The door did not open.
XVIII.
LIEUTENANT ESSART HAD ALLOWED himself to be diverted by the little drama the count and his wife had concocted. On reflection he did not find their story persuasive. But then again, what if it turned out to be true? What if the lovely Alexandre did have a German colonel as her lover? It would not be Hollinger. If there was a lover, it had to be someone from Tours. Most likely it would be someone whom Lieutenant Essart could ill afford to have as an enemy. In any case, Lieutenant Essart would have to be extremely careful. Discretion now, above all, he said to himself.
Essart decided to seek information from the foolish and ineffectual Yves Renard. You could easily question him without giving anything away. Talking to Renard would help to restore his equilibrium, and it might even yield useful information.
Yves jumped to attention—something he had never done before—as Essart entered the office. It made Essart think Yves had something to hide. “Sit down, Renard,” he said. He studied the policeman’s face until Yves began to fidget uncomfortably on his chair. “I do not suppose,” said Essart finally, “that you have any useful intelligence about the attack on the OWS train.”
“The men who were involved have disappeared, monsieur,” said Yves. “And so have most of the draftees. I’m sure your own investigation has determined as much. The town of Saint-Léon is devoid of young men.”
“Disappeared. Into thin air, I suppose.”
“They could be living in any of a thousand caves around here, or—”
“Caves? I do not suppose you know which caves.”
“Which caves? No, I do not know which caves. If any … I was only speculating about where the young men might be.”
“Tell me, does the Count de Beaumont’s wife have a sister in Tours?”
“A sister? I do not know, monsieur. It could be. Why do you ask?”
“Does she have a lover?”
“I could not say, monsieur.” Renard cast his eyes down.
So she does have a lover, thought Essart. “Do you know who her lover might be?”
“I do not know anything about that, monsieur.”
“What about young women, Renard?” said Essart. “Are there young women who might have been involved in the attack on the OWS train?”
Renard lowered his eyes again. “I cannot imagine that women would do such a thing, monsieur. I believe we are looking for men, monsieur. I assure you, I am.…”
“Yes, Renard, I’m sure you are.”
The idea that there might have been women involved suddenly seemed compelling to Essart. Why had he not thought of it before? Alexandre de Beaumont had spun her tale with tears and foiled his inquiry in a way a man never could. Anne Marie Josquin had done the same with Courtois. “The way to the truth is through a woman,” he said to his men. “Find me a woman we can break.”
* * *
Among the letters of denunciation in the police files, there were more than one about Marie Livrist, also called Marie Piano. Essart’s sergeant searched her room and found the stolen pistol. Essart had Courtois bring her in. She sat in Renard’s office across the desk from the lieutenant and Jacques Courtois and admitted to stealing the gun. She sat with her shoulders back and her chin stuck out. “It was lying there,” she said, “and I took it. It turned out he didn’t need it where he was going.”
“And why did you take it?”
“It seemed like I might have to kill someone someday.”
“Kill someone?”
“A German,” she said. “Someone like you.”
Essart had a lazy way about him. He did not seem given to quick movements. His body looked soft and round and incapable of physical force. But when he hit Marie Piano, it came so quickly and so violently that everyone in the room jumped. There was a loud crack, and suddenly Marie’s head was lying on the desk, and a small puddle of blood was forming in front of her. She lifted her head slowly. She tried to see in front of herself, but she could not focus.
Essart was behind her now, holding her head back by the hair. “A young thing like you doesn’t go around killing Germans by herself, does she?”
“Why not?” she said groggily. “It’s not that hard.” He hit her again. Blood sprayed across the room. Yves and Jacques Courtois had backed up against opposite walls.
“I know all about you, you little French whore,” said Essart. “You have a boyfriend, and I’ll bet he dreams about killing Germans too, doesn’t he?”
“My boyfriend? I thought you were my boyfriend,” said Marie Piano. Essart hit her once more. This time she lost consciousness. “Get some water and wake her up,” said Essart.
