“Pardon.” Kamille surprised even herself with how firm and loud her voice sounded. Both women turned to her, this time scowling in discontent. “But I need to see him at once. Tell him that Madame Kamille Blanchard is here. He lives in my house, and the matter that I need to discuss with him is of utter urgency. I don’t believe he will appreciate it if you refuse me the right to have a five minute talk with him.”
The secretary said something in German to her friend, and they both snorted, exchanging knowing looks. Kamille tried to keep a handle on herself and to not react to the insult, even though she had a pretty good idea of what the two had said about her. Yet, in less than a minute she stood in front of Jochen’s table, explaining the situation to him in all honesty.
He listened to her without interrupting, only biting his lip from time to time.
“So, it was them, who you were sneaking out the food for, not the church?”
Kamille lowered her eyes and nodded, expecting a reproachful speech. Jochen only regarded her and then grinned, shaking his head.
“What a good woman you are, Kamille.”
“Is there anything that can be done for them?” She was ready to plead and beg so long as he agreed to do something.
“They’re both Jewish, you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a problem. I can’t think of anything right now, but I’ll figure something out by the evening,” he promised Kamille confidently. She smiled at him with renewed hope. “For now, tell Horst to take the car and bring both the girl and the mother to your house. They can’t stay in that cold; the girl will surely die there. And when I come back from work, we’ll think of something together. I would go with you myself, but I can’t leave my post…”
“I know, you don’t need to explain yourself to me. You’re already helping.” Kamille closed her coat, getting ready to leave. “Thank you. I will be forever indebted to you for this.”
“Just, please, be as discreet as possible. If someone finds out that I’m doing this…”
Jochen didn’t finish the sentence, but Kamille nodded her understanding. “I will be careful, I promise.”
Augustine was visibly nervous at the sight of Horst, stepping through her doors in his green-gray overcoat, and became even more anxious when he picked up Lili together with all her blankets from her bed.
“Don’t worry. He’s very good with kids. He won’t hurt her,” Kamille whispered to the distressed woman as they both followed Horst with a moaning Lili in his arms.
Augustine only relaxed a little when she climbed inside the car and sat next to her daughter, after Horst had lowered the girl onto the back seat with the utmost care.
“If some of the neighbors see us and ask you about it later, tell them it’s your cousin from some farm or something credible of the same sort,” Horst warned Kamille as they approached their house.
“We do have family who live on a farm not too far from the city,” Kamille replied. “They never visit, but the neighbors know that we have cousins there. Yes, it’ll work, I believe.”
“You look somewhat alike.” Horst glanced at Augustine in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think we will raise anyone’s suspicions.”
Jochen expressed the same sentiments later that evening when helping Kamille to prepare dinner.
“The doctor will come see her tomorrow morning.” He spoke in a hushed tone, even though Augustine was upstairs with her daughter. Violette had begged Kamille to help Madame Marceau look after Lili, but both women decided that it would be better if the girls weren’t in direct contact so that Violette wouldn’t fall sick as well. “Everyone will think that they’re your relatives from the countryside for now, but you’d still better find them new papers.”
“I know. I’m sorry about all this. I know what consequences it may have for you if someone finds out that we’re sheltering Jews, so I’ll try my best to get them new papers as soon as possible.”
“I’m not worried about myself,” Jochen said in a mild voice. “I’ll go to the front. There are worse things…So…”
He glanced over his shoulder and leaned even closer to Kamille.
“They’d better leave the Occupied Zone altogether as soon as the girl is healthy enough to travel.”
“Why?” Kamille stopped stirring the potatoes, which were slowly obtaining an appetizing golden color together with the onions that she used to flavor them. “Can’t they stay here with us until spring comes? They have their house to look after… Augustine’s husband is a prisoner of war, even though he hasn’t written to her yet, but she got an official letter saying that he was taken to Germany, and in case he writes to her and she—”
“Kamille.” Jochen took her by the shoulders, making her look him directly in the eye. “I’m very sorry to say it but Augustine’s husband won’t be writing to her. And she better leave before… Just tell her to leave, will you?”
“What are you saying?” Kamille tilted her head to one side slightly, an uneasy sense taking over her. “Why won’t he be writing to her?”
“He’s dead, Kamille.”
“No, he was taken a prisoner of war, I just told you.”
Jochen shook his head slowly, looking far too serious. Kamille dreaded what he was about to say next.
“Haven’t you heard about how they treat Jews in Germany?” he continued in the same soft voice.
“I have, but…”
“The official order, which is unknown to the general public of course, prescribes that we should immediately execute all Jews or communists as soon as they fall in the hands of the German army. It’s the SS that does the dirty work, but… The Wehrmacht is to stand by and not to interfere, as they call it. They probably shot him even before he reached the territory of Germany.”
“But… But he’s a soldier! Isn’t it against some military code?”
“It most definitely is. And yet the SS still enforce this order. That’s why I’m saying that Augustine and her little girl better run… While they still can.”
