His first visit to Savignole was followed by a second and a third. He wanted to see the boys again, to drink to the Führer’s downfall. He especially wanted to see Clément and exchange views with him. They got on together without difficulty. I might have known they would, but all the same, when Raboullet told me “Your professor, he’s a fine man”, my heart leapt with joy. He added with a half smile that he and Clément had something in common, and “I don’t mean diplomas, either!”
It meant more: Clément told him his fields had been signalled to the Allies as a dropping ground for ammunitions. Raboullet apparently winced:
“You’ll have to pay me for damage” he said.
“After the Liberation we will” was Clément’s reply with a handshake.
No such luck, however, as fate would have it.
17.
Mister Well-dressed.
I went back to Clermont, as Gérard had insisted I should. Our region of the Dores was getting seriously invaded by the enemy coming from the South, joining up with their Italian contingent, whilst the Gestapo still in situ at various Kommendanturen became more paranoiac and lethal by the hour with their sophisticated radio detectors and the full cooperation they received from the Vichy police force. Gérard feared that my absences from Clermont would make me a suspect in the eyes of the Gestapo at the Kommandantur there.
The same day as Gérard had told me ‘GO’, Flora had telephoned Raboullet; would he mind telling me that a “very well dressed man”, as described by my concierge, had been to my door several times, that he had finally gone to ask the concierge where I was, that she had replied: “Mamzelle Henner is staying at Mont-Dore for her health, her doctor told her that she should go straight away…she’s quite ill, you know, that poor Mamzelle!”
My concierge has her heart in the right place. She knows perfectly well why I went, she never asks questions but when I occasionally return to my flat, she always greets me with “I’m mighty pleased to see you!” which says it all.
I went straight away to see Raboullet. He made a great fuss at the news of my departure: “You’re going into the lion’s den, ma parole!” The poor man, tortured by the idea that I might be arrested in Clermont, suggested that I stay at the farm, sleep in a well-hidden hut he had built himself. Not in the cowshed? He doesn’t think that’s funny. What’s done’s done. No. His place is very snug. I say I’ll think about it.
Meanwhile, our Maquis in Chambon joined up with us. I consult with Gérard before leaving; he says reassuringly “They won’t bother you so long as you’re out in the open”. In other words, if I don’t go back to Clermont they’ll come and get me here, and if they spy on me (and my inseparable dog) I’ll lead them straight to Savignole without being aware of it.
“I doubt that” I say.
“You are being naive and irresponsible” he retorts. In other words, THEY DON’T NEED ME ANY MORE. It is obvious, is it not, that if I stay I’m putting our Maquis in danger? “ What about the food?” I ask meekly.
“We’ll manage. The Chambon group has plenty of it, apparently.”
So there it is. Back to the stable, Rachel - the- packhorse! Back to the stable where you belong.
Jean was at Clairefontaine. He’d stayed outside the bothy although he had a key. He was waiting for me, his sixth sense must have told him he was needed. I was so pleased to see him that I kissed him and thanked him for being there. I shall never know whether he came of his own free will or whether Raboullet sent him. I should like to think that it was his instinct which prompted him. He asked me if he could do anything for me.
“Yes” I said, “Help me to pack up, I’m leaving Clairefontaine for good… All traces of my existence here must be destroyed… See to it, Jean, please.” He helped me to put my things in my rucksack, looked all around and said: “I’ll live here until your return.” Until my return! This uncomplicated visionary believes I shall come back. Perhaps he can see it written somewhere, in the sky, in the history of living things, in the voice of his ancestors he hears on stormy nights, in the sighing of the wind and in echoes. I take leave of my young protector holding him tightly, his arms hanging loosely by his sides like those of a little boy on the verge of crying. This young man does not show how he feels. But I know now. I have come gradually to understand him ever since I lived in the Auvergne among -les ‘Jean-de-la-Montagne’-. Flora came to meet me at the station of Clermont. She has lost weight. That makes two of us! We cling to each other, embracing in the middle of the platform, among soldiers, militiamen and civilians streaming towards the exit and bumping into us. She has decided to sleep at my place, “whether you like it or not!” She leaves me to go and get her nightdress and toothbrush. And her guitar! She tells me that she has submitted her thesis, that she’ll probably pass with honours, and she’s off (she is like that) before I can congratulate her.
