Sins

by Gould, Judith

  Stop it! she told herself harshly. You've been asking yourself that same question every time you've seen an adult German.

  The clerk looked up and smiled professionally. 'Here it is, Madame Junot. Five days, room seven forty-three.' He reached for one of the keys hanging from the cubbyholes on the back wall. Wordlessly she opened her purse and handed him her passport. She scribbled her signature in the register. Then she pushed it back toward him.

  'Your passport will be returned to you shortly, madame,' he said.

  She nodded. 'Also, I would like to have something locked in the vault.' She gave him a thick envelope. In it was money. A lot of money. Everything she had gotten from Baghat Cheops. Tomorrow, it would be deposited in a German bank.

  Hélène paused in front of the frosted-glass door. The gold block letters outlined in black read: 'K. Haberle.' And underneath it: 'Privat Detektiv.'

  It was the eleventh such office that she had been to in the last three days. For one reason or another, the other ten hadn't suited her. Before she could change her mind about this one, she pushed down on the brass handle and went inside.

  She found herself in a secretary's office. A young blond was sitting behind the desk, a beige cardigan draped across her shoulders. She looked up at Hélène and smiled pleasantly. 'Guten Morgen,' she said.

  Hélène forced a smile. 'Parlez-vous francais?' she asked.

  The woman smiled and made a motion with her thumb and forefinger. 'Un peu,' she replied. 'Won't you have a seat?' She gestured to the dark varnished wooden chair in front of the desk.

  Hélène shook her head. She had learned that service tended to be swifter if you looked uncomfortable. 'No, thank you,' she said. 'I prefer to stand. Is Herr Haberle in?'

  The blond's smile broadened. 'Yes, of course. One moment, please.' She pushed her chair back, got up, and walked over to another frosted-glass door. She opened it and spoke to someone inside. Hélène could overhear the conversation but she couldn't understand any of it. She had never bothered to learn German.

  The secretary gestured for her to come over. Quickly Hélène crossed the room and entered the inner office. The secretary closed the door behind her and stayed outside.

  Behind a beat-up secondhand desk sat a slim young man with thick, prematurely gray hair. His blue eyes were gentle, but sharp and appraising. His suit was dark and loose; his white shirt, washed-out gray. The collar was unbuttoned, the tie was loosened. He got to his feet and held out his hand. 'I am Karl Haberle,' he said formally in French. 'You must excuse my vocabulary and pronunciation. I'm afraid it has been a few years since I studied French.'

  Solicitously Haberle pulled up an upholstered chair and Hélène sat down. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?' he asked.

  She shook her head. 'Thank you, no.'

  'You don't mind if I smoke?'

  'Of course not.'

  Haberle went around his desk and sat down behind it. He reached for a pack of HB's, fished a cigarette out, and stuck it in his mouth. He struck a match and held it to the cigarette. Then he leaned comfortably back in his chair. He eyed her curiously. 'Tell me, mademoiselle—it is mademoiselle?' Hélène nodded. 'Why do you require the services of a private detective?'

  She looked down at her lap as if the answer somehow lay there. For a moment she was silent. Then she looked back up and met his eyes squarely. 'I wish to locate someone,' she said quietly.

  Karl Haberle nodded slowly through the blue cloud of smoke. 'Who?'

  'A man. A man who served in France during the war.'

  He gave her an obscure look. 'A German.'

  'Yes,' she replied softly. 'A German.'

  He nodded to himself, his keen blue eyes boring through hers. 'And why do you wish to find this man?'

  She looked away. 'Because he was kind to me. He. . .he saved my life.'

  Haberle shook his head. 'You are lying, mademoiselle. You hate the man.'

  Hélène stared at him. Then suddenly she leaned forward. Her eyes blazed. 'Yes!' Her voice was a whisper that echoed around the thick old walls. 'I hate him!'

  'And why is it that you want him found? To bring him to justice or in order to. . .exact vengeance?'

  Hélène's voice was shaky. 'He must pay for what he has done.'

  'I shall have to know what that is.'

