“You’re gone so long,” Loise continued. “And when you’re back, it’s so very difficult, I know. Maybe if I could see that doctor in Vienna, but he left for the Crimea, they say, with the army. But after the war, maybe the surgery.”
“Of course. We’ll do whatever it takes, pay whatever. Until then, there’s nothing we can do but try to endure the situation as best we can.”
“Yes, endure,” she said.
“Then put this other stuff out of your head. I’m not going to replace you, that’s just worried talk, it has nothing to do with reality.”
“I know you’d never do that,” Loise said. “You’re too good-hearted to ever walk away from your commitments, maybe even when you should. I just want you to know I’m understanding, too. Some women aren’t, but I am. If there were ever an indiscretion or a moment of weakness, well, it wouldn’t really matter, would it? It wouldn’t change anything.”
“That will never happen,” Helmut said firmly.
“But if it did, that would be okay. You wouldn’t even need to tell me about it.”
And with that, they lapsed into silence. A few minutes later and her breath turned heavy and regular, but he couldn’t sleep.
He kept thinking about that day with Marie-Élise in the chateau gardens. Her hair smelled like lavender, her skin was soft. There was a light, warm breeze, and the flowers were a bright smear of colors. The scene colored his memories like a Monet. He ached with regret.
And wasn’t that its own kind of infidelity?
Chapter Thirteen:
The main flaw with employing Gabriela as a spy—apart from her hatred for the man for whom she worked—was her lack of German.
Over the next few days, she caught several glimpses of papers and overheard conversations on Alfonse’s private telephones. Once, a young man in uniform came late at night and told Alfonse something that made him angry. He berated the young man for a good twenty minutes while Gabriela and the maid stayed out of the way.
It was all in German. She caught nothing. Alfonse could have been either plotting the assassination of Marshall Petain or arranging the world’s largest shipment of feather dusters, for all she could decipher.
“What was that all about?” she asked after the maid retreated to her quarters and Alfonse told her to get ready for bed.
“That? Oh, that was nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“He was supposed to get me some bacon. I’m so sick of eating chicken. Apparently, there is none to be had in Paris at the moment. I don’t believe it. There’s plenty of bacon, you just have to keep looking.”
“Oh, is that all?” She didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
And for all his carelessness with his words, Alfonse was careful with his documents. He kept them in envelopes for the most part, and tucked some of them into a safe. Some days Alfonse arrived with a bulging briefcase with paperwork to pour over, which he scattered in a haphazard fashion over his desk, but he always shoveled them back into his briefcase when he finished and locked it. One morning he had a young soldier in the house and spent the day dictating while the other man typed. Soldier, paperwork, and typewriter disappeared that afternoon.
As for money, Alfonse spent liberally, but kept a close eye on his billfold. She managed to pilfer a bit of loose change, but she was afraid that he’d catch her if she went to too much effort to take some money to replace what Colonel Hoekman had stolen. She’d meant to give some of it to the Demarais, but she’d have to find some other way to help the elderly couple.
And nothing more about the simple soldat. He gossiped about this officer or that bureaucrat often enough to ask prying questions, but rarely gave much time to the young men who drove him, typed for him, or delivered telegrams and packages, except to complain when they were late. It was a small piece of information she needed, but she couldn’t seem to pry it out of him. She dreaded going back to Hoekman with nothing.
Six days after her encounter with the colonel, Alfonse announced over breakfast, “Helmut von Cratz is back in Paris.”
“I didn’t know he’d left.”
“Neither did I, until I got word that he was in Berlin. Something urgent, apparently.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Oh, it’s always urgent with the government. Probably nothing. Helmut mentioned you.”
“What did he say?” she asked warily, prepared to fend off any denunciation.
“He wants your help with something, didn’t say what.” Alfonse winked. “I hope it’s not a problem with a certain shipment of German sausage.”
“Well, with no bacon in the house, maybe I’ll order some.”
“Hah. Well, if I thought there were any risk of his seducing you, I wouldn’t let you out of the house. But there’s no risk. Poor man is devoted to his crippled up wife back in Germany. I’ve told him a million times to get a mistress, so long as he doesn’t try to take mine.”
“What happened to his wife?”
“He’s vague on the details, but apparently some sort of growth in the nether regions.” Alfonse let out a visible shudder.
“A growth? Like cancer?”
“How would I know? Apparently it’s not life-threatening, just debilitating. Imagine catching something like that. You know, every day I thank god I’m a man. Disgusting.”
He slathered butter on his toast and took an enormous bite. “You know what would taste good with this toast?”
“You want me to get the marmalade?”
“Bacon. A big, fatty, salty piece, right here. When you’re out with Helmut, keep an eye out, will you? I’ll pay whatever.”
She spotted her opportunity. “How much should I pay? And do you want to give me a little money so I’ll be prepared?”
“Don’t worry about that, they probably wouldn’t sell it to you anyway. Just tell me where you saw it and I’ll send a German. Dammit, you know I drove past a farm yesterday and the farmer had at least half a dozen pigs. He wouldn’t sell me any bacon, said it was impossible. Said the requisitioning officer had already inventoried the meat for slaughter. ’Goddammit,’ I said. ’I am the requisitioning officer.’” Alfonse snorted. “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tell Colonel Hoekman to arrest the bastard.”
