“I remember that,” Gabriela said. “When people used to walk like that.”
Hoekman snorted and said something in German. She understood without needing a translation. What, people in Paris don’t take walks anymore?
Christine looked over Roger’s shoulder. “Ah, that’s good.”
Her face looked younger at that angle. It was the expression she wore when Gabriela and Christine wandered the flea markets. Christine liked to look at the art. Once, they found what appeared to be a genuine Corot. Who had been desperate enough to sell such a beautiful thing to filthy, uncaring men?
Roger was no Camille Corot, god no. But there was a spark of native genius in those drawings. Roger flipped to the next. Too soon; Gabriela wasn’t done studying the child’s face.
“Enough.” Hoekman waved his hand. “It is deviant art.”
“Oh, come on. It’s good, admit it,” Ostermann said.
“It is deviant.” The colonel turned to the third man, asked a question in German.
Von Cratz shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything about art. Or deviants for that matter.”
“Go on, then,” Monsieur Leblanc told his son. He sounded relieved. “You’re done here, and I need those mushrooms.”
Roger slipped the drawings into his portfolio. “Yeah, what kind of mushrooms?” He leaned over and insolently tapped the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray at the Germans’ table.
“One hundred grams of pieds de mouton.”
“Oh, is that all?” Roger asked sarcastically. “You sure you don’t want some white truffles? I hear you can get them in Vichy, if you’re friends with Marshall Petain and willing to sell the family jewels.”
Leblanc darted a look at the Germans. Hoekman had produced a notebook and was jotting something. He didn’t seem to have heard. Or maybe he had and he was now writing it down.
“Don’t be smart with me. Look, if Pierre doesn’t have them, get something. Use your judgment. Not the girolles. The last ones were terrible. Now make it quick, the sub-prefect will be here with his wife in twenty minutes, and you know what he always orders.”
Roger stood for a long second, then shuffled off. Leblanc gave his apologies and disappeared into the back room. The three men started arguing in German—probably about whether all zazous were sodomites, or just most of them—until Gabriela said, “Oh, leave that alone. He’s just a pretentious boy. Besides, everyone knows where to find the best art in France.”
“Where is that, mademoiselle?” Major Ostermann asked.
“Why, Berlin, of course.”
At last she coaxed a smile from Colonel Hoekman. He put his hand beneath the tablecloth and rested it on her knee. Gabriela gave him a raised eyebrow, put her hand over his as if she were going to push it away in shock, but then slid his hand higher, onto her thigh. She giggled.
And suppressed a shudder. Horror, hatred, anticipation. What would her father say, whoring herself to fascists? No, she knew what he’d say.
Hija, you never abandon someone you love.
Papá had shown her just how far to go. When he was in hiding and they arrested Mother, he’d made a bargain to turn himself over in order to free her. After six months in jail, and many tearful letters from family members, he was freed. But he didn’t stop there. Papá voluntarily crossed back into Nationalist territory to search for a brother and an aunt in Sevilla. And then, tried to bribe Gaby’s way out of France while he prepared to face the Gestapo.
And now it was Gabriela’s turn. She wouldn’t abandon him. Nearly two and a half years, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter if it had been twenty.
She waited a few minutes until the other two Germans were chatting about something, then leaned over and whispered in Hoekman’s ear. “This place is so boring. Want to get out of here?”
“What?”
“Let’s go somewhere else, maybe your place.”
“Go where? I don’t understand.”
His poor French was infuriating. She spoke slowly, as simply and directly as she could. “Can we go to your house?”
“What? Ah, oh, I understand.” He glanced at the door, then back at Gabriela. His hand was clammy on her thigh. And, she swore, growing clammier. It made her whole leg feel slimy, as if someone had emptied a jar of live escargots on her thigh and they were now oozing toward her crotch. “Yes, we go. We go now.”
Hoekman rose to his feet, gave a curt dismissal to the other two men, put on his hat with the eagle, the swastika, and the silver skull. He snapped his fingers at Gabriela as if she were a dog. She rose obediently to her feet.
