The Night, The Day

by Andrew Kane

  His hard work had gained him the rank of Captain two years earlier, just after the Germans invaded and occupied the north of France, and the Vichy regime was established to “rule” in the south. Now, having retained that position despite increasing Nazi influence over Vichy, he has what he always wanted: respect. Not only do his fellow officers and civilians revere him, even the Gestapo treats him with dignity, though he knows that is ephemeral. In his heart, he actually hates the Germans, as any self-respecting Frenchman must, but he also realizes that doing their bidding is the only way to maintain his life as it is. He must demonstrate his cooperation.

  What does it matter to him, rounding up a bunch of slimy Jews for a bunch of equally slimy Germans? At least this way, France will finally be rid of one of its oldest scourges. Then, when the liberation comes – his country is always, sooner or later, liberated – all of France will belong once again to the French.

  He looks at his men, expecting weariness in their eyes, yet they appear eager, waiting for his command. He wonders if this is because they know this is the last house of the day, or if they are beginning to enjoy themselves.

  Including him, there are ten Frenchmen, four Gestapo police and their chief. The Nazis are spread too thinly throughout Europe; this is all they could spare for a city the size of Lyon. But he knows reinforcements are on their way.

  “Proceed!” he orders.

  At once, the Vichy and Gestapo policemen approach the house. They are not storming, this is not a military operation, nor do they anticipate any resistance. The Jews acquiesce so pitifully, he muses, though he knows they have no other options. He wonders how the banker’s wife will look when she sees he is in charge of all this.

  He and the Gestapo chief remain in the street, watching. One of the men pounds on the door, yelling, “Open up, this is the police.”

  He observes the banker open the door and the men force their way in. He hears the wife scream, “What is this?” And he no longer wonders what her screams would sound like. His men scamper throughout the house, as two Gestapo officers escort the banker and the wife out to the street.

  The Gestapo chief steps up to the couple, looks each of them in the eye, and asks, “Where are your children?”

  He watches carefully. This part he chooses to leave to the Germans; they are so adept at being cruel.

  “They are visiting their cousins in Switzerland for the summer,” the banker responds.

  “Liar!” the Gestapo chief yells as he whips the butt of his pistol across the man’s face.

  The man falls to the ground.

  He looks at the banker’s wife, wondering if she even recognizes him. She is absorbed in her fear and gives no indication. “I am the policeman you refused to sleep with,” he wants to say. Instead, he appears indifferent.

  The Gestapo chief turns to her, “Where are your children?”

  She remains silent. The banker is on his knees, spitting blood, but manages the words: “I told you, they are not here.”

  He knows the banker is lying, as does the Gestapo chief. The children cannot be in Switzerland for the summer because that would have required transit papers, and there is no record of any such papers.

  “I will ask one more time,” the Gestapo chief says.

  “They are in Switzerland,” the wife finally says, tears flowing from her eyes. “We got them travel papers, illegal ones, forged. We paid heavily for them, there is no record.”

  He ponders this. He knows there has been an underground market in travel papers for Jews. Now, perhaps, he has an opportunity to crack the ring and find the perpetrators. How will the Germans regard him after that? He will be a hero. He steps forward, stands beside the Gestapo chief, and says to the woman, “That is most interesting.”

  He puts his face an inch from hers. Still no sign of recognition. “Tell me, who sold you these papers?”

  She is silent.

  The Gestapo chief turns to the husband.

  “Wait!” she says. “A Frenchman. I do not know his name, but I can describe him. He is short, stocky, wears glasses and works for the Foreign Ministry.”

  He contemplates her response. Now he knows she is lying. The Ministry is heavily policed, with impeccable security; there is no way the papers could have come from there. Illegal papers are, however, being manufactured by the partisans. Of that much he is aware. But is she lying about the source of the papers, or about their existence altogether? Illegal papers are hard to come by, and most are so poorly done that they are of little use. The banker’s house, on the other hand, is quite large. There are many nooks and crannies in which the children could be hiding.

  He looks at the Gestapo chief. “She is lying,” he declares.

  “No! I am telling the truth,” she yells as the Gestapo chief turns to the two German officers.

  “Take them away.”

  One of the Germans lifts the limp banker off the ground and drags the man to the truck, while the other grabs the wife. She is crying and has lost her resistance; she is fearful for her husband. The other Gestapo and Vichy officers exit the house.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” one of his men answers.

  The Nazis look at their chief and nod in agreement.

  “What do you suggest?” the Gestapo chief asks him.

  He knows this is a test of his resolve, one he will not fail. He addresses his men: “Search it again! Tear it apart if you must!”

  The men scurry back into the house. The chief turns to him with a smile of approval. “I will return to headquarters with the parents. You and the others can join me there when you find the little runts.” The German is careful not to phrase his words as orders per se, but that is exactly what they are.

  He nods. He is loath to be commanded by a German but realizes he has little choice. He wants to spit on this German, but for now he will do as he believes he must.

