She came close to the bed and moved the sheet away from his legs. She pulled at the tie string of his pajamas and his phallus sprang free. She knelt beside the bed, looking into his eyes for a moment, then down at him. Gently she peeled the foreskin back from his throbbing red glans. Her tongue flicked snakelike over it.
Suddenly her hand tightened over his phallus, holding it in a viselike grip. She looked up at him. Her voice was imperious. “Don’t come yet.”
He couldn’t speak. All he could do was nod.
Her face bent back to him. “I’ll tell you when,” she said as she once again took him in her mouth.
Six weeks later when he boarded the train for Paris, she and the child went with him.
***
Silently, Wolfgang finished signing the last of the documents. He looked up at Maurice. “I think that does it,” he said.
“Technically, yes,” Maurice answered. “But there are other problems.”
Wolfgang looked at him.
“Her French resident’s permit was issued by the Pétain government. It may not be acceptable to the present regime.”
“Why not? It was a permanent permit recognizing her status as a displaced person. She was even graduated from the Sorbonne before the war. Besides, her daughter was born in France before the occupation.”
“There have been many cases where they have withdrawn permits because the holders were considered collaborationists. And there are many in Paris who know of her relationship with you.”
Wolfgang thought for a moment. “What can we do about that?”
“I’ve given it some thought, but I’ve come up with no firm solution. The only thing that could work is if she held a valid French citizenship.”
“Shit.” Wolfgang got to his feet. “What do we do now?” He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself another schnapps.
Maurice turned and looked at Anna, who had been sitting silently while Wolfgang had been signing the papers, the coffee service on the small table in front of her. She raised her head from the needles in her hands and met his eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, then his eyes fell away and she returned to her knitting.
Wolfgang swallowed his schnapps, refilled his glass, came back to the couch and sat down heavily. “Maybe it’s not worth the effort. Maybe we should just sell the companies and get rid of them.”
“You’d get nothing for them right now,” Maurice said. “The French are bankrupt. Five years from now, when things are normal, they’ll be worth a great deal of money.”
“Five years,” Wolfgang said. “Who the hell knows where we’ll be in five years?”
“If we’re dead it won’t matter,” Maurice said. “But if we’re alive, it will.”
“If they withdraw her permit, we lose it all anyway. They’ll take the companies back.”
“It’s a chance we have to take,” Maurice said.
Anna spoke softly without looking up from her knitting. “If I were married to a Frenchman, I would automatically have citizenship.”
Wolfgang stared at her for a moment, then turned to Maurice. “Is that true?”
Maurice nodded.
“Then find someone we can trust and Anna will marry him.”
Maurice gestured to the papers. “I know of none I can trust with these. Do you?”
Wolfgang looked down at the papers, then up at him. “You’re not married.
Maurice shook his head. “It would be too dangerous. There are still many Gaullists who are suspicious of me. After all I still did not jump across the Channel until the last possible moment.”
“But they bought your story. And the information you brought them as well as the explanation that you stayed undercover in order to help them.”
“True. But that was while the battle was still going on. Now questions are beginning to be asked.”
“I’m sure your uncle could take care of that,” Wolfgang said.
“My uncle is dead. He died four months ago.”
“Then who is the Marquis de la Beauville now?”
“There is none. He died without issue.”
“What happens to his property?”
“It will go to the state. Unless someone comes forward to pay the inheritance taxes on it. Someone in the family, of course.”
“Do you think anyone will?”
Maurice shook his head. “I’m the only one left. If my father, his brother, were alive, he would have succeeded to the title. But now it will all be gone—property, title, everything.”
Wolfgang pursued it. “If you paid the tax, could you claim the title?”
Maurice thought for a moment. “If the government accepted my payment, I suppose I could.”
“How much is involved?”
“A lot of money. Five million francs. Nobody really knows. The government records are hopeless.”
Wolfgang got to his feet. He was excited. “Let me think for a minute.”
They watched him walk back and forth across the room and finally come to a stop in front of Maurice. “If these companies were in the estate would their ownership be valid?”
“Absolutely,” Maurice said. “There is no one who would dare to challenge my uncle’s integrity and loyalty. After all, he was one of the few Frenchmen who dared to remain in France, still defying Pétain’s authority. And even they did not dare touch him, though he remained virtually a prisoner in his country home.”
Wolfgang smiled with satisfaction. “That’s it then. All our problems are solved. You and Anna will be married. I will see to it that you have the money to pay the taxes and claim the title. Then the companies will be transferred into the estate and everything will be in order.” He picked up his schnapps and tossed it down his throat. “I dub thee the Marquis de la Beauville,” he said, tapping Maurice lightly on both shoulders.
Maurice looked past him at Anna. He thought he saw a faint smile on her lips as she continued to look down at the knitting needles flying in her hands. It was the same enigmatic smile that very first time they had met in Paris, in the autumn of 1940.