  Painfully Hélène closed her eyes. Her voice grew dull and heavy, almost weary. 'In 1944 I was seven years old,' she said. 'The Ger—I'm sorry, the Nazis—came to our house and broke down our doors. My mother was in the underground. She was pregnant at the time. Very pregnant. They found a radio transmitter hidden somewhere in the house. They beat my mother in the belly until. . .until. ..'

  'One moment, mademoiselle.'

  Hélène started and her eyes blinked open. They were confused and startled, like a dreamer's who is suddenly awakened from a nightmare. Haberle was reaching into his desk. He brought out a bottle of schnapps and splashed some into a glass. He leaned across the desk and handed it to her. She nodded gratefully and drank it down. Her fingers were trembling.

  'Please continue,' he said gently.

  Hélène nodded and swallowed. She put the glass down on the desktop. 'My mother miscarried, Herr Haberle. I'll never forget seeing the blood running down her gray stockings. Then they took her away and she was never heard of again. Our maid, Michelle, was shot trying to protect her. My brother, my older sister, Catherine, my baby sister, Marie, and I managed to escape. We got separated. A few weeks later, the Nazis caught up with my brother and me. They took us to their headquarters. They had Catherine and Marie. Catherine pretended not to know us and my brother and I managed to get freed. They tortured Marie, though. Right in front of our eyes. What kind of men are those who torture a baby?'

  Haberle was silent. There was nothing that he could say.

  For a moment she could find no more words. 'I never saw my sisters again,' she said finally. 'I think they were sent to Poland.'

  Haberle looked at her with compassion. 'And you know who was responsible for these atrocities?'

  Hélène nodded. 'I will never forget him.'

  Haberle's voice was gentle. 'It's possible that he may already have been convicted for war crimes. Or that he has been tried and acquitted. Have you given that any thought?'

  'Yes. But deep inside I know that he hasn't been caught. That he's walking around free somewhere. In Berlin, or Munich, or Buenos Aires. Perhaps even here in Cologne. I can feel it!'

  'You should also realize that many Germans served in France during the war, mademoiselle. Many of them were transferred elsewhere. Some to the Russian front, some back here to Germany, others to Italy, to Holland. . .' He shrugged. 'And many died. There were also a lot of cases of the men's service records having been destroyed. It is difficult to trace the events and people in a time of chaos.'

  'I realize that,' she said.

  He looked at her closely. 'You could go to the Americans or to the Jewish organizations,' he said. 'It would be much less expensive.'

  'No!' She shook her head vehemently and tried to keep her voice under control. 'No,' she repeated softly. 'I don't want that. I don't want them to get hold of him. I want him for myself.'

  He ground out his cigarette in the kidney-shaped ashtray. 'Do you have his name?' 'No.'

  'Do you know where he was from?'

  'No.'

  Haberle heaved a sigh. 'Then it will be very difficult.'

  Suddenly Hélène leaned forward. She reached for his arm and gripped it tightly. Her face was determined. 'He must be found,' she said grimly.

  'As you wish. But I cannot promise you any results. And it will be very expensive. Personally, I recommend that you do not go through with this. It may be a waste of money.' He looked at her sympathetically. 'And emotions,' he added gently.

  Hélène instinctively liked this young man. He was refreshingly honest. Not like the others, who she felt would have gouged her for everything they could get.

  'I am prepared to pay whatever it costs,
' she said with finality. 'I want you to give this case your undivided attention.'

  'It could take months,' he warned. 'Years, even.'

  Her voice took on the hard edge of a knife. 'I have time,' she said. She reached into her purse and took out a thick envelope. She tossed it on the desk. 'Here is your retainer.'

  Idly he undid the flap and thrummed the stacks of money like a deck of cards.

  'Twenty thousand deutsche marks,' she said. 'Cash. And if you find him, I am willing to pay you a bonus on top of your fee. Two hundred thousand marks have been deposited in a branch of the Dresdener Bank in anticipation of your finding him.'

  Haberle let out a whistle. 'You must want this man very badly,' he said.

  'I do, Herr Haberle. And you? Do you want to take this case?' There was a challenging look in her eyes.

  He grinned. 'With wages such as you're offering, I would be a fool not to. Now, tell me everything you know about the man you want found.'

  Hélène nodded. 'First, I know that he was acquainted with a sergeant named Schmidt. A fat man.'

