by Martin Lake
From that moment, everything had become clear to him. She was whoring herself to the German officer. This was the reason she had remained at the villa so long. This was why she and the children appeared relaxed and well-fed.
This explained why she had rejected his advances so forcefully.
He had mulled over all of this in the long, bitter days ever since.
Fleetingly, a part of him understood why she had done this. Then he had berated himself for not offering his help and protection to her before.
Most of his thoughts, however, were far angrier. How could she do such a thing? Why hadn’t she come to him? How on earth could she prefer a German to a true-born Frenchman, a man who had loved her all his life?
Alain’s voice intruded on his thoughts. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ he said.
Gerard forced a sorrowful look upon his face and began to speak.
Alain listened to his tale stone-faced. Stone-faced and silent.
A growing contempt for his friend curled around Gerard’s heart. This was all Alain’s fault. Viviane would never have been forced to whore herself if he hadn’t deserted her. He had left her alone and afraid, and she must have thought she had nobody else to turn to except the German. Alain had driven her to it and had only himself to blame. He was not a fit husband, never had been.
If only I’d married her, he thought. I should have married her. It should have been me.
‘We need to rescue her,’ Alain said, the moment Gerard had finished speaking. ‘Need to get her away from that German’s clutches.’
Gerard looked astonished. ‘You want her back? After what she’s done?’
Alain nodded. ‘She would have had no choice, Gerard. She must have thought I was dead. Or perhaps the man forced himself on her or even threatened the children.’ He pressed his fingers to his forehead as if seeking to keep the thoughts from spilling out. ‘It hurts, I can tell you. But I understand why she did it. And I must get her back.’
Gerard swallowed his dismay. He had been scheming all day about how he might win over Viviane. He had been certain that Alain was gone for good, almost certainly killed. He thought there would be no impediment to his dreams from that direction.
Then, when the German got tired of her, he would be waiting. A senior member of the Milice, ready to offer his support and devotion. She might not be keen at first. That was understandable, to some extent. But she would not, could not, turn down him for ever. Not when he had risen even further in the Milice. He would be a powerful man. A great man. She would no longer be able to resist him. When the war was over, they would be happy together. Man and wife. Lovers.
But now all these dreams began to unravel. Alain had returned and he was willing to take Viviane back. Desperate to, in fact.
Perhaps he even doubts my words, he thought, doesn’t believe that she has prostituted herself to the German.
For a moment, Gerard realised that this might be the case, that he had no proof that Viviane had done what he had spent days and nights fearfully imagining.
He dismissed the idea as soon as it had arisen. She had to be whoring herself, she must be, there was no other explanation possible.
Alain turned to him with a searching look, almost as if he had read his mind. ‘Do you even know this for certain, Gerard?’
Gerard shuffled in his seat, trying to work out an answer.
‘How could you know?’ Alain continued before Gerard had time to answer. ‘How could you know that she has slept with this man. Did she tell you?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Even if she was forced to do so, I can’t imagine she would tell you. That she would admit to doing such a thing.’
‘It wasn’t Viviane who told me.’
‘Then who?’
Gerard licked his lips. ‘A friend.’
He glanced at the clock. ‘We can go and see the man in a couple of hours. Here, have some more wine and I’ll get us something to eat.’
He filled Alain’s glass to the brim and put the bottle on the table besides him. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from. I guess you have need of it.’
Alain mumbled his thanks and swallowed most of the wine. ‘You’re right Gerard. I may need another bottle.’ He gave a weary grin. At least, in Gerard, he still had one true friend.
An hour later, Gerard grabbed his coat and told Alain that they should be on their way.
They were shown into the police waiting room and told to wait. After an hour, Gerard excused himself saying he wanted to go to the toilet. He was a long while and when he returned he did not sit on the bench next to Alain but in a chair opposite. He seemed very edgy, Alain thought.
They had been in the police waiting room for two hours now.
Alain glanced at his watch. It was almost eight. He assumed that Roland Boyer was the friend Gerard had mentioned. Knowing his brother-in-law, it was likely he would be punctual.
He smiled when the door opened precisely on the hour, pleased that his surmise had been correct.
But it was not Roland.
‘Welcome, Monsieur Renaud,’ the man said, advancing to Alain. ‘Your friend, Gerard, has just informed me that you are a senior member of the Resistance. I am Kriminalinspektor Schorn and I have the pleasure of interrogating you.’
He smashed Alain across the face.
Alain yelled when the bucket of icy water was thrown over him. He was naked on a chair and the cold sliced into his body like icicles splitting wood. He had no idea how long he had been in the cell; he had lost count after the third dawn.
The Gestapo man picked up another pail and wafted it in front of him, to his left, to his right, taunting as to where he would throw it. Alain stared at the bucket knowing that the straps that bound him to the chair meant he could not move to avoid the water. But at least he could anticipate the throw and clench his teeth to prevent himself crying out.
The man stepped closer and poured the water on his groin, one slow, steady stream which made him gasp.
‘That’s enough Gort,’ Schorn said. ‘Take a break.’
