The Paris Secret

by Lily Graham

  ‘Ah, Herr Doctor,’ she said, getting up to fetch the dictionary, which she’d placed on a nearby shelf with the other orders. He was memorable with his vivid green eyes, dark blond hair and large, muscular frame.

  He stared at her. She seemed thinner. ‘Are you quite well, mademoiselle? You look a little pale, unhappy.’

  She straightened and her mouth fell open slightly, in apparent disbelief at his words. Her blue eyes snapped in sudden fire. She stepped closer in her anger, her hand balled into a fist at her side.

  ‘Unhappy? Are you honestly questioning why I look unhappy?’

  Her gaze moved from him to the other side of the store, and its clutch of Nazi officers in the corner, busy with the printing press.

  He sucked air in through his teeth. Her voice was low – only he could hear her response, but it was chilling, and he regretted the question instantly.

  Mireille blew out her cheeks. ‘Sometimes you Germans ask a little too much. Is it not enough that you are here? It is surely beggaring belief that we must be happy about it.’ She made a small sound of derision, then continued, attempting to pull herself together: ‘Can you settle for polite? It’s all I have, and that, too, is wearing a little thin these days – less food tends to do that.’

  She thrust the book at him and forced a very fake smile. ‘Good day,’ she said, dismissing him.

  He made no move to leave. Reaching inside for his wallet, he said, ‘I haven’t paid yet.’

  A muscle flexed in her jaw, and she said, ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I insist,’ he said, putting the money on the table.

  Still he did not leave.

  Mireille ground her teeth as he stood staring at her, peering at her with more than a little concern.

  ‘Can I help you with something else?’ she asked, barely managing to keep herself together. Despite all the lectures she gave her dear papa, the truth was she had inherited at least a little of his temper.

  ‘Have you got enough to eat?’ he asked. ‘Iron deficiencies in women are common, especially if the food is being rationed. Choose wisely, and make sure you eat green vegetables, meat, and get enough rest.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Rest? How can I rest here, M’sieur – when your men are always here, always.’

  As if on cue, and perhaps to defend what he considered his territory, Valter Kroeling stepped inside the shop, which had been relatively peaceful that morning with the officer out of the way. He eyed Mireille and the doctor, then greeted him with a salute, ‘Herr Stabsarzt Fredericks,’ though his watery pale eyes seemed to flash with something like suspicion.

  ‘Kroeling.’

  ‘Mam’selle,’ drawled Kroeling, turning to her, revealing his pointed teeth in the rat-like smile that always chilled her heart. ‘We must go over the new order – there are some books on it that have now been banned.’ He gave the doctor a thin smile. ‘I wouldn’t want the young lady and her father to get into any trouble,’ he explained to Fredericks, who to his obvious annoyance hadn’t moved away.

  ‘So you have set up the press here,’ said Fredericks, turning to Kroeling, his brow raised, and Kroeling nodded.

  ‘I thought that it was decided that these premises were too small.’

  ‘It suits us fine,’ said Kroeling, a frown deepening between his brows. ‘Besides, the location makes it perfect for distribution of our pamphlets.’

  As a senior medical officer, Fredericks had the right to enquire and suggest improvements; particularly if it impacted the health and safety of the army, and suggestions along these lines couldn’t be ignored, especially if it was in the interest of the Reich.

  Fredericks looked at the men all cramped together in their half of the shop, sharing one big table covered with stacks of magazines and newsletters. The small press took up most of the room, along with the typewriters and assembled company. It looked and felt crowded and noisy.

  ‘It is causing the family some stress. I would recommend that other premises be considered. It looks… cramped. Inefficient…’

  Fire flared in Kroeling’s eyes at the insult, but he held his tongue.

  ‘Perhaps we can make more room then by taking over the whole shop – we had thought to be kind by leaving the family their business. Surely no business at all would be more stressful.’

  Fredericks’s face was impassive. ‘Yes, you could do that, but even then the space would be far too small, and this is a perfectly good bookshop in the centre of Paris, serving a lot of people. I would not like to have to file a report that this operation looks less than efficient – haphazard, even.’