“I know her boyfriend,” said Jacques. “He was on the train. It was his mother we—”
“Get some goddamn water and wake her up!” Essart had jumped at Jacques and was screaming.
Renard got a pan of cold water. Essart threw it in Marie’s face. She spluttered but did not wake up.
“We’re done here,” said Essart. “Pick her up. Let’s go. Put her in the car.”
Jacques drove; Renard sat beside him. They watched each other out of the corners of their eyes. Essart was in the back with Marie Piano. In the mirror it looked almost as though Essart were stroking her hair.
“Someplace secluded,” Essart said. Jacques drove to the stone quarry above the vineyards, not far from Maurice de Beaumont’s cave. They parked above the quarry, and Yves and Jacques lifted Marie’s unconscious body from the car. She seemed to weigh nothing.
“Put her down here,” said Essart, pointing to a spot on the grass just beside where the wall of the quarry fell away. “You, Courtois,”—Essart pointed at Yves—“get him away from here. I’ll find out what we fucking need to know.”
“Lieutenant, I know her boyfriend, we can find—”
Essart jumped up and put his face in front of Jacques’s face. His face was purple and his eyes were red. “You do what I tell you, damn it. And if he makes a move, shoot him.”
Jacques turned toward Yves and smiled at him. “Really? I can shoot this little piss-ant cop?” Essart didn’t even hear him. He was back on the ground, kneeling beside Marie Piano. He held his hands in the air in front of him, palms inward, like a surgeon deciding on the first incision.
Yves turned away. Just as he did, the shot rang out. He spun around to see Essart still kneeling. But he now wore an astonished look on his face and a purple hole in his forehead. Jacques kept the pistol—the one Marie Piano had stolen—pointed at the lieutenant until he had slowly toppled sideways onto the grass.
Jacques turned toward Yves. “See if she’s all right,” he said. “Come on, piss ant. Move. See if she’s all right. We’ve got to get out of here.” He started to put the pistol in his belt but decided then to leave it beside the body, at least for now. “We don’t want to be driving around with a stolen pistol that killed an SS man.”
“I think she’ll be all right,” said Yves. “But we’ve got to get her someplace safe.”
“After that we should get him somewhere safe,” said Jacques. “Somewhere far away.”
Yves regarded Jacques Courtois for a moment. “I know just the place,” he said. “But we’ll have to wait until dark.”
They left the dead lieutenant in the grass. They put Marie Piano in the lieutenant’s car and drove to Anne Marie Josquin’s house. “Do not stare at me in that way, madame,” said Jacques when Anne Marie opened the door, “like you don’t know who I am.”
“I don’t know who you are, Jacques Courtois,” said Anne Marie. After a pause she said, “Put her in there, in my room.”
“We will leave her to you, madame; we have other things to do,” said Jacques.
“Thank you for taking care of her, Madame Josquin,” said Yves.
The two men went outside. “It’s a long time until dark,” said Yves.
“I’m going to The Trout,” said Jacques. “I don’t suppose you want to come.”
“I’ll take the car. Meet me bac
k at the quarry around sundown,” said Yves.
“Don’t start giving me fucking orders, Renard. In fact, don’t get any ideas at all.”
Yves waited alone beside Essart’s stiff body. Jacques Courtois showed up well after the sun had set. He wobbled up on a bicycle he had stolen. He was drunk. Yves did not say anything.
The two men loaded Essart’s body into the backseat of the car. Yves got behind the wheel. “I’m not that drunk,” Jacques said, but Yves ignored him. Yves drove toward Château-Renault, while Jacques slept in the seat beside him. After an hour they reached the road to the Marquis d’Estaing’s château. Jacques woke up as the car bumped along the road. “Where are we?” he said.
“Château-Renault. There’s a milice group that meets here.”
“So this is the place,” said Jacques. “Schneider talked about this place. You come here too, I hear. You’re full of surprises, piss ant.”