I enter my damp, unaired apartment, open the shutters, and look at the empty Cours Sablon as if for the first time. Something has changed around here. What is it? Only Nourse seems at home, he goes straight to my hay box, showing me he is hungry I open the lid; it smells musty. My samovar has lost its lustre. My piano is covered with a pale film of dust.
I blow on it, don’t open it. I return to the window. Reality hits me; the daily reprisals have left their mark on the town. People’s backs are curved, yes, like the trees, like the walls. There are no strollers any more. Mothers hold their children prisoner in a feverish grip as they rush home, not daring to turn their heads. The kids snivel; they don’t understand why maman won’t let them run, pick up pebbles, play with marbles as they used to on the pavement of this beautiful avenue lined with awesome trees. No. Back inside. Quick! No arguing!
Two days have gone. The well-dressed man hasn’t yet made his appearance. He must know I am here; what is he waiting for? Is he letting me stew in my own juice? Is he trying to get supplementary information on me? My meagre stocks of food are used up.
Nourse becomes more excitable. I can see he is beginning to get thinner. I had bought strawberries. I gave him a few. They give him diarrhoea. I decide to go and see the concierge and buy from her a pound of black market pâté de campagne. It is full of lard and smells to high heaven of garlic. Nourse gobbles it up. I am pleased to see him eat thinking I am doing the right thing. I am not! He vomits it all up, goes under the table, heaving with stomach pains. Flora walks in, sees my ailing dog, opens her medicine box and takes his temperature; it is very high. I shall have to take him to the vet. Flora knows of one and gives me his number. I call that number and a young and timid voice answers. He’s not in. I ask “When will he be back?” “Don’t know,” says the voice, “he’s been deported!” What? Sobs at the other end of the line. This is his daughter speaking. Knowing I am a friend of Flora’s she tells me that her mother and father have been arrested -a week ago- and she hasn’t had any news of them. They must have been Jewish. Simonnet. Take away the ‘net’, it leaves Simon. Yes. The Nazi cancer is spreading.
In the mountains none of the country folk suffered from it. Clément, Gérard and Raboullet were the only ones who knew I was Jewish. Some of our comrades guessed it, I think. Furthermore, apart from the Vichy bureaucrats, the population on the whole knew nothing about the existence of the extermination camps; the Resistance press revealing their existence fought to undermine their readers’ passive incredulity, that is until the 11th hour…until the Allies from west and east crossed the Rhine in March l945.
I try to concentrate on my dog’s plight. Through tears of rage I consult the directory again, looking for an Aryan name. I see the name Dubois. Aryan enough, that name! He answers. Appointment this afternoon at three o’clock. Someone rings the bell. Flora says “I’ll go”. It’s the ‘well-dressed’ man. He’s small, wiry, looking like an undertaker. He’s wearing a hat which he keeps on his head, a very small head indeed. I find him comic. He introduces himself; he is French, he is working at the Kommandantur. Not so comic. He removes his hat hastily, as if he had f
orgotten to take it off in the first place and tells me that ‘they’ are expecting me …at three o’clock. Impossible, I say. Mr Welldressed frowns. I’m making life complicated for him. Now he’s holding his hat in front of his crotch as if I might kick it. I can’t take my eyes off that quivering hat. This petty official from the militia makes me sick to the stomach.
Flora intervenes:”Mademoiselle Henner is not well. She has an appointment with her doctor at three o’clock. I am a doctor, I am here to assist her”. The wretched hat wavers. Mr Welldressed twists it to overcome his trembling. “It would be better not to argue, Mademoiselle Henner. Herr Major von Weidenfeld is expecting you”. I reply: “Pity”. “Please, if you refuse to keep the appointment they’ll come and fetch you. It’s better not, if you want my opinion”. I don’t.” Whereupon I rush to the door, open it wide, push Mr Welldressed outside and say: “Tell your Herr Major Whatshisname that I’ll be there. I’ve no choice, have I?” I slam the door on him with such fury that it bounces open again, and the concierge, who misses nothing starts to shout “Is that you, Mamzelle? and I reply: “Merde!” It was meant for Mr Welldressed but it’s the concierge who gets it.
