there.’
‘But that’s only deserts.’
‘Good men can die in deserts. Tanks and guns and supplies can be lost.’
He bent his head and a sudden shudder went through him. ‘We have destroyed the world.’
Without realising she was doing it, she reached out and touched his hand. Without realising he was doing it, he took hers in his.
They stood like this for a long time.
Silent.
Lost.
Found.
CONFRONTATION
Villa Laurel, 26 February 1944
Viviane put the casserole into the oven and began to make some coffee. She called it a casserole but that was a stretch as it contained nothing but vegetables and those mostly small and of poor quality. With so many men sent to work in Germany there were fewer crops being grown. Recently even the Germans seemed to be having difficulty procuring sufficient food.
Christmas felt a long way behind them. Spring was hovering on the horizon but seemed reluctant to pluck up the courage to arrive.
She frowned. February was the shortest month but always seemed to her to be the longest. And this year was a leap-year so would be longer still.
Sylvie had joked that she might take the opportunity to propose to her latest lover, a jovial, rotund German Major. Viviane had been furious at her for saying this, reminding her that she was still married. She blushed at the memory of her vehemence.
‘Don’t kid yourself that I’m the only one to think this,’ Sylvie had said, blowing her a kiss.
Her words often came back to her.
She finished making the coffee and took a cup into the study.
‘Thank you, Viviane,’ Dorothy said. ‘Just what I need.’ She pointed to a small pile of paper beside the typewriter. ‘Look, I’m getting on really well. And a lot of it is due to you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought my writing days were behind me but since you and the children arrived, I’ve felt inspired again. Not dark subjects like I used to write. I’m working on a frothy comedy for someone like Cary Grant. Something to make the world laugh again.’
Marie poked her head into the room.
‘Viviane, will it be alright if I take the children for a walk? They’re sick of being indoors.’
‘Where will you take them?’ Viviane asked in alarm.
‘Down to the woods. Not far. Pierre says there are herons nesting by the pond.’
Viviane hesitated for a moment but then agreed. The children had to live as normal a life as possible. They called goodby
e from the hall, so keen to go they could not spare the time to come to kiss her. She heard their excited cries as they ran outside.
‘How is Colonel Weiser this morning?’ Dorothy asked.
‘I have no idea,’ Viviane answered. ‘Why would I?’
Dorothy picked up her coffee. ‘I thought you might have taken him a cup.’
‘I asked Marie to take him one before I brought yours,’ she answered. ‘After all, she is the maid.’ She made for the door.
Dorothy smiled to herself. One could find amusement in even the darkest of days, she thought. And people should. She rolled another sheet of paper in the machine and began to type.
Viviane was putting the finishing touches to an apple tart when she caught a glimpse of Marie racing up the path to the house. She was calling at the top of her voice.
Viviane dropped the tart on the floor and ran to the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ she cried. ‘Is one of the children hurt?’
It was only then that she realised that Marie was carrying Celeste who was sobbing silently to herself.
‘What’s happened?’ Viviane said, shaking Marie by the arm. She reached out to Marie’s face. It was red with blood and her clothes were torn.
‘They took, David,’ she gasped. ‘I tried to stop them but I couldn’t.’
Celeste climbed into Viviane’s arms. ‘Horrible men,’ she said. ‘And Uncle Gerard.’
Viviane looked at Marie.
‘Yes, the fat young man. Your friend. He was one of the men.’
Viviane’s free arm waved as if she were a swimmer trying to keep her feet in a rip tide. She heard a wail come from her mouth, a long, deep animal cry of distress.
The French window to the study crashed open and Dorothy raced across to them. ‘David?’ she gasped.
‘Some men took them,’ Marie said. She began to cry. ‘I tried to fight them off, Dorothy, but there were three of them. That bastard was in charge.’
‘Which bastard?’
‘The one who tried to rape Viviane.’
Dorothy took both Marie’s hands. ‘It’s alright, darling,’ she said, ‘everything will be fine.’ Yet even as she said this, she knew it would not be.
‘Did the men say where they were taking him?’ she demanded.
Marie shook her head. ‘But the man who attacked you had a gun.’
Viviane staggered against Dorothy at these words.
‘Think, Viviane,’ Dorothy said harshly. ‘Where would he have taken David?’
‘I don’t know,’ Viviane said. ‘Maybe his house.’
‘Do you know where that is?’
Viviane nodded.
Dorothy turned to Marie. ‘Take Celeste into the house and give her some milk. And tell Pierre to get the car.’
She squeezed Viviane’s arm. ‘Don’t worry honey, we’ll find him.’
Viviane did not answer. She was remembering Schorn’s threat to shoot David.
They followed Marie back into the house. Dorothy just remembered to grab their coats from the stand. They might spend hours trying to find the boy.
All Viviane could think was that she had not kissed David goodbye.
Pierre skidded the car to the door and leaped out. ‘They’ve taken David?’ he cried. His face was screwed up with anxiety.
‘We’re gonna get him back,’ Dorothy said.
Viviane was in a daze but felt Dorothy shove her towards the vehicle. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mundt running towards her.
‘Madame Pine,’ he called. ‘Is there some problem.’
‘Yes, Major,’ she said. ‘Some men from the militia have kidnapped David.’
Mundt looked shocked. ‘Where have they taken him?’
‘That’s what we’re gonna find out.’
She hustled Viviane into the back of the car and threw herself next to her.
