by Vic Robbie
Her future was tenuous. While some might think her a heroine, others sought revenge. Not a single soul, including her, had escaped a sense of great loss. In moments of reflection, memories crowded in and clamoured for attention, as vivid as the actions of those around her.
She had come from the village where the Germans massacred her family and its inhabitants. As she walked down the grande rue, her tears grew until they engulfed her, and she felt the pain of every soul. Desolation was everywhere. Not a building had survived the shelling by German panzers and the subsequent fires. What remained were broken, grey stumps, judging man’s inhumanity. Personal possessions and cars, brown with rust, scattered as reminders of lives lost.
Like a black waterfall, her hair flowed over her shoulders as she brushed it from her face. She threw some francs onto the table and rose to leave as if motion could blur the memories. Without realising, she was walking in the direction of the Place de la Concorde. Humanity had deserted her. There was nobody to ask for help. Those who could defend her actions had disappeared as if they had never existed, or were dead. Now the French authorities could accuse her of being a collaborateur, using hearsay for evidence.
She felt a light rain and tilted her head back to catch a sprinkling of drops and wondered if they would wash away troubled thoughts. Engrossed in the moment, she didn’t see the Citroen pulling up alongside. The passenger door swung open, and a large man got out, blocking the pavement. Surprised, she moved to the right to avoid him, but he sidestepped allowing her no space.
‘Excusez.’ She smiled.
He did not move. ‘Non.’
A flash of irritation clouded her face.
‘You should come, mamselle,’ he said with a hint of a bow.
‘Why?’ She pulled her purse closer as adrenaline coursed through her, ready for action.
‘You must come,’ he said through broken front teeth and reached forward to open the rear door.
Alarmed, she stepped backwards and prepared to run.
‘I have a gun.’ He moved his hand in a pocket.
My chances are slim and screaming won’t help, she thought. He could shoot before she took a couple of steps. For whom did he work? The answer could determine what he intended. Post-war Paris teemed with disparate groups and intelligence officers from France, Russia, America, Britain and even some Nazis, who had gone underground to continue the fight. Any would have reasons to kill her.
‘Come.’ He moved the hand in his pocket again.
‘Where?’ she asked in a low voice, but he didn’t answer. She had no choice and climbed in, and he pushed her over and squeezed in beside her.
‘Allez,’ he instructed the driver.
They drove towards Place de la Concorde and took a right on the Pont de la Concorde over the Seine and progressed down the Boulevard Saint-Germain. After a time, during which no one spoke, they turned left, back on the Quai de la Tournelle before stopping alongside some green booths of magazine and book sellers. The man beside her got out first.
‘Over there.’ He pointed to steps leading down to the river. ‘Go,’ he insisted when she hesitated. She clattered down to the cobble-stoned quay where pleasure boats were tied up. An elderly man sitting on a bench showed no interest, instead staring at the magnificence of Notre Dame. A boat with loud music blaring and full of revellers clutching glasses and bottles came alongside. She sat at the other end of the bench. Was this who she was meeting or just an innocent bystander? Out the corner of her eye, she studied him, but he didn’t acknowledge her presence. Silver hair peeped out from beneath a homburg pulled well down on his head. A face tanned and lined and heavy jowled with a nose that resembled a raven’s beak. His blue-veined hands resting before him on a silver-topped cane.
What did they expect? She shrugged her shoulders at the men who brought her and were keeping watch from the top of the steps. He showed little interest, so she got to her feet.
‘Shalom.’
She whirled around.
‘Please,’ he added, pointing to the space beside him.
With a flounce, she sat down again.
‘Good. If you don’t mind, I’ll move closer. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.’ The accent was American, but there was a hint of mid-European that generations could not dilute.
When she sighed her acceptance, he shuffled across until their shoulders almost touched.
‘Paris is such an interesting city now they have gone,’ he said and turned to her with a conspiratorial smile. Still bright and sharp, his old eyes, darted like a bird’s, gauging her reaction.
What was this all about, she wondered but answered with a flick of her head.
‘Natalie.’
It was as loud as the clang of a church bell. A name she used but had discarded at the end of the war. And it was the one that could cause her the most trouble.
‘Natalie Baudin.’
Expressionless, she was unwilling to admit ownership. Friend or foe, she wondered.
‘You still use it. One of many, I understand.’
In an attempt to conceal what her eyes might reveal, she glanced away.
‘I am Isaac Solomon.’ He paused as if waiting for recognition. Getting no response, he shook his head with fake disappointment and offered a hand, and when she refused, he persisted. It felt cold and soft like liver. ‘Let’s start on friendly terms.’ His speech was deliberate as if pinning every word to a board.
Who was he? ‘What do you want?’ Determined to escape, she glanced behind for an exit.
‘I’d advise against that,’ he warned, putting a hand on her arm. ‘My men are armed.’ But his smile had no menace.
Annoyed she would cede control, she insisted: ‘Get to the point, or I’ll go.’