  It was that word that was perhaps the deal-breaker.

  ‘Perhaps an easier solution would be to move to headquarters, but to store some of the pamphlets here for ease of distribution due to its good location, as you say – that might be a fair compromise.’

  Kroeling looked murderous, but he inclined his head. The word ‘haphazard’ applied to his work would be fatal, and he knew it.

  ‘We will do as you suggest. However, as the manager of the bookshop, appointed by Herr Brassling’ – Brassling was a group captain, and outranked Fredericks – ‘I will ensure that I visit regularly,’ he assured Mireille, his eyes dark, blaming her for this. His expression made it clear that he felt she had said something to the doctor about the situation, or else he never would have interfered. ‘Particularly since some books seem to have been ordered that shouldn’t.’

  Fredericks nodded. ‘That sounds acceptable.’

  He looked at Mireille, who stared back in surprise. Had this man, whom she’d just insulted, somehow managed to make one of her dreams – less time with these Nazis and their magazine, and Valter Kroeling in particular – come true?

  She knew better than to thank him, but she did give him the first real smile she’d given anyone in a long time, particularly when Kroeling started barking out orders for his men to start moving their things to the German headquarters, some five miles away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After he came for his dictionary, Mattaus Fredericks popped into the Gribouiller every week. He always bought a book, but she knew, in the way that all women seem to know these things, that really he came to see her. He checked up on her, as though she were one of his patients.

  Occasionally he brought extra fruit and vegetables, and sometimes even meat. When Mireille made to refuse the gifts, he told her that they were surplus to the hospital. ‘They over cater for us – the food is measured on a two-hundred-bed facility. Most days we don’t make that number, and so there is too much food, food that will go to waste. I thought perhaps you could use it, rather than have us throw it away… but if you’d prefer I can—’

  ‘No, it is fine, we will take it, thank you.’

  Mireille was proud, and a large part of her wanted to refuse the doctor’s gifts, but the fact was, Clotilde could count every one of her ribs, and she herself had gone down a dress size, despite the fact that she had been slim to begin with. They could use the food, no matter where it came from.

  Mattaus was gratified in the weeks that followed to see the colour return to her cheeks, and the strain lessen about her eyes, now that she was getting better nutrients, and she was no longer under the constant watchful gaze of Valter Kroeling.

  Despite Mattaus’s interference, though, it hadn’t stopped Kroeling from visiting several times a week, but now that he was no longer based in the bookshop all day, Mireille felt for the first time in months as if she might actually be able to breathe.

  Her father was also finally able to resume his work – as there was less chance of him losing his temper and getting himself jailed now that the printing press was no longer based in their small shop.

  However, days later, everything changed. Mattaus came inside at the same moment as Valter Kroeling, the latter saying, ‘I see you are back again, Herr Stabsarzt. I am surprised that you favour this bookshop, as there is one much closer to the hospital.’

  The doctor managed a polite sm
ile, and said, ‘There is – alas, it is not as good, or as well supplied.’

  Another Nazi officer looked from the doctor to Mireille, who was busy adding some new stock to the shelves, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it is something else that draws the doctor here.’

  One of Kroeling’s men laughed, and joked, ‘Perhaps it’s the bistro that operates as a brothel around the corner.’

  The doctor turned to look at the man, who seemed to remember his manners fast. ‘I apologise, Captain.’

  ‘Good.’

  When Kroeling and his men left, Mireille asked the doctor, ‘Why did they call you Captain?’ She was curious, was all. Curious about the man that Kroeling seemed to both hate and respect, and curious that somehow, as a result her life had improved, though she didn’t want to be too grateful for the presence of a Nazi officer in her life – she couldn’t be sure if he expected something in return for his kindness, and didn’t want to find herself narrowly escaping the flame only to find herself facing a fire instead.

  ‘Because, while I am a doctor, I am also a captain.’

  She nodded. It didn’t exactly make her feel any better that her new ‘friend’ was a high-ranking Nazi. It didn’t make her feel better at all.