Major Ostermann took a sip of wine and turned to the businessman with a wry smile as Hoekman and Gabriela made to go. “I told you, Helmut. French girls go crazy for a man in uniform. Throw on a few ribbons and bits of silver and they go quite wet between the legs.”
She had to do this.
Gabriela smiled at the two men still sitting. “Au revoir, messieurs. Thank you for the delightful conversation.”
She took Hoekman’s arm and started toward the cloakroom.
But the front door burst open before they’d taken three steps. A young man in a gray uniform with the same lightning-like SS marks on his collar as the colonel strode up to Hoekman and snapped a salute. “Heil Hitler!” A stream of excited German gushed from his mouth.
Hoekman jerked free from Gabriela’s grasp, turned to Ostermann and von Cratz and said something in a triumphant voice.
All at once, the conversation in the restaurant died and attention turned to their table. A note faltered on the trumpeter’s lips with a sound like a strangled goose. Monsieur Leblanc poked his head from the kitchen with a frown. Hoekman shot him a look and he froze in place.
Two more men jostled through the door. They dragged a young man between them who protested in rapid-fire French, mixed with a handful of German words. “Papá! I am innocent.”
It was Roger Leblanc.
Chapter Three:
Gabriela picked out a single word from the otherwise unintelligible babble of German passing between Colonel Hoekman and his young aide.
“Maquis.”
Colonel Hoekman asked a sharp question. The young officer addressing him sounded eager. Again, that word: maquis.
The word meant undergrowth, the kind of brush you could cut out and would grow back the next spring. After the debacle, it had been used to describe the young men hiding from the Germans in the hills. Bandits, really. The milice—French paramilitary—had been created to hunt down and either arrest or kill the maquis. Only now the undergrowth had spread to Paris. A murdered German officer, a car bomb targeting a Vichy official, a truckload of stolen mortar shells. And that was just the past week in the 4th Arrondissment.
The table of milice looked just as surprised as everyone else as Colonel Hoekman barked orders to the men who’d dragged in Roger. One snapped his heels and broke for the entrance at a run. Hoekman took his gloves from his pocket and twisted them between his hands as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. It was quiet enough to hear his boot leather creak.
Gabriela returned to her seat at the table, terrified. “What did Roger do?” she whispered to Major Ostermann.
Ostermann shook his head, expression stern. Helmut, the German businessman, looked at the bit of meat on the end of his fork for a long moment and then set it down uneaten. Leblanc burst out of the kitchen.
He rubbed his hands together. “A problem, Monsieur?” he asked Hoekman. When Hoekman didn’t answer, Leblanc turned to Ostermann with a tone like a whimpering dog. “Your friend, can you ask him if there’s a problem? My son is a good boy, I’m sure that whatever—”
“Quiet, man,” Ostermann snapped. “This is Gestapo business.” Ostermann put his hand on Gabriela’s arm. “Don’t you worry. You’re in no danger, my love.”
“Roger, what is this about?” his father asked. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. I’m innocent, I swear.”
/> Roger rose to his feet, tried to pull free. He crashed into the other table of German officers. They snarled at him and one man shoved him away. Roger fell toward the raised dais where the band still poised with instruments in hand and the three musicians shrank back as if he were poisonous.
Roger’s eyes bulged and he looked from side to side, as if trying to spot an escape. He briefly met Gabriela’s gaze with a pleading expression. The Gestapo officers got control of him again and threw him down. One man held him down with a boot on his back.
The young officer returned holding a bag. Hoekman grabbed it. He looked inside, then down at the young man who cringed at his feet. He tossed the bag to the ground. It spilled its contents onto the floor.
Major Ostermann rose to his feet and made to retrieve the bag. “What is this? Contraband?” he asked in French, with shrug. “It is just mushrooms.”
Hoekman turned with a hard look and said something in German.
“Ja, Polizeiführer.” Ostermann sat down hastily.
Hoekman said something else to Ostermann, who turned to Leblanc, “This is your son?”
“You know he’s my son. You were just looking at his drawings.”