***
He walked up the small flight of steps from the street to the door of the small townhouse, sandwiched and almost lost among the large apartment buildings on the avenue d’Iéna, and pressed the doorbell.
A maid in uniform opened the door and looked out at him. “Monsieur?”
He took a card from his pocket and gave it to her. “I have an appointment with General von Brenner.”
She glanced down at the card. “Entrez, M’sieur.”
He followed her into the hallway and waited while she disappeared into another room of the house. He looked around the walls. They were bare and there were still faint discolorations where pictures had once hung. Idly, he wondered what unlucky French family had been summarily evicted from their home to make way for their Prussian conquerors. And the paintings that had once adorned the walls—had the Frenchmen been able to take them or were they now somewhere in the general’s house in Germany?
The sound of a man’s footsteps came from behind him. He turned. The soldier wearing a Wehrmacht sergeant’s uniform raised his hand in a salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Maurice raised his hand. “Heil Hitler.”
“The general will be with you in a few minutes.” Schwebel opened a door. “Would you be kind enough to wait in the drawing room?”
“Avec plaisir.” Maurice went into the room and the door closed behind him. The furniture in this room seemed to be untouched, as were the paintings on the wall. A small fire burned in the fireplace.
He crossed to the fire and warmed his hands in front of it. Even now, in early fall, when Paris was normally warm, there always seemed to be a northern chill in the damp air. The French were sure that it was the Germans who caused it.
He heard the door open and turned back to it, expecting the general. Instead, it was a tall young woman, her long brown hair brushed carefully back in a quiet chignon that accented her high cheekbones and large d
ark eyes. She was wearing a chic dark afternoon dress that accented her full figure while at the same time playing it down.
“Monsieur de la Beauville?” She spoke in accent-free Parisian.
He nodded.
She came toward him. “I am Madame Pojarska. The general asked me to make you comfortable. He may be detained longer than he thought. May I order coffee or a drink for you?”
“Coffee would be fine.”
“And some pastry perhaps. Our pâtissier is one of the finest in Paris.”
He smiled. “You have uncovered my weakness, Madame.” It was true. Since the Germans had come to Paris there wasn’t a decent piece of pastry to be had anywhere.
A few moments later, he was seated on the couch, a cup of fragrant real coffee in front of him, his fork crinkling through the flaky leaves of a mille-feuille. “This is delicious,” he said.
That faint smile curved the corners of her mouth. “Some things in France will never change.”
He looked at her in surprise. It was not the kind of remark he had expected to hear in the home of a German general. “You lived in France before, Madame?”
“I went to school here,” she answered. “The Sorbonne.” She placed another mille-feuille on his plate. “My daughter was born here. Just after the war broke out.”
“Then your daughter is French,” he said.
“Polish. My late husband and I are Polish.”
“Under French law your child has the right to French citizenship unless her parents have notified the authorities differently.”
She thought for a moment. “Then she is French, because my late husband went back to Poland the day war broke out and we never filed any papers at all.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Your late husband?”
She nodded. “He died defending his country.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She was thoughtful for a moment. “It was fated,” she said. “I am not the only widow this war had produced, and I will not be the last. Poland was not the only country to fall before the Germans, and France will not be the last.”
He was silent.
“But people survive—even if it means they have to learn to live with a new order,” she continued.
He nodded. “That is true. The circles of power are far beyond us. We must learn to live with them, not them with us.”
There was a knock at the door. The sergeant came into the room. “The general is free now. He asks that you bring Monsieur de la Beauville to his study.”
He followed her through the bare hall to another room. She paused, knocking on the door and then opening it without waiting for a reply.
General von Brenner was a much younger man than he had expected. At most he was no older than Maurice himself, who was thirty-seven. He did not offer the usual salute; instead he held out his hand. “Monsieur de la Beauville. I have been looking forward to meeting with you.” His French was tinged with a heavy German accent.
Maurice replied with his French-tinged German. “It is my honor, General.”
The two men stared at each other; then suddenly the general grinned. “My French is as bad as your German.”
Maurice laughed. “Not quite.”
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
“Then suppose we converse in that language. Then neither of us has to feel embarrassed. And if we have any problems in understanding each other, Anna, here, can help us out.”
“Agreed,” Maurice answered in English.
“Now to work,” the general said. “The French Industrial Board has assigned you to work with me so that we may better mobilize industry into the war effort against our mutual enemy. Our first priority of course will be heavy industry that can be used to manufacture weapons and equipment.”
“That, too, was my understanding, and with your permission I have already prepared a number of files which at this very moment are on their way here by special couriers. I am at your disposal to begin work with them immediately.”