“You think they’re in danger here? In France?” Kamille inquired incredulously.
“So far, they’re not in any direct danger. But I would rather not see it get to that point if you understand what I’m saying,” he explained carefully. “There are lists, Kamille. Lists with names of all Jewish citizens, in every town, all over the Occupied Zone. If the SS weren’t planning something on their account, they wouldn’t make those lists, would they?”
Kamille stood still, stunned to the core, until Jochen took the wooden spoon out of her limp hand and stirred the potatoes that were starting to get stuck to the bottom of the skillet.
Kamille looked around as if seeing her kitchen for the first time. Jochen pointed to a ceramic pot on the table – the object that she was obviously searching for to place the potatoes in it. She gave him a smile that was both miserable and grateful.
“I’ll talk to her. When Lili gets better.”
“Yes, when Lili gets better.”
28
The Christmas mood that year was anything but celebratory. The dinner at the Prefect’s was held in the most official manner, with invited German dignitaries and the representatives of the governing circles of Paris barely speaking to each other. The Germans eyed the French functionaries with disdain. The French were still recovering from shock after the drastic measures of retribution which followed the murder of the German naval officer. Sturmbannführer Karl Wünsche had personally signed the order for the execution of twenty hostages, most of which were members of the Communist Party.
Giselle glanced at Karl, who reminded her of a grim, morose statue even more than ever that evening. He hardly moved at all, leaving his plate untouched as he peered at a particular spot on the tablecloth, so deep in thought that his own colleagues wisely decided not to bother him.
“Eat something,” Giselle whispered, covering his hand with hers. He moved his hand from under hers and placed it on top of his lap. “We’re celebrating Ch
ristmas after all. Stop sulking. You’re insulting your hosts.”
“My hosts?” he asked a little louder than she wished him to. “I owe nothing to my hosts after they allowed this atrocity to happen to one of our soldiers.”
The conversation at the table became even more subdued. The French officials squirmed in their seats, lowering their heads as if by command.
“You shot those communists in retaliation, didn’t you? I thought the subject was closed.” Giselle spoke as quietly as she could and yet she was certain that the people around her could hear her perfectly.
“It’s far from closed. It won’t be closed until I find the perpetrator. It’s very unfortunate that the administration of the city, which should be cooperating with us, seems to do nothing to help us find him. I wouldn’t be surprised if all of them suddenly became de Gaulle’s sympathizers and are hiding that terrorist from us on purpose.”
“I assure you, it is not so in the slightest,” the Prefect of the Police chimed in, desperately trying to hide the tremble from his voice. His brow, glistening with nervous sweat, was, however, telling another story. “We have pledged our allegiance to the German state, and we will stand by our promise. We are doing everything possible to find that man.”
The gaze of Karl’s charcoal eyes was so intense that the Prefect of the Police started sweating even more profusely, too fearful to even reach for his handkerchief.
“The possible doesn’t seem to bring any results,” Karl stated, with familiar calmness in his voice. This seemed to terrify the people around him far more than the most outraged shouts of some of his counterparts. He held the pause, making the Prefect squirm, and concluded pointedly, “Do the impossible then.”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor Wünsche?” The Prefect shifted forward, awaiting some instructions to follow that would be more precise.
Karl lifted a knife from the table, which suddenly reminded Giselle of a scalpel in the hands of a mad scientist, studied it with the same immobile expression on his impenetrable, handsome face and placed it back, once again boring his black eyes into the man sitting across the table from him.
“Are you aware of the law prescribing that the civil servant in charge of the city should take the place of the hostages in situations like the one that we’re currently facing?”
The Prefect of the Police swallowed with obvious difficulty, his face gradually turning a ghostly pale color. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. If I don’t get the results that I want from this investigation, you’ll be the one ascending the gallows.” After those words, Karl picked up his glass with red wine in it and rose from his chair. “I would like to honor the memory of our fallen comrade now. An innocent victim of the war, executed in cold blood by the terrorist who is still at large. But we won’t sit idly until our own blood is avenged… Even if it means that I’ll have to execute twenty people daily to make him finally show his face and take his punishment instead of his innocent fellow countrymen. To Oberbootsmann Rademacher.”
“To Oberbootsmann Rademacher,” everyone repeated in unison, holding their glasses high and heads low.
A very quiet January had passed, during which all of the Resistance members seemed to lay low. Hardly any leaflets were reported, leave alone demonstrations or factory strikes. Both sides appeared to lick their wounds, rethinking their strategies. Giselle breathed out with relief when Michel Demarche announced the good news to her during one of their regular meetings: Marcel, who now sported a beard, a much shorter haircut and glasses, had successfully crossed the border with Etienne – Michel’s late friend’s son, who was in charge of the distribution of La Libération in the Free Zone.