  'There are hundreds of thousands of Schmidt's all over this country. It is one of the most common German surnames. Can you describe him better?'

  Hélène nodded. 'I would say he was rather short. Dark hair. Red-faced. He looked large to me as a child, but then, all grown-ups do when you're so small.' She smiled mirthlessly. 'Also, he had a mole on his chin. About here.' She put a finger on her own chin.

  'Anything else?'

  'I'm sorry. No.'

  'And the man you want?'

  She gave an ugly laugh. 'I know his rank, I know that he was in the SS, and I can describe him very well. He is tall. His face is shaped like a skull.' She paused. 'He is very ugly, Herr Haberle. You see, he is an albino.'

  8

  Politely the Comte helped Hélène slip out of her mink. He tossed it carelessly over the back of one of the velvet seats. She sat down carefully so as not to wrinkle her gown and leaned over the balcony of the Comte's private box.

  She loved going to the opera. She enjoyed dressing up for it and seeing the other people in their finery. She felt a thrill whenever she climbed the magnificent great staircase. But above all, she loved losing herself in the musical world of make-believe drama that unfolded onstage. Somehow it was so unreal, and yet at the same time so very real. She had never sat through a single performance without constantly breaking out in gooseflesh.

  Her eyes roved around the enormous theater. There was marble of all colors everywhere: the pale, stony shades of white and rose, the deeper, richer hues of green and red and blue. The gleaming chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling was enormous. It was said that it weighed six tons.

  She looked down at her program as the Comte took his seat beside her. 'Alceste,' the title read. 'Christoph Willibald Gluck.' She opened the program and began reading it with quickening interest. She had never heard of this particular opera, and that made it twice as exciting.

  The Comte leaned toward her. 'Front row, orchestra center. Do you see the old man with the white hair?'

  Hélène frowned and stretched her neck like a swan. She looked down at the front row and then back at the Comte. 'Yes.' she said. 'Who is he?'

  'Stanislaw Kowalsky, the pianist.'

  Hélène nodded without speaking. She didn't need to be told who Kowalsky was. Neither did half the schoolchildren in France. He was one of the world's finest concert pianists. For once, even the hard-boiled critics and enthusiastic audiences agreed: he was more accomplished than even Rubinstein and Horowitz.

  The door in the back of the box suddenly opened. 'Sorry,' a deep voice said. 'I didn't realize anyone was here.'

  Hélène and the Comte turned around in their seats. Behind the elegant velvet swags stood Hubert de Léger. Beside him was a young aristocratic lady in a pink gown. She appraised Hélène coldly.

  For an instant Hélène locked eyes with Hubert. Then he turned to the girl beside him. 'Lille, could you be an angel and wait outside for a moment?'

  The girl looked confused. Then reluctantly she nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

  Hubert stepped forward. 'I thought Lille and I would go to the opera, since the family box is never used,' he said quietly. 'But I see that I was mistaken.'

  'Invite her back in,' the Comte said easily. 'There are enough seats.'

  Hubert gave a low laugh and looked at Hélène with a sudden knowledge in his eyes. 'Don't tell me where you're living. On the Boulevard Maillot?'

  She was silent.

  'Father always lends that house to his current favorite. Did you know that?'

  'I'll forget that remark, Hubert,' the Comte said softly. 'Now, I think you'd better apologize to Hélène and leave us be. Go back to the university. Your grades could stand your studying some more.'

  Hubert's face flushed. 'Why are you trying to get rid of me? So you can be alone with your whore?'

  Hélène rose to her feet. Her face was devoid of expression as she looked at the Comte. 'I don't feel like the opera suddenly,' she said quietly.

  The Comte nodded and got up. He picked up her fur and draped it over her shoulders.

  'Leaving won't help,' Hubert said tightly. 'It won't change a thing. A whore's a whore.'

  Hélène started for the door. She had almost reached it when Hubert caught her arm and spun her around. 'Hélène,' he said in a yearning voice. 'Leave him. Come with me.'

  She turned away. 'Let me go,' she said dully.

  'In a minute.' He pulled her closer. 'You sleep with him, don't you?' he demanded in a hissing whisper, glancing at the Comte, then back at her. 'But you wouldn't sleep with me. What's the matter? Is it money you're after? I have a trust fund. Or do you naturally like old men?'