Furious, she slams her door making such a racket that the obstetrician on the first floor opens his door and shouts: “Can we have some peace in this house?”Flora takes me in her strong arms and says: “I’ll come with you.” I say: “No, you’ll be more use to me elsewhere. “She knows where. She says: “To the vet, is that it?”. “Yes, Flora…if you don’t mind.” Of course she minds. She’s got an hour’s walk there and back with a dog that drags along.
Off she goes with my dog to the vet’s, whilst I…
18.
The Interrogation.
Sitting in the endless corridor at the Kommandantur, I wait to be interrogated. Several chairs have been put in a row. An ageless and tired looking woman waits next to me. She is fidgety. Wehrmacht officers mingle with French civilians, businesslike, without paying the slightest attention to us. More civilians (French lackeys) open doors, close them and open them again, like actors in a bedroom farce. It would be funny, don’t you think, if the Allies had just landed - say this morning - and the personnel at the Kommandantur was too busy getting ready to decamp to find time to indulge in interrogations? I ask myself which road they could possibly take; they all lead to nowhere! Nowhere safe for them, for ever and ever!
Shall I share this thought with my neighbour to cheer her up? Better not. Perhaps she’s the new cook the Gestapo is just going to engage, to replace the one… you know… the one who put arsenic in the flour, ha! ha! A Maquisard, perhaps?
My wishful thoughts are interrupted. Two legs in well-pressed trousers stop in front of me. I don’t look up. No need. I hear “Follow me!” I avoid looking at the sod who’s just spoken. I follow him, my mind a blank. We go along the corridor, up some stairs. St Pré opens a door without knocking (he’s at home here, don’t forget), takes me through offices, pushes me into a waiting room and bolts the door behind me so that I can’t escape, turns his back and knocks on an adjoining door.
Someone says “Entrez”. I am face to face with von Weidenfeld sitting behind a gleaming oak desk on which there are several piles of documents. The Major half rises, bows slightly, holds out his hand (I say!) and with an unforced smile says “Enchanté” (I hadn’t expected so much courtesy) and invites me to sit down in an armchair opposite him. The room is large and furnished with good taste. To my right is a grand piano. The sight of this instrument gives me a swift moment of incredible happiness. I hesitate for a moment before taking the chair offered me, so fascinated am I by the piano’s gracious, gleaming ebony body in repose. I move slightly in order to touch it, telling myself that at least I’ll be able to play Chopin’s funeral march before my execution.
I sit down. Von Weidenfeld utters a few platitudes in impeccable French while St Pré prowls about like a bird of prey, ready to move in for the kill should I show any sign of weakness. I tell myself I’m not going to give him the pleasure. I won’t!
“Mademoiselle Henner,” says von Weidenfeld, “please excuse this appointment at such short notice,” (he doesn’t say “but we are rather in a hurry) “You have been away from Clermont and it was important that I should speak to you.” Pause. I say nothing. He goes on: “The authorities are concerned about your frequent visits to Murol (his information is very good). “You have been there six times…” and he turns towards St Pré who puts his oar in. “Six times since the arrest of the university dissidents in February. Can you explain why?”
“My doctor prescribed fresh air for me. I have a serious attack of boils. If I don’t have mountain air I risk gangrene”.
“Who is your doctor”?
“Dr Berger.”
“A Jew!” says St Pré. Von Weidenfeld frowns. At this stage of the interrogation I cannot make out why he frowns. Is it that he finds the interjection premature? He continues to take notes.
“Where do you stay in Murol?”
“With a farmer I know. I needed also wholesome food…”
“I see.” Pause. Then he asks: “Do you know anything about the guerrillas who infest that region?”
“Yes” I say. “This…this individual…felt obliged to mention their existence to me…something I knew about already…he need not have taken the trouble, really…”
Von Weidenfeld turns to St Pré for an answer.
“I met Mademoiselle Henner by chance at Murol.”
“I see. So this news came as no surprise to you?”
“Not a bit.”