  He joins the men in their search. Two hours pass. Rooms, furniture and walls are torn apart, and still nothing. He knows they are somewhere, he senses it. He also knows they are not going to be found. He calls off the search. The Gestapo will be displeased, but he will surprise them yet.

  He gets into his car alone and follows behind the officers in their truck. He drives for three minutes, then pulls over to the side of the road. He knows they will wonder where he’s gone, but when he finally reappears, they will understand and praise his ingenuity.

  He gets out of the car and starts backtracking by foot. It is dark, and he is able to stay in the shadows. He catches sight of the house, hides himself in a wooded area, and waits. Close to an hour passes. He could use a cigarette but is afraid the flame might reveal his presence. He is growing restless, but he will stay all night if need be.

  Suddenly, after another hour, he thinks he sees movement in the house. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness and he is certain, yes, he is sure… there it is, the girl emerges from a basement window. He watches her help her little brother and wonders where they could have been hiding down there, but that is unimportant now. All that matters is that he has them.

  Gun in hand, he sneaks up as the girl pulls her brother from the window. He knows he will not need the gun, they are children after all, but he will use it to scare them, to prevent them from running.

  “Very good,” he says, revealing his presence.

  The children turn to face him.

  He sees the fear in their eyes. The girl has a small suitcase in her hand. He figures the suitcase has money, jewelry, or both, something to purchase safety and transit.

  “What do you want?” the girl asks. Her tone is strikingly similar to her mother’s.

  “What do I want?” he ponders aloud. “Well, it looks like I want you and your brother. Two little Jews who thought they could escape.” He grins. “And while I’m at it, I think I’ll take a peek in that suitcase.” />
  He grabs the case and slowly opens it with one hand, while his other hand steadies the gun. “Well, well, what do we have here?” He examines what looks like a fortune in cash and jewelry, then closes the bag. He knows exactly what he is going to do with it.

  He is certain these children were not simply abandoned by their parents without strict instructions of where to go. The Jews have all kinds of connections and plans. He searches them and finds in the girl’s pocket a map of the southern hills. A trail is drawn in red on the map, and an “X” marks a destination. He assumes that this is some sort of place of refuge, a Jewish hideout or perhaps even a partisan base. Whatever it is, he is certain his German “friends” will make good use of it.

  He leads the children to his car, places them in the back seat and the suitcase in the trunk. He has no plans to share the contents of the suitcase with anyone. They will be added to the already sizable nest egg he has accumulated over the past few days. The roundup is bound to continue for months, he surmises. Who knows how much of a fortune I will amass by the time it is over?

  He arrives at one of the city’s gymnasiums where the Jews are being held, and escorts the children inside. He has not been in this building since the roundup began. The scene strikes him. Hundreds of Jews, many of whom have been there for close to a week, lacking baths and adequate toilet facilities. The stench of feces and urine is nauseating. He had planned to find the parents and personally bring the children to them, to teach them and the others a lesson in Vichy ingenuity, to see if the mother would at last acknowledge him. But he finds he can no longer stay in this place, the foulness is too overwhelming. He deposits the children with a guard and leaves.

  He sucks in the fresh air as he hurries to his car. He is fighting an urge to vomit. There are Vichy police and guards outside the building; he must not show weakness in front of them. He gets into the car, pulls out his handkerchief and retches. Afterward, he looks around, taking comfort in his certainty that no one had seen.

  He passes the train station on his way home, noting that it is from here the Jews will be sent to Drancy, an internment camp on the outskirts of Paris, before they are transported to their final destination. He is impressed with German efficiency, the choice of freight cars rather than passenger trains because they can hold more people. He only wishes they would hurry up and finish this ugly business. The next transfer from Lyon is in two days; he assumes the banker’s family will be included. He is aware of their ultimate fate. He has heard stories of the camps in Germany and Poland. He chooses not to dwell on that. He cares only about purifying his country, not where these “wanderers” are headed. That, he leaves to the Germans.

  He continues on his way. In the morning, the Gestapo chief will learn of his having found the children, greet him warmly and praise him for a job well done. He will react with the obligatory grace. The map he confiscated will simply be icing on the cake. For that, the Gestapo will be in debt to him.

  He arrives home. His parents, who he lives with, are still awake, cleaning up after their guests.

  His father sees him. “A late night for you,” he says. “You look tired.”

  “I’ve been chasing after criminals.”

  “Criminals,” his father says skeptically. “What kind of criminals?”

  For some reason, he cannot bring himself to tell the truth. He wonders why he feels this way; after all, his father is neither a friend of the Jews nor ignorant of his role in the roundup. Yet, somehow, he has a sense of shame – at least in front of this man – over hunting down children.

  “Partisans,” he responds.

  “What’s in the bag?” his father asks, pointing to the suitcase.

  “Oh, this,” he says defensively. “Just some papers from work.”