***
But in the course of the three years they were to work together during the occupation, both saw other opportunities begin to develop. Non-war-related businesses that were begging to be taken over, because under the new order there were many owners who were not acceptable. A large, well-known vineyard, a company that bottled natural mineral waters, and another company in the south that manufactured bases for perfumes and cosmetics. All at bargain prices, low cash and liberal exit visas for the former owners, which enabled them to seek freedom elsewhere. Since these companies’ true ownership was always hidden by the laws affecting French sociétés anonymes, there was never an overt record of the real proprietors. Still, when decisions regarding the companies had to be made, the owner had to reveal himself, if only within his companies. To forestall any criticism, Wolfgang placed the management of record in Anna’s name. All were quiet companies, which did little business during the war. It was for the postwar period that Wolfgang had acquired them—for a time when the need for their products and their market would expand.
It was slightly more than two years later on a hot humid day in the summer of 1943 that Wolfgang returned from a meeting at H.Q. West. She saw that he was upset, but kept silent until he was ready to talk. That did not happen until after dinner as they sat in the study and he smoked his cigar and sipped his coffee.
“I’m called back to Berlin,” he said heavily.
She looked at him. “For how long?”
“Permanently,” he said. “My job here is finished. There are production problems in the Fatherland they want me to look into.”
She was silent for a moment. “I’ll begin packing immediately.”
“No.” His voice was abrupt. “You’re not coming with me.”
She looked at him without speaking.
“I can’t bring you to Germany,” he said awkwardly. “My family—”
“I understand,” she said quickly. She took a deep breath then forced a smile. “I have no complaints. At first it was only for six weeks, remember?”
“It is not over,” he said. “I have plans.”
“I don’t want you to endanger yourself,” she said.
“There will be no danger,” he answered. “I have asked Maurice to join us at breakfast tomorrow and I will explain them all to you.”
She was silent for a long moment. “When do you have to leave?”
“Friday.”
She looked deep into his eyes. “This is Tuesday,” she said, rising. “Come to bed. We have not much time left.”
***
Wolfgang waited until the maid had cleared the breakfast dishes and left the room before he spoke. Maurice and Anna sat around the small table. “Germany has lost the war,” he said flatly.
Neither of them spoke. He continued. “War is like business. When you stop going forward, you lose momentum. Then you lose control. The Führer made a critical error. Instead of pressing forward across the Channel to England, he turned toward Russia. At that point it was all over.”
The others were still silent. “Now it’s only a question of time and we must make plans. There will be many opportunities after the war and it will be up to us to take advantage of them.” He looked at Maurice. “We will begin with you. If we want to keep the properties we have acquired here in France you will have to change sides. Cross the Channel and join the Gaullists.”
“Impossible!” Maurice protested. “They will shoot me on sight.”
“Not if you follow my plan. I will make available to you certain information that will be invaluable to the Allies. Information on manufacturing and production facilities that they have not as yet learned about. You will go to your uncle, the marquis, whose reputation is unassailable and explain to him that you have been secretly working with us to gain access to this information. Now that you have it, you need his help to get it across the Channel. I’m sure that he has contacts, and with my help, I can guarantee you safe passage across the C
hannel within a month.”
Maurice hesitated. “It will be dangerous.”
“It will be more dangerous to remain. When the French return you will be shot as a traitor and collaborationist.”
Maurice was silent.
Wolfgang turned to Anna. “For many years my family has owned a small townhouse in Geneva. I have already secured a Swiss residency visa for you to work there as my housekeeper, and for Janette. You will remain here for about a month after I leave. Then you will move to Switzerland. Schwebel will remain here with you to help organize the necessary files and papers that you are to take with you, then, acting as your chauffer, he will drive you to Geneva. The excuse will be that Janette is ill and the doctors have advised her to recuperate in the Alps. When you are safely in the house there, he will return to Germany to join me.”
Anna looked at him. “And what will you be doing all that time?”
“I will be making plans to get my family out of Germany. Because of my position, we will all be targets for Allied vengeance.”
“Where will they go?”
“There are several countries in South America which offer us shelter. For a fee, of course. But that is only money.”
“And what will happen to you?”
“As soon as I see them safely away, I will join you in Geneva.”
She was silent for a moment. “There is no other way?”
He shook his head. “No other way. The end may come in a year, two years, maybe even three. But it will come, believe me.”
They were all silent for a moment, each, with his own thoughts. “Merde!” Maurice exclaimed suddenly. He looked at Wolfgang. “I had foolish dreams of one day being a rich man.”
Wolfgang smiled. “Do as I say and you still may be a rich man.”
After Maurice had gone. Wolfgang got to his feet. “Come to my study with me.”
She followed him up to the small room, which he used as his private study. He closed the door and locked it behind him. “What I am about to show you, no one else in the world knows, neither Maurice nor Schwebel, not even my family. No one. Just me. And now, you.”
Goodbye, Janette Page 2