“You can’t do that. He was just afraid.”
“He wasn’t afraid, he was a greedy old peasant. Fatter than Goering’s hound dogs. I’m serious, his belly was hanging over his belt like this. And some people claim the French don’t have enough to eat.” He patted her hand. “Come on, Gaby, don’t get alarmed, I’m not serious. I wouldn’t tell Hoekman if his pants were on fire. I’m sure as hell not going to send him after some farmer with too many pigs.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.” Alfonse stood up. “Helmut will be here in an hour. You’d better go get prettied up. Not too prettied up, though.”
#
Alfonse was gone by the time Helmut arrived. The man was smartly dressed in a freshly pressed suit and polished black shoes. He removed his hat and his blonde hair was gelled, combed into perfection. With his sharp features and blue eyes, he looked the epitome of Aryan supremacy. His Nazi masters would be proud.
“You look very nice today mademoiselle. Thank you for agreeing to assist me.”
“You’re welcome, I suppose.”
“Your particular talents will be indispensable.”
She looked at him with irritation. “Are you setting me up for another cruel insult?”
“Not at all. I’m genuinely grateful, as you will see.”
“After the other day, formality sounds like condescension to my ears.”
“I was out of line. Please accept my apology.”
That deflated her. “Oh, well thank you. I let my temper get the better of me.”
“No, you were right to be angry. Come on, the car is ready.”
It was a bright day, with the sunlight melting the frost that glistened on the metal
grating outside the building. Smartly dressed women clicked by and men in uniform or suits hustled to and from private automobiles. Few animals or bicycles. Just a few blocks away, the scene would be entirely different.
Helmut drove his own car, which he’d left running. With gendarmes patrolling on foot, he apparently felt no risk leaving it temptingly at the curb. Gabriela remembered the scramble for Alfonse’s discarded cigarette. It had taken the scavenger just seconds to lose his bicycle. This was a different neighborhood entirely.
“Where are we going, anyway?” she asked as Helmut pulled away from the curb.
“To my office. I have some papers I need you to look at.”
“Me? Whatever for?”
“It’s a translation problem.”
“You don’t need a translator, your French is perfect.”
“Who said anything about French?” They turned off Rue Dupont. The gendarmes, in full collaboration mode, touched their hats as they drove past.
A tickle of doubt. “I don’t understand. How could I possibly translate into German, I don’t speak any of it.”
“You’ve forgotten your native tongue? I find that hard to believe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We didn’t get a very good start the other night, but I want to start over,” Helmut said. “To do that, we need to be honest with each other.”
“Paris is not the sort of place for honesty. You start being honest, the Nazis line you against the wall and shoot you.”
“I’m not a Nazi.”
“You look like a Nazi, you act like a Nazi. You steal for the Nazis.”
“I told you before, I don’t steal anything. I buy and I sell.”
“You forced us to ruin our currency at the exchange rate you set,” she said, “and you force us to sell at the price you agreed would give you maximum profits. That’s just a clever way of stealing.”
They’d crossed over the Seine to the Left Bank and instantly there was a line halfway around the block of people waiting for one thing or another. “Look, a food queue. Do you think those people would agree with my definition of theft or yours?”
He was silent at this for several long seconds. “Who told you all that?”
“I’m not blind, I can see what’s in front of my eyes. Look, there’s another queue, and another one right there.”
“I mean, who told you about the exchange rates and the system of commerce?”
“Because I’m not bright enough to figure it out on my own? I’m just a whore, you mean?”
“You’re not a whore, I know that now.”
“Helmut, what do you want? A quick lay in your apartment? I work on contract, not by the hour.”
“I’m not interested in that.”
“Sure you’re not.”
“Soon as I figure out how, I’m going to prove it to you,” he said.
If it wasn’t sex, then what? If he was working for Colonel Hoekman, it would explain how he seemed to know she wasn’t French. His French was good, but not so good he would have picked up on minor quirks in her pronunciation. Even when the rare Frenchman caught her accent, he usually guessed that she was from Langue d’Oc, where she’d spent some of her childhood, not from a foreign country.
But if Hoekman had sent him, why not just say it?
They were edging their way through the bicycle and cart traffic of the Quartier Latin now and she got a sudden idea. “Okay, if you’re sincere, turn back toward the Sorbonne, then take a left on Rue St. Jaques.”
“Whatever for?”
“You asked, but if you’re not sincere, go ahead and forget it. Let’s get your so-called work out of the way and then you can take me home.”
Helmut nodded. “Fine. Tell me where to go.”
He balked again when she directed him down the actual street in question. “This isn’t safe. Maybe for you, but I’m German.”
“Pull over right here.”
“Gaby. . .”
There were people in the streets, ragged, lean-faced people, and many of them stopped whatever they were doing and stared at the car. But it was daylight. In any event, she was enjoying his discomfort. Let him see what it was like.