“So are you,” said Yves. They left the body beside the gate.
* * *
The boredom of war is the worst boredom of all. It is relentless and deep. Time stops. Maybe it even goes backward. Who knows for sure? There were days, weeks, months in this war when anything that happened seemed to happen far away, at great remove: on the ocean, in Italy, in Russia. Or nothing happened at all. The news from England was not reassuring. The invasion that everyone was sure was coming did not come.
When nothing happened it was not like when nothing happens in peacetime. You knew, everyone knew, that a sudden, terrible cataclysm was inevitable. It might be unexpected but no less catastrophic for being unexpected. And when nothing happened in war, even when nothing happened in war, people continued to die everywhere and in great numbers—from hunger and disease, from murderous attacks, from sabotage, from torture. Jews continued to be discovered and deported to extermination camps. Everyone knew by now that was where they went.
And yet life went on. That was the amazing thing. Life went on. The living had to eat, so gardens were planted and farm crops were grown. People shopped for what they could get. They visited, they sat at the Hôtel de France and had a cup of barley coffee. They gossiped. They pruned the grapevines, they picked the grapes, they made wine. There were weddings and christenings and funerals. But it only resembled in a pale and unsatisfactory way the life they really wanted. Everything was distorted as though the earth were living through a devastating and endless storm.
The murder of Lieutenant Essart was traced back to Saint-Léon, and Aseline, the plumber, was arrested for it. A neighbor had denounced him. Whoever it was—that was never revealed—claimed they had heard Aseline arguing with Essart. The accuser fabricated acrimonious dealings between Essart and Aseline, an overheard argument in which Aseline threatened Essart.
Aseline had escaped from the OWS train and was in hiding. But when he showed up to visit his wife, a neighbor called the Gestapo. They picked him up, tortured a confession out of him, and shot him. No witnesses came forward. There was no real evidence against him. All of this bore only a passing resemblance to justice, and yet now it was called justice.
* * *
In the years that had passed since Colonel Büchner’s death, Edith Troppard had never stopped grieving. She was a creature of love. And two men she had loved had been taken from her. Their deaths, as well as the terrible world around her, had distorted her grief in such a way that she saw revenge as the only course open to her. It seemed like the means by which she could begin to live again.
In March of 1943 Edith began making regular excursions to Tours. She took the train and carried a small leather valise. She spent a night, sometimes two, at a small hotel on the edge of the city. She registered under a made-up name. The city was dark and grim, and people stayed inside as much as possible to avoid trouble. When they had to venture out, they kept their eyes cast down so they would not see something they should not see. Edith walked, barely seen and entirely unrecognized, through the empty streets to the center of town.
Edith dined alone in restaurants frequented by German officers. She wore silk stockings that Colonel Büchner had given her, a black silk skirt and jacket, and a white blouse, open at the throat. She was a beautiful woman, and SS Colonel Holger Penck was not the first officer to ask permission to join her for dinner. Those who preceded him flattered her and plied her with questions. She looked into their eyes but discretely evaded their questions. “I am Suzanne La France,” she said. “That is all you need to know. Isn’t it?” She smiled. They ordered champagne. She inquired about them with a beguiling directness. But she did not accept their invitations to go back to their quarters.
Holger Penck was different. For one thing, there was the little death’s-head on his uniform cap. Edith could see that other officers accorded him an extra measure of respect. Edith wondered what the symbol meant and what it felt like to wear something that intimidating. Colonel Penck said he was in France on special assignment. He admitted to her, in a quite disarming way, that it was almost as intimidating to wear the death’s-head as it was to encounter it.
“But why,” she wondered, “would such a symbol be … used if it intimidates even the wearer?”
“Ah,” said Colonel Penck. “I will tell you a secret. Intimidation may be the Führer’s greatest innovation. Intimidation is the secret of our success. In France. Everywhere, in fact. Look how it has disabled the French government, how it bends Pétain to our will. It disarms our opponents and impresses our friends. It is our most effective weapon.”