  Angrily she tried to pull her arm free. His fingers dug deeper into her wrist. 'You're hurting me,' she said from between clenched teeth.

  'Why did you turn me down?' he asked. 'Just so you could turn around and rush off with him? Does his title turn you on?'

  'Let her go,' the Comte said in a whisper, the muscles twitching in his cheeks.

  Hubert looked at him. 'You like to steal my girls, don't you, father? That's what it takes to make you feel like a man, isn't it?'

  Hélène's free hand suddenly lashed Hubert across the face. He let go of her arm and looked at her in surprise, his fingers gingerly touching his reddening cheek.

  'I may be a whore,' she whispered, 'but you? You don't deserve your father. You don't even deserve me!' Then she pushed past him and started out of the box.

  The thickly leafed chestnut trees in the Bois de Boulogne were turning yellow as the taxi pulled to a stop alongside the curb. 'Here we are,' Hélène said.

  Madame Dupre started to reach into her purse. Hélène shook her head. She put a restraining hand on her friend's arm. 'You are my guest,' she said firmly.

  Madame Dupre hesitated. Then she smiled. 'All right. Thank you.'

  They got out of the taxi and watched the driver lifting Madame Dupre's valise out of the trunk. He set it down on the sidewalk. Quickly Hélène paid him and grabbed the valise by the handle.

  'What a lovely house!' Madame Dupre said. She gazed up at it, shaking her head in amazement. 'And in such a chic neighborhood, with the Bois right there.'

  'Yes, it is nice,' Hélène said.

  'I shall take many walks through the Bois.' Madame Dupre smiled. 'I love autumn in Paris. I'd almost forgotten how beautiful it can be. There is nothing like Paris in the spring and the fall.' She followed Hélène up the marble steps and waited for her to unlock the front door. Hélène held it open for her.

  'After you,' she said, gesturing inside with a flourish.

  Madame Dupre stepped into the foyer. She looked around in surprise. 'Why. . .I thought this was an apartment house!' she said. She turned to Hélène.

  Hélène turned around and smiled wryly. 'I never said it was.' She started to close the door but stopped. A young man in uniform was coming up the steps. Sh
e waited until he was at the door.

  'I have a telegram for Mademoiselle Junot,' he said.

  'I am she.'

  He handed her an envelope and she signed for it. He started to leave.

  'Just a moment,' she said. She fished in her purse for some coins and gave them to him.

  'What was that?' Madame Dupre asked.

  'A telegram,' Hélène said thoughtfully. She frowned as she tore the envelope open. Then she pulled out a paper, unfolded it, and quickly read it:

  LITTLE FRENCH GIRL STOP WE HAVE A DAUGHTER YOU HAVE A NIECE STOP JEANNE INSISTS CHRISTENING HER HÉLÈNE STOP SO WE DON'T CONFUSE YOU TWO SHE WILL BE PETITE HÉLÈNE STOP LOVE YOU STOP PROUD MOTHER AND FATHER JEANNE AND EDMOND

  'Jeanne's just had her baby!' she cried excitedly. She thrust the telegram into Madame Dupre's hand.

  Madame Dupre read it and shook her head. 'She must have been born while I was on the train!'

  Hélène grinned. 'Imagine me—an aunt!' Then softly she said, 'Petite Hélène. It's got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?'

  Madame Dupre nodded. 'It certainly does. And I know she must be a beautiful baby,' she said warmly. 'Jeanne must be very happy.'

  Hélène nodded solemnly. 'She'll make a wonderful mother.' Then she smiled. 'Well, I'd better show you to your room. I know the trip must have been exhausting. You'll want to wash up and maybe take a nap. You'll need all the rest you can get. I've got the next few days all planned out, and it'll be a grueling schedule. Tomorrow I've got to work, but I've reserved a seat for you at Odile Joly's for the show. It's only the daily showing, and not at all as exciting as the big summer and winter shows, I'm afraid. But you'll get to see all the clothes.' Hélène hugged Madame Dupre fiercely. 'I'm so happy you could come and visit!' she said. 'Even if it is only for five days.'