“I’m translating for the colonel, you fool. Answer the question.”
“In that case, yes, of course. But he’s not guilty of any crimes. The mushrooms are just—”
“This is not mushrooms!” Hoekman snarled in his heavily accented French. He said something again in German.
“This is not about mushrooms,” Ostermann translated. “Your son is a bandit. He works for the maquis.” A pause, more German from the colonel and Ostermann continued. “We caught him stealing petrol from the staff car.”
“No, not Roger. He is a good boy.”
“We caught him with the siphon in his mouth. He reeks of it.”
Gabriela could smell it now, even from where she sat. It was splashed all over Roger’s coat, as if they’d come upon him just as he was about to suck the petrol up the hose and then let it drain into a can. Perhaps they’d surprised him and he’d spilled it all over himself.
Colonel Hoekman had been waiting and watching. It explained why he’d appeared at Le Coq Rouge just a few days earlier. He was on the lookout for something in the quartier, and had found it. But a maquis? Probably Roger was just a petty thief. Leblanc might have even known what his son was up to, although surely he’d have never authorized theft from the staff car of a Gestapo officer.
“And now,” Ostermann continued with Hoekman’s translation. He licked his lips. “You will tell us about your cohorts before we kill you.”
The two younger officers dragged Roger to his feet. To Gabriela’s surprise, the young man seemed to regain his composure. He stood, pale, but very still. Not groveling.
The Wehrmacht officers from the other table had left their places and gathered around, either to help or out of curiosity. The French milice, too, rose to their feet, menacing in their black shirts.
“Tell us now,” Ostermann translated.
Gabriela sat frozen. She had seen this show before. She knew how it ended. She knew the casual brutality that Hoekman could employ. And she could see Leblanc, his arms trembling. A vein pulsed at his temple. He was ready to do something terrible to protect his son. She could read that expression. He would say something, do something rash. Father and son would be hauled away to a dark, dripping, poorly lit place.
She shook off her fear. “Major, the patron will make it good. I’m sure of it. The boy could be punished here. Someone can fetch the police. Monsieur Leblanc will pay the damages. Tell the colonel, please.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Leblanc said. “Anything to put the situation right. Major Ostermann, please, I beg you.”
“Quiet,” Ostermann said. “It is too late for the boy, there is nothing to be done.”
To her surprise, the German businessman spoke up. Helmut von Cratz cleared his throat and said something softly in German. He reached for his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Reichsmarks. He peeled off several bills, which he attempted to hand over to the Colonel.
Hoekman looked at the money with a disgusted expression.“Nein.”
An argument ensued between the two men. Helmut didn’t back down as quickly as Ostermann. Colonel Hoekman grew more and more angry. At last, Helmut put the money away and looked down again at his empty plate.
“I didn’t steal anything,” Roger said. He sounded so sincere, so outraged, that Gabriela forgot for a moment that he was actually covered in petrol.
“You stole it,” Ostermann translated, “and you are a faggot.”
“I am what? I am not!”
It wasn’t just the Germans who thought so. More than once she’d heard Leblanc telling his son how pretty Christine was, or saying, “That Virginie has nice legs, no?” Pleading with him to show interest in a woman. But the boy seemed to care only for his art and for slouching around with his zazous friends, not all of whom were homosexuals, but surely some were. And stealing petrol from the boches, apparently.
Gabriela remembered Roger’s half-finished drawing. The couple, arm-in-arm, gazing adoringly at each other. The look of innocence on the boy’s face as he played with the dog. The world passed them by and they didn’t notice it.
Roger would never draw again. Petty theft was one thing, but if the Gestapo carried off a Jew or a homosexual or a communist, he’d never be seen again.
She rose to her feet without thinking about it. Before anyone could stop her, she was at Roger’s side. She threw her arms around his neck. “Please don’t take him. I was afraid to say anything, but we’re going to get married, and I’m having his baby.”
“No, my love,” Roger said. He gazed at her with such a look of adoration that for a second she forgot he was acting. It was such a brilliant act, in fact, that it only reaffirmed his guilt in her eyes. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a misunderstanding, you’ll see.”