  His father gives him a disdainful look and walks away. Until this point, he had no clue how his father felt about the Vichy government’s collaboration with the Germans; the subject had never been discussed. He’d wondered if he would have been better off with the truth. Now he knows better.

  He goes upstairs to his room, removes his uniform, and examines the contents of the suitcase. There are many fine pieces of jewelry, mostly diamonds and gold, and enough cash for an ordinary man to live on for a year. He inspects the jewelry carefully and recognizes one of the brooches, a pink cameo the wife had worn the day he had attempted to seduce her. It is a simple piece, probably late nineteenth century Italian, a design of a wavy-haired woman walking through the wind, carrying a vine, framed in gold. Rather pretty, he tells himself as he notices an engraving on the back: To Leila, all my love, Philip.

  He stares at the brooch, admiring its workmanship. His father and many other hardworking Frenchmen could barely afford the types of ornaments frequently adorned by the Jews. And now all this belongs to him. He knows he will sell the jewelry when the time is right – but this piece he will keep, as a memento of sorts.

  He pulls a panel from the floor and retrieves a large wooden box that is hidden underneath. He deposits the cash and jewelry in the box, puts it back in its hiding place and replaces the floorboard. He lies down on the bed and closes his eyes. It has been an arduous day, and tomorrow will be much the same.

  Jacques Benoît knew that he could never erase these images. These, and others. He thought about the brooch, why he had kept it all these years. Perhaps because it was his only link to the past, a reminder of what he must always hide if he was to survive. And perhaps it was also a symbol of his guilt, an irrational need to keep something of this woman and her family alive. Whatever it was, he could never bring himself to discard it.

  He had often imagined what would happen if he were captured, how the world would know only his depravity, the man he had once been; how they would embrace but a piece of the truth and ignore the rest. Who would care about his accomplishments over the past forty years? Who would give weight to his benevolence and philanthropy? No one, not even his wife and family.

  That was why his visits with the Jewish psychologist were now so crucial. Initially, he had agreed to see Martin Rosen, not to comfort his wife nor to satisfy Dr. Reddy, but as a ruse, a way of confusing his hunters into thinking that maybe he wasn’t their man to begin with. After all, how could the person they suspected him to be ever seek help from a Jew? It had been a clever move and must have assuredly infused doubt in their minds, especially after that fiasco over the identity of the auto worker in Ohio, the trial, the publicity, the eventual embarrassment.

  But now, after having met Rosen, Jacques Benoît had a new and even better plan, one that strengthened his resolve and convinced him that, so long as he played his part carefully, he could finally gain what he needed to be free.

  He recalled the information he had gathered on Martin Rosen’s personal life. It was surprising even to him what a man of resources could learn about another man. His people had scoured Rosen’s background down to the nitty-gritty details, and with all he now knew, he was certain he had made the right choice. In every way, Martin Rosen was ideal for what he had in mind.

  Jacques Benoît contemplated all this as his limo continued down Middle Neck Road through the busiest section of town. He turned around for a moment and looked out the rear window, wondering if he was being followed.

  chapter 8

  Jacques Benoît sat across the table from his wife in silence, waiting for the inevitable question about his therapy session. He couldn’t blame her, really; in a single act, he had shattered her nearly perfect existence. Now, still skeptical of his explanations, she sought answers.

  Martha Benoît had the things most women yearned for: a loving and successful husband, devoted children, position and respect in the community, more money than she could possibly spend in a lifetime, and health. At 63, she still had the figure of a high-priced model, which she owed to genetics, a daily two-hour exercise grind and a strict organic diet. Her tennis player’s tan obviated the need fo
r heavy makeup, while her wavy auburn hair and hazel eyes made her appear more free-spirited than she actually was.

  “So, how did it go with Dr. Rosen?” she asked, caressing the rim of her wine glass with her forefinger.

  Jacques hesitated for a moment, sipped his bourbon, and answered, “Fine. The doctor is a real gentleman.”

  “Oh please, Jacques,” she snapped back. “It doesn’t concern me how the doctor is. I want to know how you’re doing!”

  “How do I appear?” he asked.

  “Why, wonderful, of course. A few weeks ago, you tried to kill yourself, and you’ve been just wonderful since. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  He paused. “I suppose it should.”

  A welcome interruption ensued as the maid entered the dining room with dinner.

  “That’s all right, Consuelo,” Martha said as the maid was about to serve the Cornish hens. “You can just leave the tray on the table. We’ll help ourselves tonight.”

  Consuelo quickly complied. Jacques looked at his wife with amazement. She was truly annoyed, a side of her he’d rarely seen.

  “I am sorry for what I did, Martha. You know that you are the last person on earth I would ever hurt.”

  “But I’m the person you did hurt, Jacques, and so far, the reasons you’ve given me are wholly insufficient.”

  “I feel as though you are cross-examining me.”

  “I have to tell you how I feel.”

  “I do not know what more you expect of me. I am seeing that psychologist, I am trying to find out if there is some, as you say, underlying reason for what happened.”

  “Are you?”