“You’ve got a pistol, don’t you? Take it out if you don’t feel safe. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“Okay, but hurry.”
“One other thing. I need some money.”
“Money? Whatever for? You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”
“I just need some money. I’ve got to help some poor people, that’s all.”
“I don’t have any money.”
“You have some money,” she said. “Let’s have it.”
“Some pocket change, that’s all. A couple of coins.”
“I can’t believe it. Well, hand it over.”
“Why?” he asked, his tone belligerent.
“There’s an old couple up there living on dry crusts and rotten potatoes. Even a few coins would help.”
“Who are these people? How do you know them?”
“It’s where I used to live. Yes, here, in this rat hole. You don’t think I’m screwing your friend because I’m bored with my daddy’s mansion in the 7th, do you?”
He looked up to the decrepit, soot-stained building with a frown.
“They’re my former landlords,” she continued, “and it was a blow when I moved out. My pitiful rent was all they had.”
Helmut fished a few coins from his pocket. “This is really all I have, but hold on one second.” He got out of the car, lifted the trunk a few inches, then slipped something out and underneath his coat. He gave her a bag. There were two baguettes and a big wedge of cheese, quite hard from the cold. “Give them this. Tell them to let the Beaufort soften at room temperature before eating. Never mind, they’re French, they’ll know that already.”
“Thank you,” she said with genuine warmth. “But they’ll have to sell this cheese. It’s too valuable to eat.”
“Then tell them to get a good price. I paid. . .well, never mind. Just get a good price.”
She tucked the prizes under her coat, left Helmut in the car. The same hungry eyes followed her. She kept her distance. The smell of freshly baked baguettes might be enough to start a riot.
#
Madame Demarais fumbled with the latch for several moments before she finally got it open. She eyed Gabriela with a look of desperate hope. “You’ve come back? Henri! Gaby has come back, we have a renter. Henri!”
Gabriela stepped into the flat. It was colder inside than it had been in the street, if that were possible. Or maybe it was just being out of the sun that did it, into the gloom of the flat.
It looked dirtier than she remembered: the paint more faded and peeling, the floors more worn, the few pieces of furniture more shabby. It was quiet, too, and it took a moment to realize why; there was a dusty spot in the corner where the radio had sat for the last two years.
“You sold the radio?”
“We can’t eat the BBC,” Madame Demarais said. “You wouldn’t believe what that nasty man at the marché aux puces offered. Theft, I tell you.” She leaned against the wall and her hand trembled. “Sorry, I feel a little faint.”
“Sit down.” Gabriela took the woman’s arm to help her to the chair. Her skin hung off her bones and there was a sharp, bony look to her face that hadn’t been there a few weeks earlier.
“We kept your room in the back. I knew you’d come back.”
“I’m sorry, but this is just a visit. I’m living with my aunt, remember?”
“But, we. . .oh.”
The old woman sagged into the chair with such a defeated expression that Gabriela couldn’t stand it. She fished out one of the loaves. “But I brought you something.”
“Bread? White bread? And cheese? Mon dieu.” She blinked. “But how did you get that?”
“My uncle, he works for the ministry.”
“What ministry?”
“You know, the ministry of ah,
food and rations.”
“The Ministry of Food and Rations? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Would you terribly mind breaking me off a piece of bread? Henri!” she called again.
There was an answering cough, deep and wet, from their bedroom.
“That damned fool,” she said. “Spent three hours in a food line, outside, in the rain. There was some kind of riot, he fell in the water, came back chilled to the bone. You know what he got? Two tins of potted meat product. Potted meat product, is that even food? Henri, I’m warning you, I’m going to eat this all myself.”
Madame Demarais took the piece of bread, closed her eyes with a rapturous look as she put it in her mouth. “Oh, this is. . .oh, you couldn’t understand. You don’t know. Henri! For god’s sake, come out here.”
The man said something in a feeble voice. Another wet cough. Gabriela was growing alarmed. “Is he all right?”
“Oh, he’s fine. Just a little cough. Bring him a piece of that bread—not too much, mind you—and he’ll be en pleine forme, you’ll see.”
But when she went back, he could barely lift himself to a sitting position in the bed. He was covered with blankets, but still shivering. He took a small piece, thanked her wordlessly with watery eyes and chewed unenthusiastically at the bread. She tried to get him to eat some more, but he just shook his head.
“How about a piece of Beaufort, then? Just a tiny piece.” She unwrapped the cheese and held it under his nose.
“Mon dieu,” he said with a hoarse, damp voice. “That smells good enough to wake the dead.” He broke into another fit of coughing. Whatever gurgled in his chest, he couldn’t cough it up.
They should sell the cheese, not eat it, but she felt a desperate need to get him to eat. “Still cold, but smell that. Isn’t that good?”
“Okay, just a tiny piece.” He put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, but shook his head when she tried to give him some more. “No, I can’t.”
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor.”
“I have no money for a doctor,” he said. “Not a centime.”
“I brought a few coins. Maybe the madame could buy you some medicine.”
“It’s too late, you know that. Even that old hen knows, if she would admit it.”
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