“You see,” Leblanc said. “He is not a homosexual. They can hardly keep their hands off each other.”
Colonel Hoekman spoke again, and Ostermann translated. “Take the faggot away.”
Monsieur Leblanc tore free of the German holding his arm. The grip, Gabriela saw, was a feeble one. Surely they’d have known the man was a threat.
He charged at the colonel with a bellow of rage and frustration.
Never once had she seen the patron lose his temper. Yesterday, the flour delivery cart couldn’t get to the restaurant because a German soldier couldn’t be bothered to snuff out his cigarette and move his truck, which blocked the alley. The baker had fumed, but Leblanc merely sighed and urged patience. He must have sighed endlessly over the last few years. You didn’t serve Germans for very long without learning that practiced sigh.
The calm demeanor was gone now and he looked ready to tear off the colonel’s head with his bare hands. Whatever privations France had suffered, Leblanc had been well-fed at his restaurant. He was a big man, getting older, but there was obvious strength in his chest, shoulders, and arms.
Colonel Hoekman rested lightly on the balls of his feet. Gabriela noticed, then, that he held his Mauser pistol in hand. The two soldiers who’d dragged Roger inside held submachine guns, gripped at the ready, but they did not appear particularly alarmed at Leblanc’s charge. Merely alert.
The colonel had deliberately given his orders through Ostermann, had them translated into French so Leblanc could hear. To provoke.
Hoekman lifted his pistol as Leblanc reached him. He smashed the butt across Leblanc’s forehead and the man went down with a groan. He tried to get up, but Major Ostermann rose again and held him down with a booted foot. The other Germans surrounded them.
Colonel Hoekman removed a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his uniform and tapped out a filtered cigarette. He lit it and gave a satisfied puff. He watched the men drag Roger through the door. Leblanc gave up and sank back to the carpet with a groan, Ostermann’s boot still resting on his back.
Hoekman grabbed Gabriela’s arm. “You. Come with me.”
She had a little knife in her purse. There might be a few seconds yet, as he got her to the car. She was a woman and they wouldn’t think she was a threat. She’d never find her father, but she could take her revenge. One moment to finish it all; that’s all she needed. And then whatever they did to her wouldn’t matter.
Ostermann said something in German to the officer. Another brief argument, but this time the SS colonel backed down. He released Gabriela’s arm with a violent jerk, then turned and strode for the door. In a moment, the SS officer and his men had all left the restaurant.
Christine and Virginie came from the kitchen and helped Monsieur Leblanc to his feet. They guided him to the back, whispering soothing words. Blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. He clutched his temples and moaned. The musicians started up again. The others returned to their tables.
“Come, sit down,” Ostermann urged Gabriela. He took her arm and returned her to her seat. “Here, eat something, drink something. I can tell you’re hungry. Leblanc is in the kitchen, he is preoccupied.” He dished some of his venison onto her plate. “The colonel is gone. I took care of him, I told him you had nothing to do with this. You can relax.”
She couldn’t help herself. She was so hungry that she forgot everything for a moment as she ate the food offered. The venison was good, god was it good. And the gravy. Had she ever tasted anything so rich?
Ostermann smiled. “You see, I can be generous.”
“But Roger. . .my boyfriend.”
“Oh, please, he’s not your boyfriend. He is a faggot. The colonel was right about that much. I don’t know why you were protecting him. Loyalty for Leblanc perhaps. Never mind, it is over now. Nothing more to be done.”
“He may be a homosexual,” Helmut spoke up, “but it’s not hopeless, not yet. Neither the boy nor his father helped matters any with that outburst, but something might still be done.”
“Come on, Helmut,” Ostermann said. “Don’t give the girl hopes. She’s already naïve enough. The boy is maquis and he is a faggot. And now the Gestapo has him. It is hopeless.” He didn’t sound particularly upset about it. Ostermann turned to Gabriela. “What this little French flower needs is a friend, don’t you, my love?”
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