“Can you tell me why that is?”
“Everybody knew it. I didn’t need him to inform me. After all, Monsieur von Weidenfeld, we are living in an occupied country, and you seem to know the French… especially as you speak their language so well!” St Pré is shocked by my familiarity of tone.
“Herr Major, I think this woman here doesn’t realise to whom…” He is cut short by von Weidenfeld’s raised hand and expression of annoyance. (Would it be the Major doesn’t like the turn the interrogation is taking?)
“Mademoiselle Henner, you must have some knowledge, surely, of the crimes committed by the terrorist cells at Murol and of the reprisals that are necessary to protect our troops. These attacks must cease, if only for the safety of your compatriots, you understand?”
“I do.”
Von Weidenfeld clears his throat and says: “My task here is to interrogate all persons listed as suspects. Your name is on the list.” “Ah”. It’s not a question.
At which St Pré sniggers and says:
“You don’t seem surprised!”
I ignore this abject creature and continue to address von Weidenfeld:
“May I know of what I am suspected?”
He consults his dossier and replies: “Your comings and goings, in a region which conceals terrorists are suspect. Your departure from the university at the same time as Professor Vallette who, according to our information, has also become a terrorist…it was unfortunate and not coincidental in our view.”
He looks at me intensely. I don’t flinch. I say: “I do know that Professor Vallette has left the university. As I was writing my thesis under his direction…” St Pré interrupts:
“How very interesting!”
I go on as if I hadn’t heard: “…his departure from the university made mine possible. I didn’t see any point in continuing, in bad health, to work in the laboratory without my supervisor.”
“I see,” says von Weidenfeld, thoughtfully.
“That’s why you went to join him?” says St Pré.
I hold von Weidenfeld’s regard as if deaf in my left ear.
He says: “Answer Monsieur St Pré, if you will.”
“His is a gratuitous comment.. it doesn’t deserve an answer.”
St Pré cracks his fingers. I still don’t look at him. He says: “You are very haughty, Mademoiselle Henner! We have ways of toppling you off your high horse, you know!”
&n
bsp; I look him straight in the eyes for the first time and say: “You were quite a bit up on yours a few months ago, remember? At least mine doesn’t harm anyone! Yours hurt many!”
My allusion to the 2nd of February goes home. He turns purple and addresses himself venomously to von Weidenfeld:
“This terrorist is trying to pull the wool over our eyes. She’s done nothing but lie from the start with her fictitious abscesses…She wants to make us sorry for her…that’s an old trick!”
He pronounces these words with almost pathological hatred.
It is then that the height of my wrath is reached: Outwardly icy, inwardly seething, I rise, tear my blouse open and reveal my boils and the deep holes they have left in my skin. It’s not a pretty sight, but the effect on von Weidenfeld is undeniable. On St Pré it has no effect whatsoever. He is the reincarnation of ‘Der Mann ohne Herz’ (one in the Brothers Grimm story).
St Pré applauds: “Well acted, Sarah Bernardt!”
This remark frankly irritates von Weidenfeld who addresses St Pré: “Monsieur de St Pré, would you kindly leave me alone with Mademoiselle Henner?”
St Pré hesitates, but as von Weidenfeld is his superior he gets up to go. He walks slowly towards the door and as he passes me, hisses that villainous cliché “we shall meet again!” to which I reply:
“Allez au diable” He goes out, slamming the door. I burst into tears. It had to happen. My boiling anger had touched the outer layers of my icy calm.
Von Weidenfeld gets up. He is tall, elegant, probably in his late fifties. He picks up a crutch which had fallen to the floor. He limps, for his left leg does the work of two, which explains why he has been put behind this pillar of files. He comes up to me, pats me on the arm, gently covers up my bare shoulder and suggests a glass of cognac. He goes to open a small cupboard, holds out a glass to me after pouring one for himself, and raising his own says ‘A votre santé’ to which I say ‘A la vôtre’. I have climbed off my high horse, there’s no longer any point in staying perched up there. Von Weidenfeld returns painfully to his chair, puts the crutch on his desk and says: “These boils must be very painful!”
A Packhorse Called Rachel Page 12