  The other problem with having Mattaus Fredericks come calling into the shop so frequently was that Kroeling noticed. Perhaps the young man saw this as a challenge. The unfortunate result was that the temporary relief she’d enjoyed from his constant presence soon came to an end, and he began to visit more frequently as a result, sometimes twice a day. Even after the store was officially closed, she would find him there, waiting by the door.

  This new arrangement was particularly dangerous for Clotilde.

  While she was careful to disguise herself whenever she undertook a mission, seeing Valter Kroeling by the apartment, and knowing that he was now watching the store at odd hours, meant that she had to be even more careful.

  ‘Just scale it back, for now,’ warned Mireille. ‘It’s too much of a risk.’

  Clotilde’s face was angry. ‘That’s what they want – for us to feel defeated. To feel like we have no choice but to stop fighting, to give in. I won’t let them win.’

  Mireille shook her head. She was tired. Sick of all the games, the politics, the manoeuvres. ‘Haven’t they already?’

  Clotilde shook her head. ‘No, not yet.’

  Clotilde had convinced Mireille to use the bookshop as one of the areas where they could deliver the resistance’s secret correspondence. It was simple to slip a note in a book, and hand it over to one of the members, always a woman, wearing a red scarf. She would pocket the note, to pass on to Clotilde in the evening. Mireille had done a few of these exchanges over the past weeks. Each time it gave her a thrill to know that she was doing it beneath the noses of Valter Kroeling and even Mattaus Fredericks. But now that Kroeling was making it a habit to appear at odd hours, showing up whenever she least expected it, it simply wasn’t safe any more. ‘We can’t go on, Clotilde. Not here. You’ve seen how he watches us – he will figure it out.’

  Clotilde nodded, and Mireille breathed a sigh of relief – one that was not destined to last. Her friend squared her shoulders. ‘I’ll just have to find another place for the exchanges – I can’t stop, not now.’

  ‘I wish you would. It’s getting dangerous – ever more so, ’specially for you.’

  Mireille was referring to the growing animosity that the Germans were displaying to the Jews.

  Clotilde nodded. ‘That’s why I have to keep fighting, don’t you see?’

  It was nearing curfew when Valter Kroeling showed up at the bookshop door in mid-autumn, a week later, drunk. He let himself into the store with the key he’d had made, while she was busy tidying up. She swallowed, seeing him there while she was alone, and he gave her a leering grin as he staggered inside, giving a low bone-chilling whistle when he saw her, evidently happy to find her by herself.

  ‘I wondered if I would ever get you alone, Fräulein,’ he said, his pencil-moustachioed lips quivering, his needle-like teeth glistening with spittle into a chilling smile.

  Mireille’s heart started to thud. She shot a glance up the stairs to where her father had gone. ‘I’m afraid, Herr Leutnant Kroeling, that the store is now closed. I was just shutting up for the night, before heading to bed.’

  Kroeling’s smile widened. ‘Is that an invitation?’

  She swallowed, took a step back. ‘No, I am sorry – I meant I am going upstairs. My father—’

  ‘He can wait for you, surely? This won’t take long,’ he said. Before she knew it she was seized in his arms and his face was inches from hers, his breath sour with the scent of stale whisky and cigarettes, which met her nostrils like an assault as he bent her roughly towards him for a kiss.

  ‘No!’ she screeched. ‘Please, let me go.’

  He laughed, and squeezed her even tighter, his hold crushing, suffocating. It was designed to show one thing only – how much stronger than her he was.

  ‘You have teased me long enough. Playing me against your doctor – I thought perhaps that you were his, but I have checked to make sure and I see that I was mistaken.’

  ‘I am,’ declared Mireille. ‘I am with the doctor,’ she said suddenly, fear in her eyes, in her heart, seizing upon the lie like a life raft.