Schorn lit a cigarette and loomed over Alain, blowing the smoke in his face. ‘Cigarette smoke is fascinating, is it not,’ he said. ‘It is a pleasure when you inhale it yourself, less so when someone else spits it in your face.’
‘I like it,’ Alain says. ‘It costs less than buying my own.’
Schorn stared at him, coldly. ‘You are proud of your sense of humour? Still?’
Alain shrugged.
Schorn smiled and pressed the end of his cigarette into the back of Alain’s hand.
Alain yelled as the heat seared into his flesh.
‘Not quite so amused now, I see,’ Schorn said.
He extinguished the cigarette in Alain’s flesh and pulled up a chair.
‘I ask again,’ he said.
His voice was quiet, his words slow as if he were tired or bored.
‘You are a member of a Resistance group. Where is their camp? Who commands it, who are its members?’
‘I told you, I am not in the Resistance.’
‘Of course you say this, my brave friend. And that buffoon Pithou believed you when you said that you were a member of a criminal gang in Nice. But my colleagues there say they have no record of a Gabriel Chiappe.’
‘Of course they don’t. He won’t be going by that name, now. And besides, he will have bought your colleagues off.’
‘Please, my friend, do not make such vile insinuations. We Germans are not sneaks and liars like you French. We cannot be bought off. And we will not give up our quest for the truth.’
He cocked his head suddenly, struck by an amusing thought. It should prove an amusing diversion.
‘Tell me, Alain,’ he said with a grin. ‘How many Wehrmacht soldiers has your wife slept with? How much do you think she charges for her sexual services?’
Alain shook his head. ‘She doesn’t. She’s not like that.’
‘But you know that she is Colonel Weiser’s whore. At the Americ
an woman’s villa.’
Alain stared at him with contempt. He understood his tricks.
‘I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, Monsieur Schorn.’
Schorn shook his head. ‘No doubt she started the affair for laudable reasons.’ He smiled. ‘But now, I think she must be enjoying it very much.’
He bent down and stared into Alain’s face.
‘She’s a pretty woman, Alain. Can you picture what she gets up to in bed? All those little tricks and techniques she was never willing to allow you.’
Alain rocked against his bonds.
Schorn chuckled gently. ‘How submissive she must be. How willing to do whatever is demanded of her.’ He chuckled. ‘And not just with the colonel. With anybody.’
He sighed, as if beguiled, and grinned at Alain. ‘Anyway, enough of these pleasant thoughts.’
He rose and beckoned to Gort. ‘No more water, for now. But his finger-nails need attention. I am worried that he might scratch himself with them. Remove them please. And then afterwards, use the cosh.’
He closed the door behind him to muffle the agonised screams.
Five days later, Gerard sat in Schorn’s office, twisting nervously in his seat. As usual Schorn had spent the last half hour ignoring him, poring over documents, signing some, amending others, speaking brusquely on the telephone.
Finally he yawned, leaned back in his chair and gave a wide grin.
‘I have a task for you, Pithou,’ he said.
‘Anything,’ Gerard said. ‘Obviously.’ He felt relieved at his return to favour.
‘I’m glad to hear it. Especially as it rather poetically finishes an amusing entertainment.’
He yawned once again. ‘There is a body in one of the cells below. I want you to dispose of it.’
Gerard blinked in confusion.
‘You won’t recognise it for Gort is very heavy-handed. But don’t worry, I can vouch for the identity. Your friend Renaud was a defiant one, I’ll give him that. But sadly, he gave nothing away.’
He frowned. ‘I think that perhaps he had nothing to tell.’
MESSAGES
Grasse, May 1944
Odette Boyer tapped the baguette against the kitchen counter. The bread and the counter seemed equally hard. She cursed bitterly. Her husband’s position had once been well-paid and respected. That had all changed with the arrival of the Germans. He had been thrown out of his office and sent to an annex with his sergeants. And his pay had been cut in half. She could hardly bear to look at him anymore.
He sat at the table, waiting silently for his breakfast. As if he were still a bread-winner of any merit.
She flung the baguette on the table.
‘This is stale,’ he said. ‘It’s like rock.’
‘Then dip it in your coffee,’ she said. ‘Be a man, can’t you?’
She was about to sit down when she saw an envelope sliding beneath the front door. She was surprised. They rarely had letters anymore.
She picked up the letter and held it up to the light. It was addressed to her.
Intrigued, she opened it and began reading. Her face went from surprise to amazement, to joy, to cunning.
She sat down at the table and began to read it over again, managing to keep her emotions in check more this time.
‘Who is it from?’ Roland asked.
She did not answer him, chose instead to read it a third time.
He sighed and dipped some bread in his coffee. He would not give her the satisfaction of asking a second time. He really did not care that much.
‘If you must know,’ she said abruptly, ‘the letter is unsigned.’
He raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued by this information.
‘But it does contain some very interesting information. About my sister.’
He shrugged, as if he was not interested, knowing that this was the best way to get Odette to tell him everything.
‘To be honest, I’m not really surprised,’ she continued. ‘Poor Maman. At least Papa is no longer with us. It would break his heart. Kill him probably.’
Roland did not respond.
Odette placed the letter down on the table as if it were something precious and fragile.