A gendarme strolled along the quay, and she considered asking for help but discounted it as he would ask to see her papers, which could cause problems. At the same time, Solomon concentrated on a woman walking towards them and pushing a pram that bumped and rattled on the cobblestones. He had seen the policeman and realised what she was thinking. ‘It was wise of you not to.’
Once the gendarme passed, he grabbed her and tore the purse out of her grasp.
‘What?’
‘For my security, you understand.’ He handed it to one of his men, who rummaged around inside before locating what he was seeking.
‘There, that’s better.’ He smiled with his mouth but watched her every move.
‘What in hell do you want?’
‘I’ve a proposition.’
She continued staring at him with suspicion.
‘I would like you to take care of someone.’
A great disappointment engulfed her. She was striving to return to normality, the way it had been before.
’No,’ she said at last.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’ve done it before.’
‘That was war.’
‘So?’
‘I had a reason then. It’s over.’
It was a sunny afternoon, and she and a boyfriend were spending time together in a field above her home. She had laid down a blanket and brought some fruit and bread and cheese and her friend a jug of cider. Unbeknown to them, the day before local boys had found a shotgun and by accident killed a German soldier. As they sat talking and drinking, two trucks of soldiers led by a staff car and motorcycle outriders swept into the village.
He nodded as if sharing the memory. ‘I know everything about you, Natalie.’
‘I can’t help you.’
He waved off her rejection. ‘First, let me tell you who I am.’ Gathering his thoughts, he gazed at the water for a moment.
She folded her arms across her chest and edged away.
‘Please, humour me. I’m a Jew; perhaps you guessed.’ He nodded to himself. ‘My family came from Germany.’ He winced as though it was hard to admit. ‘Like many other secular Ashkenazi Jews, we emigrated to America in the middle of the nineteenth century and se
ttled in New York. While some suffered harsh lives, my family prospered through perseverance and good fortune. We became involved in business and made more money than we needed.’ He shrugged as if he should be ashamed. ‘With great wealth comes responsibility. I want to improve the world. They instilled a duty of service in me almost from the cradle, and I’ll continue until I go to my grave.’
With his legs crossed, he sat at an angle of forty-five degrees and did not look at her. He closed his eyes. Not a blink but more. And, as the conversation continued, his eyelids stayed shut longer, and she thought he could lapse into sleep and wondered if she might, too.
‘I’m not without influence. I have the ear of people who can make things happen.’
He paused again to see what impression that had made on her, but she gave no sign of being impressed. ‘I know who you are,’ he said in a tone that meant he knew almost everything.
The Germans rounded up the men and boys and herded them into a barn. They machine gunned them in the legs so they couldn't flee. The soldiers covered them in straw and burned them alive. They marched the women and girls into a church and separated mothers from their babies and threw the infants into water troughs leaving them to drown. Before setting it alight, they raped the young. Natalie and her boyfriend watched the tragedy unfold, raging with impotence and helpless to save their loved ones.
As if reading her mind, he turned. ‘You’re a killer, too.’ His hands rested on his knees as if about to take a confessional. ‘In your case, I understand why. You sought to make them and their collaborators pay. You suffer guilt for not dying with your family.’
He studied her for a long time. ‘You need help, and I will give you that. I’m not offering money.’ He waved a hand in the air. ’But something much more important.’
At his signal, one of his minders brought over a red file. Solomon ordered the aide to wait and opened the file on his lap. After he flicked through a few pages, he placed it between them.
A slight breeze made the paper flap, but she refused to pick it up.
‘Of course, you’re capable of carrying out the task. Remember, I have friends everywhere including the American Secret Service who provided me with this information. You may consider you’ve no reason to continue your work, but you have.’
Adjusting herself, so she looked straight at him, she said: ‘Despite what’s in those files, you don’t know anything.’
‘Trust me; we’re on the same side.’ As if trying to blank out some unpalatable truth, his eyes closed again. ‘These are strange times. Yes, we won, but we have to win it all over again. Hitler may be dead. The only proof is held in Moscow, and the Russians won’t share it. Europe is being divided into parcels. It’s a time of great uncertainty and danger. And you cannot trust anyone.’
Could he be trusted? With a dismissive shake of her head, she said: ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’
‘Don’t.’ Solomon put up both hands. ‘Listen to what I am offering before you make a decision.’
With a glance at his bodyguards, she sighed and clasped hands.
‘While you were fighting, I was safe. Unfortunately, so many of my people endured horrible deaths by the Nazis. I’m an American, but foremost I’m a Jew.’ He spread his hands almost apologising for that. ‘That’s not to say my race didn’t play a part. More than half a million American Jews fought in the war.’
Ready to leave at any moment, she turned away and crossed her arms and legs.
‘My concern is that some Nazis have escaped to plot a rebirth of Nazism. The authorities may even protect some because of their knowledge and expertise in specific areas. Surely, that can’t be right?’
‘But–’
‘There is a man, Simon Wiesenthal, who earlier this year set up the Jewish Historical Documentation Center. The Center is gathering information on Nazi criminals. And he was a victim of Nazi barbarism, too.’
’So something is being done.’
‘Yes, and soon there will be the State of Israel, and the future prime minister David Ben-Gurion has promised they’ll hunt down those Nazis.’