  ‘No, Fräulein, he has denied it. He does not come here, except in the day for his books. You, I think, belong only to me – I think even he understands this,’ he said. Then his eyes went dark, menacing, and his mouth slammed into hers, rough and hard. She struggled against him, feeling as if she might gag as his tongue entered her mouth, hot and rank, tasting of old liquor and something else that was all him, oily and vile. She pushed against him, kicking and thrashing, and tearing at his skin for freedom, when he at last let her go. She gasped for air and he slapped her hard and she fell against the wooden floor. The room began to swim and she saw stars, the blood rushing to her ears, and she staggered towards the door on her hands and feet. He grabbed her by her ankle, pulling her backwards with force, her nails scraping along the wooden floor as she cried out, tears pooling in her ears. He hefted his body on top of hers, his eyes gleaming in victory. He put a hand over her mouth to stop her screams, and then fiddled with his trousers, lifting her skirt up while she howled.

  Then, suddenly, there was a loud crack, and the heavy weight of Kroeling was gone. Heart jackhammering in her chest, she looked up through the haze of fog from her tears. She saw her father’s face, and the blood on his hands. ‘Papa,’ she breathed. ‘What have you done?’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mireille inched over to Valter Kroeling’s body to check if he was still breathing. He was face down, and there was blood on the wooden floor. She was shaking as she put her ear to his lips. She was praying, too. She heard the slow rhythm of his breathing and fell back onto her haunches, closing her eyes, rocking back and forth, sobs catching at her throat. Her father rushed forward to embrace her, kneeling on the floor and enfolding her in his arms.

  She put her head on his shoulder, breathing in his comforting, familiar smell, and the sobs came harder.

  ‘It’s okay now,’ said Vincent, ‘he won’t hurt you.’

  She shook her head, gasping for air, her chin wobbling. ‘It’s not that, Papa. What will they do to you when they find out what you did?’

  He looked at her in disbelief, his blue eyes fierce. ‘He tried to rape you in my own house. I was defending my daughter – they must understand that, must see that I was just protecting you. Besides, he was drunk, out of his mind.’

  She shook her head. She wished he was right, but after having been subjected to these Nazi officers all day, she knew better now. ‘Oh, Papa, they will never blame him for that, never, not without a witness – a German witness,’ she amended. ‘They would never take our word.’

  Which was when he looked at her and for the first time realised how quickly she had had to grow up, and just how terrifying and awfu
l that fact truly was.

  Mireille and her father moved Valter Kroeling into the small storeroom downstairs, and barricaded the door. Vincent insisted that when he woke up and there was an inquiry to be faced, he would tell the truth, though perhaps even he knew the chance for him to escape the firing squad was slim at best. Which was why he came up with a plan.

  In the morning, he paid a young boy to deliver a message for the doctor, Mattaus Fredericks, to come quickly.

  When Mattaus came, Vincent raised a finger to his lips and took him to the storeroom where Valter Kroeling was lying, spread-eagled and fast asleep on the floor, a large purpling bruise covering one eye. His mouth was open while he snored, the stench of stale alcohol strong and repugnant. Mattaus bent to examine him, his nose wrinkling at the smell.

  ‘It looks like he was knocked out.’

  Dupont nodded. ‘That’s because he was – by me.’

  Mattaus raised a brow and Dupont said, ‘I did it when I found him trying to force himself on my daughter.’

  The doctor’s eyes flashed in anger. Then he stood up, indicating for Dupont to follow him.

  ‘He tried to rape Mireille?’

  Dupont nodded. ‘Yes. Last night.’

  ‘He was unsuccessful?’

  Dupont closed his eyes. He didn’t like to admit how close a thing it was. If he hadn’t been upstairs… if he hadn’t heard the thuds downstairs…

  ‘He didn’t get that far.’

  The doctor sighed in relief.

  ‘Look, when he wakes up – it’s probably all over for me. I know that,’ said Dupont. ‘I know what they do to people who go against them and he’s not a reasonable man… this is not about me. I sent for you, because I think that in your own way you care for my daughter. Kroeling told her before he tried to rape her last night that he had stayed away only because he thought there was a chance that she was your “woman”. While I do not wish for you to misunderstand me, and I do not wish for you to make such a thing happen, I would like you to look out for her if possible, if I am killed.’