Edith considered his words. “But how can you ever be sure of your … success,” she wondered, “if you have achieved that success by means of intimidation?”
“That is the beauty of it, don’t you see?” said Holger. “If one has achieved success, one never has to wonder about how one has achieved it.”
“And have you achieved success?” Edith said. She crossed her hands under her chin. Colonel Penck could not help but notice the pulse flickering at her throat.
He lifted the bottle from the ice bucket and, holding it with his thumb in the indented bottom, filled first her glass, then his. He lifted his glass, closed one eye, and peered at her through the bubbles. He lowered the glass and smiled. “I think we have achieved success,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Holger Penck was a year or two younger than Edith. He was thin and handsome and intelligent. He loved fine food and wine and opera and ballet. He liked to think that he was introducing Edith to culture and fine living, and Edith allowed him these notions. He had studied medicine in Heidelberg before he decided on becoming a military officer in Hitler’s new Reich. His special assignment—overseeing the roundup and deportation of Jews and other political prisoners from France—was, he said, the highpoint of his career. “It should not be the highpoint, perhaps. I confess it. Not only is it not a usual military endeavor. But I am trafficking in human unhappiness. Except the work is purposeful and meaningful and changing the world, I believe for the better. And one has to ask the hard question when speaking of human unhappiness: Who deserves happiness and what exactly is a human…?”
* * *
Edith and Holger saw each other regularly through 1943 and into 1944. He took her dancing and gave her gifts of fine clothes and caviar and champagne. Oddly enough, it was the gifts that persuaded her that she would be justified in killing him.
“People in Tours are hungry while the Germans sit there eating caviar and drinking champagne. How can that be right?”
“It is not right,” said Anne Marie Josquin. They were sitting in Edith’s kitchen in Villedieu drinking tea. “It is not right, but it is how things are. Are you in love with him?”
“No,” said Edith. “How could I be?”
“Is he in love with you?”
“How should I know? What does it matter? He traffics in human misery and finds it fulfilling. He has a wife in Heidelberg. And two children. I’ve seen their pictures. They are beautiful. And betrayed. What does love mean to a man like that?”
&nb
sp; “You know, Edith, that is not how love works. It is not a rational process. I envy everyone who has love in their life.”
“Don’t envy me,” said Edith.
Early one Sunday morning, after a sumptuous dinner, an evening at the ballet, and a night of tender lovemaking, Edith cut SS Colonel Holger Penck’s throat with his own razor. Afterward, she washed, packed her small leather valise, and walked to the train station.
They found Penck’s body Monday morning naked on his bed bathed in his own blood. The Gestapo launched a furious search for Suzanne La France. But no one knew who she was or where she lived. Despite widespread inquiries and intense investigation, she seemed to have disappeared from the earth.
XIX.
MOST NIGHTS ONESIME CAME HOME to his mother’s house to sit with Marie Piano. Some nights it was almost morning before he finally arrived. He fed her when she was awake. He watched while she slept. He drew her again and again, filling sheets of paper with her battered likeness, sleeping or gazing out the window as the sun rose. One morning, when he thought she had recovered sufficiently, he asked her to sing for him.
“A German song?” she said.
“Anything,” he said.
Marie’s nose and cheekbone healed well enough, so that you could hardly tell they had been broken. But she never saw out of her right eye again.
Maurice and Alexandre de Beaumont now moved their rescue operation from place to place, always staying a step or two ahead of the Gestapo. Maurice seemed to know, whether from Jacques Courtois’s gossip or by other means, when they were closing in. The Gestapo would arrive at the cave or barn or wherever it happened to be. But there was no furniture or other evidence that anyone had ever stayed there. Jacques Courtois would threaten and rail against Maurice and his fancy-pants ways, but finally he and his Gestapo friends would have to leave empty-handed.
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