She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he swatted her away like an annoying wasp.
‘That’s not enough. Israel does not seek revenge, only justice. They intend to try the criminals in court.’ He hesitated as if gathering strength for the next part of his speech. ‘My friends and I do not believe in turning the other cheek. As in Exodus and Leviticus in the New Testament, we want an eye for an eye. Given a stage to spout their evil ideology, the trials could drag on for years, and some might even go free. That’s not right. We cannot label the innocent as the enemies.’ He waited for her to show support for the argument. ‘You’re not the only person working for me. My people are hunting down Nazis, looking under every stone. And when we find them, we kill them. They receive no so-called justice. They aren’t allowed a moment more of their wretched lives than they gave the poor souls exterminated in the gas chambers of Auschwitz, Treblinka, Ravensbruck, Warsaw, Jasenovac, Bełżec, Sobibor…’ He recited the concentration camps as a mantra that petered out as it became too much.
Her boyfriend persuaded her to flee, and she swore she’d do everything to avenge her family. He looked for survivors the next day, but the Germans hanged him from a lamppost.
Solomon appeared exhausted.
‘I have no problems with that.’
‘Good.’
‘But I can’t kill anyone.’ She jumped to her feet and, as his men moved towards her, Solomon waved them back.
‘Not even to save your life?’
No one could save her. ‘No.’
‘I am offering you this opportunity.’ Solomon lowered his head as if tired. ‘Your only chance.’
‘I am not interested.’
‘In the past, you have killed for money or for whatever reason you believe justified it.’
She wanted to leave but sat down beside him again.
‘Now it’s over and you’re a target. Every minute of every day you’re wondering if it will be a bullet or a knife. Some would rather you died than expose what you know about them. You have no friends left.’
Unable to disagree, she remained silent.
‘You’re alone in the world.’
‘How could anyone help me.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I’m offering freedom from those who wish you harm.’
Doubt rippled across her face until she was frowning.
‘If you refuse, you’ll survive months, weeks, maybe only days.’ He studied her. ‘Or perhaps that final act would be a release?’
She glanced around, her nerves jangling.
‘Yes, your enemies are everywhere. Some rogue Nazis would kill you. Many in French Intelligence regard you as a collaborateur. The British believe you conspired against them. And the Americans…’ He waved a despairing hand in the air.
‘You can’t help me.’
‘I have friends in important positions.’ He sighed. ‘The American authorities want you. They are eager to question you about your activities during the war, and I assure you they’ll keep you locked up until they have the information they require. After that…’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I doubt I would be of use to them.’
‘But,’ he turned with a smile, ‘if you assist me, we will offer you immunity and set you up with a new identity in America.’
Saying nothing, she just stared at a Paris that appeared alien to her.
‘Look at this.’ He extricated papers from the file, handing them over, and watched as she leafed through them with a frown. Clipped to the pages were two photographs of a woman with blonde hair and a boy of ten or eleven.
‘You understand?’
She put down the pages, and her eyes welled. ‘Why me?’
‘You are a friend of Ben Peters. He can lead you to them.’
She caught her breath.
He smiled and tugged her sleeve. ‘Yes, we know all about him, too.’ Then his face
darkened. ‘Do this. Or the Holocaust could happen again. We’ve not taken this course of action lightly, believe me. As family men with children and grandchildren, we agonised about it. And there are some who think it would be wrong. But how different the world would be today if Hitler hadn’t survived childhood.’
‘But why?’
‘That will become apparent in due course.’
‘What about the woman?’
‘That’s your call. The Nazis will move heaven and earth to get the boy. You can’t let that happen. It’s unfortunate, but the boy has to die.’
11
London
Ben walked out of Selfridges in Oxford Street carrying two large bags that contained Pickering’s order for clothes to replace the ones at his home. Helpful, but inquisitive, the assistant attempted to wheedle out of him the reason for his purchase of so many garments not his size. Pickering’s physique was big, and he had requested a jacket, coat, two pairs of pants, half a dozen shirts, underclothes, socks and a pair of brown brogues.
‘They’re for my father,’ he answered another enquiring look. ‘Too lazy to do his own shopping.’ He offered a big smile and looked away, and the assistant gave up, realising he wouldn’t get more of an explanation.
He hailed a taxi and clambered in with his bags and wondered when he would be able to hand them over to him. Since his departure from the pub, he had heard nothing and didn’t know where he might be.
Was he being watched? If so, they would expect Pickering to be in contact. An unwelcome thought entered his mind. What if MI6 were right, and he was aiding and abetting a criminal, a double agent, a traitor? He soon rejected that but wondered what he had been up to.
If you throw mud at a wall, some of it will stick.
In his dealings with MI6, the normal rights or wrongs didn’t apply, just their arcane rules, which could change at any time. They didn’t waver and gave no favours, no matter how long a person worked for them. Something deemed the right course of action in a given situation might be regarded wrong on another day. After the war, Russia and communism became the No.1 enemy, and everyone saw Reds under every bed. Unless proven otherwise, anyone could be suspected of being a communist sympathiser.