‘Wait here a moment,’ Mundt said to Pierre. Then he turned, yelled to one of the soldiers and raced into the house.
A moment later he returned with Colonel Weiser who yanked open the door and leaned in towards the two women.
‘Do you have any idea where he may have taken David?’
‘We guess maybe his house,’ Dorothy said.
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘Viviane does.’
Weiser glanced at Viviane to see if she was in any state to direct them. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘We will follow.’
His staff car screeched around the house and came to a shuddering halt. The driver leapt out and held open the door. Weiser waved to Pierre to lead the way.
If she had been more conscious Viviane would have been alarmed at the way Pierre threw the car round the twists and turns of the road. Dorothy was holding on to the armrest for grim life. Weiser’s car clung to them like a limpet, though, and they both reached Gerard’s house safely.
Viviane seemed to have recovered her wits now and leapt out from the car before it had even stopped. She hammered on the door, yelling at the top of her voice for Gerard. The door was opened a few minutes later by an elderly woman.
‘Madame Pithou,’ Viviane gasped. ‘Have you seen Gerard?’
‘He’s gone to work.’ A look of fear came to her face. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘I hope he is,’ Viviane said bitterly.
‘What do you mean? Has he done something wrong?’ She threw her arms in the air. ‘I pleaded with him not to join those horrible people.’
‘He’s taken my child,’ Vivian cried. ‘Stolen my little boy.’
Madame Pithou looked shocked. ‘The Jew boy?’ she mouthed.
Viviane stared at her speechless.
The old lady took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Perhaps the Gestapo.’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘The Gestapo,’ Viviane cried, racing back to the car.
Mundt blocked her path. ‘Madame Pine must not be seen by the Gestapo,’ he said. ‘Nor you. Colonel Weiser and I shall go alone.’
‘I’m going,’ Viviane said.
‘No, Madame Renaud —’
But his words came too late. She was already climbing into the back of the car.
They reached the police station five minutes later. Weiser grabbed hold of Viviane and bent close to her face.
‘It is right that you come with us, Viviane for you are the boy’s carer. But let me do the talking.’
Viviane’s face screwed up but she nodded in agreement.
He undid the strap on his holster. ‘Come, Otto,’ he said.
A clerk rose to try to bar their way but one glance made him think better of it and he sat down again.
‘Where is your commanding officer?’ Weiser demanded.
The man pointed to a corridor behind him.
Weiser hurried off, pushing himself fast despite the pain in his leg. He waited a moment for the others to arrive and then nodded. Mundt kicked the door savagely and it flew open.
Schorn was standing behind his desk, berating Gerard. His face was filled with contempt.
Gerard was red-faced with embarrassment.
David was nowhere to be seen.
‘Now look what your stupidity has led to?’ Schorn said to Gerard.
He wiped the scowl from his face and turned to Weiser. ‘Can I help you, Colonel?’ he asked.
‘I’m sure you can. This Frenchman has just kidnapped a child. I have come to fetch him back.’
‘A full Colonel acting like a baby-sitter?’ Schorn said. ‘Wonders never cease.’
‘The boy…’ Weiser said.
Schorn took his seat and stared at them all. ‘The boy is a Jew, Colonel Weiser. As I believe you know. The Milice have taken him into custody.’ Here he gave Gerard a withering glance. ‘For some reason they brought him here to be dealt with.’
‘Dealt with?’ Viviane said in horror.
Schorn smiled. ‘I could say that he will be taken to an orphanage, in order to make you feel better. Or I could say that he will be taken to a work camp and re
united with his real mother. But this is war, Madame, and we have no time for such niceties.’
He pulled out a cigarette. ‘You’d be surprised, I’m sure, but some of my assistants are actually recruits from the criminal class. Poachers turned gamekeepers, if you like. Burglars, ruffians, murderers. They will have no scruples about dealing with the boy.’
He lit the cigarette but then froze. Weiser’s pistol was pointing at his face.
‘I’m not going to allow you a final cigarette, Schorn,’ he said. ‘If you don’t produce the boy, you’re a dead man.’
‘You can’t threaten me,’ Schorn said.
‘I assumed that an educated man like you would know the difference between a threat and a promise.’ He cocked the hammer of his gun. ‘Now telephone for someone to bring the boy.’
Schorn’s hand shook as he reached for the phone. He snapped an order into it and slammed it down. His eyes returned to the gun which pointed unwavering at his face.
‘You won’t get away with this, Weiser,’ he said. ‘I have jurisdiction in the matter of the Final Solution.’
‘But not if you are in your grave, Herr Schorn. And here’s my promise. You will be.’
‘I’ve broken better men than you.’
‘And I’ve killed far better than you.’
The room fell silent. The only sounds were the ticking of a clock and Schorn’s laboured breathing.
The door opened and Viviane cried out in joy. She scooped David into her arms.
Mundt stepped forward and leaned over Schorn’s desk. ‘It was so kind of you to take care of the boy,’ he said. ‘You haven’t completely forgotten the role of the police.’
‘My only role is to act in the interests of the Reich,’ Schorn snapped. ‘And that includes ridding the world of Jews.’
Mundt punched him in the face. He was thrown from his chair and crashed against the wall. He groaned and tried to get to his knees but was unable to.
‘My friend can sometimes be a little too direct,’ Weiser said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll forgive him. For if you’d remained in your chair I would have shot you.’
He turned and led the way out of the office and to the car.
THANKS
Villa Laurel, 26 February 1944