Etienne himself possessed an Ausweis, allowing him to freely travel between the two parts of France, however he advised against Marcel using fake papers to try and cross the border by train. Luckily, Etienne had his own connection on the frontier, who smuggled both men through the forest within a couple of kilometers from an official check point. The territory was heavily guarded, and it was common practice among the Germans to shoot on the spot all those who tried to cross illegally. Fortunately, Etienne’s smuggler proved himself worthy of the money he demanded for his services and had delivered them both safely to the Free Zone.
However, even though the legendary Ghost was long gone, Giselle was very aware of the fact that Karl hadn’t given up on his obsessive search for him.
“How do you even know that it was the Ghost who shot that naval officer?” she asked him irritably one day. It was she who had written a new glorious article for La Libération, indicating with certainty that it was indeed the Ghost’s doing.
The German gun – the weapon used for the officer’s assassination – belonged to the Boche who was taken hostage during the Ghost’s initial escape from prison, and this was enough proof to support the theory in the public’s eyes. The article also highly praised the deed and stated with satisfaction that the innocent family that had been executed by the SS was now avenged. Let it be a lesson to the Boches! We refuse to tolerate your violence and do nothing in response! For each innocent French life, we’ll take a German one! Vive Général de Gaulle! Vive la France! Vive la Résistance!
She probably should have toned it down a little, Giselle thought when she saw Karl’s reaction to the newspaper. For the first time in her life she saw him lose his always perfectly calm composure, as he tore the paper into small pieces and swept them off his desk together with the rest of his neatly organized papers, folders, heavy golden penholders and even the phone.
The more disturbing part was that, since that fateful day, he had started studying every issue of La Libération with frightening meticulousness, spending hours with a magnifying glass on top of the text and making various marks in his papers. Soon, Giselle started noticing graphs and tables in his notes, in which he carefully separated different words and other markings. His diligence concerned Giselle, and finally she asked him, unable to feign indifference anymore, “What are you doing with all these issues?”
Karl leaned back in his chair, pushing the papers that he’d been perusing away from himself.
“You see, Giselle, I’ve always liked studying and analyzing things. I was born with a very curious and inquisitive mind. It came in handy when I started studying medicine, and it came even handier when I became involved with investigations within the Staatspolizei.” He paused, looking pensive, and then turned an issue of La Libération so it would face Giselle. “Come, take a look at this paper. What story does it tell you?”
Giselle leaned over the underground newspaper, which was well-known to her, but the concentration with which she scrutinized it this time was anything but fake. She genuinely tried to understand what story Karl was alluding to.
“I don’t know.” She straightened next to the desk, eventually admitting her defeat. “It tells the story of some liberals who are printing an underground paper.”
“Ja.” Karl’s eyes gleamed, as he grinned with a mysterious air about his face, a look she didn’t like at all. “But what kind of liberals?”
“How do I know?” Giselle chuckled. “Communists, probably. Who else?”
“Ach, come now, Giselle, you can do better than that. They are in no way communists. Liberals, yes. But not communists. And they don’t belong to the working class: the speech is too refined, not like in those leaflets that communists ordinarily spread.”
Giselle felt her blouse getting slightly damp on her back.
“Try again,” Karl encouraged her, still smiling. “What kind of refined liberals could write these articles?”
She faltered before responding, carefully weighing her reply. She couldn’t just feign ignorance with him; Karl knew her too well by now.
“Um… Journalists?” she suggested.
“That was my guess as well, yes.” Karl nodded in agreement. “But now we’re facing a second dilemma. I have turned every single newspaper headquarters in the city upside down. Their printing presses
were not used for printing this newspaper. And, after carefully studying each issue I finally realized my mistake. La Libération is not being printed on a big factory newspaper press. Here, take a look.”
Giselle lowered her head above the paper together with Karl as he placed a looking glass on top of the text.
“Notice anything specific?”
Giselle thoroughly studied the text but ended up shaking her head again.
“Look closely at the letters a, b, d, and e in this issue.” Karl moved another paper towards Giselle. “And now look at the same letters in this one.”
“They’re different.”
“Different how?”
“In the first issue they’re ink-filled in the middle, and in the second one they’re clear.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t know, I don’t print newspapers.” Giselle laughed, hoping to keep nervous notes away from her voice.
“That’s the whole point.” Karl gave her a pointed look with a victorious smile. “It’s not a conventional rotary press that they’re using. It’s an ordinary mimeograph. The stencil that they’re using is wearing out after producing several dozens of copies, which causes the letters to be ink-filled, and the text to appear lighter than in the beginning. See how it’s fading slightly from black to dark-blue in this issue for example? It’s not as bright as this one.”
Giselle compared the papers again, inwardly cursing herself for not noticing anything before. To her they all appeared to be the same; how could she possibly know that Karl would examine them with such painstaking fastidiousness that he would notice the smallest details that she would never think to pay attention to.
“So what does it mean?” she asked, straightening out.
“It means that my job is getting more difficult. A mimeograph is such a small machine that it can easily be standing in one’s apartment and no one would know that someone is printing something on it. It’s portable and practically noiseless.”
The Indigo Rebels: A French Resistance novel Page 27