‘This letter says that Viviane is a whore.’ She stared at her husband, triumph in her eyes. She always knew things would come to this.
‘And the letter is unsigned?’ Roland asked.
Odette frowned, wondering what abstruse point he was trying to make.
‘It doesn’t matter whether it’s signed or not. It’s certain to be true. It says that she is living at some villa north of the town. The villa is occupied by a German colonel and she is fornicating with him. Openly, in front of the owner of the house, in front of the servants, in front of Celeste.’ She bowed her head. ‘My poor little niece. To know such things about her mother.’
Roland heard all this in horror. He had kept Viviane’s whereabouts secret from everybody. The fact that the letter-writer knew where she was boded no good. It was accurate about where she was. Did this mean that it was accurate about all the rest?
‘Let me see the letter,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She pulled it to her chest. ‘Going to use your detective powers on it? Discern the personality of the writer from the way he shapes his letters?’
‘Give it to me.’
She passed the letter over, a smirk playing across her face. He had always liked Viviane, rather too much, she sometimes thought. So now let him find out what filth she was getting up to.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said, flinging the letter on the table. ‘It’s just some malicious fool trying to cause trouble.’
‘Sneer if you want to,’ she said, snatching up the letter. ‘I’ll find others who will corroborate it.’
With your slew of harpies, he thought, not troubling to hide the disdain from his face. He got up, put on his hat and left.
Odette hurriedly cleared the table, leaving the dishes unwashed in the sink. Then she put on her coat, pocketed the letter and scurried off to her friend, Jeanne Greuze.
‘Well I must say, I’m not over-surprised,’ Jeanne said after she had read the letter three times over. She placed a hot hand on Odette’s in a show of sympathy.
‘Nor am I,’ Odette said. ‘Thank God Papa is no longer with us. He hated the Germans.’
‘His leg,’ Jeanne said, knowledgeably. She was already considering who amongst their friends she would tell first, preferably before Odette could do so.
‘Do you know of Villa Laurel?’ Odette asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Jeanne said. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking you if I did,’ Odette said, tartly.
‘It’s owned by an American woman,’ Jeanne said. ‘A vaudeville artist, I believe. Yvonne Robinne’s daughter works there, I believe.’
‘Claudette?’
‘The younger one. Marie.’
‘Well she’ll know the truth of it.’
‘Or her mother will.’ Jeanne rose and got their coats.
‘I don’t know anything about such a thing,’ Yvonne Robinne said. ‘And I don’t believe a word of it.’ Her eyes narrowed. She did not care for the two women who had come uninvited to her house.
Odette snorted. ‘You don’t know my sister.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say about your own flesh and blood,’ Yvonne said.
‘But Viviane Renaud is staying at the villa?’ Jeanne asked.
For the briefest moment, Yvonne did not answer. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ she said.
‘Haven’t the slightest idea of what, Maman?’ came a voice from the door.
Marie walked in with a basket over her arm. ‘Madame Pine sent over some cheese,’ she said. ‘She knows how partial you are to Brie.’
Her mother’s eyes flashed a warning at her but Marie did not see it.
‘What a lovely young girl your daughter is,’ Odette said to Yvonne.
‘Yes indeed,’ said Je
anne. ‘It must be a worry for you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Marie asked, mystified.
‘You working at the villa,’ Odette said. ‘With all those Germans.’
Marie swallowed and glanced at her mother, who gave a tiny shake of her head.
‘Oh that,’ Marie said, thinking quickly. ‘There’s only one there now. The colonel. And he’s very old, on his last legs. I doubt if he’ll see the spring. He’s no threat to me.’
‘From what I gather,’ Odette said, ‘he has no interest in you, child.’
‘I don’t think he has much interest in anything except how to make his peace with God.’
‘That’s not what we’ve heard,’ Jeanne said. She glanced at Odette who gave a nod for her to continue.
‘We’ve got it on good authority that Viviane Renaud is sleeping with the Germans.’
Marie’s eyes grew wide with alarm. Perhaps they had heard about her, too.
Odette saw how flustered the girl was and gave a thin smile of triumph.
‘That’s nonsense, madame,’ Marie said. ‘Idle gossip.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘Oh, how I hope you are. For the sake of all the family.’
Marie wasted no time in finding Viviane when she returned to the villa. Viviane listened to her tale with growing alarm.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said when Marie had finished.
‘Do you think it will it be a problem?’ Marie asked, anxiously.
‘I expect so.’ She sighed. ‘My sister has always hated me. She’ll be glorying in this. I guess that half the town will know about it soon.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Marie said. ‘And anyway, if people know that you and your sister don’t get on, they may just think it’s spite on her part.’
Viviane looked a little more hopeful. ‘Do you think so?’
‘I’m sure.’
Viviane hugged her fiercely. ‘You’re such a good friend, Marie.’
‘Well,’ she laughed, ‘in that case, you can make me some coffee.’
Viviane began to prepare the coffee when the doorbell chimed.
Marie put on her apron and hurried off to open it.
It was Gerard Pithou.
‘What do you want?’ Marie snapped. ‘You’re not welcome here.’
