by Sharon Maas
‘Long may he live! I raise my glass to the Führer!’
Karl jumped to his feet and indeed, raised his stein as he cried the rallying words. It was a call to action: all the men at the table followed suit, and those at the neighbouring table turned their heads and noticed, and officers jumped to their feet and raised their mugs and glasses, and soon all the men were standing with drinks held aloft and the room echoed with the cry: ‘Long live the Führer!’
Sibyl felt sick. She actually felt the vomit rising, physically, in her gorge, but she could not let it show; she watched and waited – as did Ilse – until everyone was seated again and the conversation moved on to anecdotes. These stories of what they had done that day, which citizens they had harassed and how, made her sicker yet, and still she sat through it with an interested mien, eyes fixed on each speaker as if fascinated by his words; and all the time she said to herself: I am just playing a part. It is my job. I am an actor in a film. Playing a part. This is not me.
‘I need to go to the Ladies’,’ she whispered to von Haagen. ‘Where is it?’
‘You’re best off going to the one down in the basement,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s a bit cleaner.’
She stood up, excused herself, picked up her handbag, and left the room. A staircase in a corner of the large hallway led up to the bedrooms; and another led down. She took the down staircase, and found herself in a large, bleak area. Lockers occupied one corner of the basement and there was a storeroom, which she remembered from the days when she used to play here with the other children and they would come in through the back door, covered in mud. There was also a lavatory.
When she came out again she found a woman waiting outside; she had been sitting at the next table; Sibyl had noticed her looking across several times. ‘Sorry I took so long,’ said Sibyl.
‘It’s all right,’ said the women. And then, in a furtive whisper, ‘Can we speak French?’
‘Bien sûr!’
‘Excuse me talking to you like this: I really need to speak to someone! Someone in the same position! My name is Grete, what’s your name?’
‘Jeanne. Pleased to meet you.’
‘It’s just that – you seem like a lady. And you have a German friend. Like me. I was wondering – perhaps we could be friends? I am so lonely. All my neighbours, all my former friends, they detest me for being a collaborator. But what can I do? I have a child to support, a child to feed! I cannot let my child starve! But I do need a friend. Perhaps?’
‘Of course. I work in the cobbler’s shop in Gerechtigkeitsgasse.’
‘Where is that? I do not know all these new names in Colmar!’
Sibyl described the way to her, and returned to her table. She knew what Grete was speaking of; she too had noticed that the French women she ran into shunned her, looked down at her. But it had not bothered her; she was not looking for friends. But Grete was welcome to come for a chat, if that was what she needed.
* * *
And so the minutes passed, and the hours; and then the men began looking at their watches, or up to the clock on the wall, above the door. The atmosphere seemed to buzz with nervous anticipation and the raucous half-drunken bellowing most definitely lowered several notches as the clock’s hands moved towards ten, and men began to whisper: ‘Sssh! It’s coming! Nearly time!’ and then it was there: complete silence, but just for a moment because little darts of radio static pierced the silence and then a voice: Soldatensender Belgrad. Solider transmitter Belgrade. ‘Lili Marlene’.
Several beats of military march music punctuated the silence, melting into a sultry female voice. Plaintive, yearning: a song about a young German soldier waiting for his love beneath a lantern, outside his barracks, before going off to war.
* * *
The effect on the men around the table was electric. These men, these soldiers who had just a minute earlier had been extolling their brutish acts, boasting of their ability to browbeat little old ladies for speaking French or raiding a house suspected of hoarding French books in the cellar – they became, right before Sibyl’s eyes, little boys. Beefy faces flushed with too much alcohol fell forward; eyes hard and flat as stones melted and leaked. Handkerchiefs flew out of pockets, to wipe away stray tears and blow runny noses. Shoulders slumped, elbows rested on the tables as heads fell into receptive hands. Sibyl looked around: it was happening everywhere, at every table. She turned to look at von Haagen, in the chair beside her. He sat far back from the table and, his head tilted slightly back, gazed into space, arms crossed at his chest, legs wrapped around the legs of the chair. His face seemed etched in stone, but then he turned to look at her and she saw that he was struggling with some powerful emotion; struggling, and losing, for now he closed his eyes and yes, those were tears stealing out from beneath those closed lashes.
One of the men – Gottfried, was his name, Sibyl remembered – leaned forward, throwing his upper body onto the table, and wept openly, loudly. Behind her, a man was blubbering. Some were stroking other men’s backs, or even, she saw, holding another man as his shoulders heaved in silent sobs. It was extraordinary, unbelievable. How could a song produce such an overwhelming effect?
The song came to an end, men came to their senses. They blew their noses, wiped their faces, exchanged awkward glances and embarrassed comments: So, that was it for today – she really hits the soft spot – every time, damned tears – home, my shining star.
Von Haagen looked the most embarrassed of all; a mortified smile, a self-conscious removal of his cap and stroking the back of his hair, revealed a discomfort Sibyl knew too well; it was the expression male patients bore when as a nurse she washed their intimate body parts. It had to be done and she did it, and now she knew it was the same: von Haagen had brought her here for this very reason, to hear this very song, and for nothing else. She gave him a slight smile, encouraging. He had opened a totally new area of exposure to her. It had to be encouraged; and indeed, the smile finally brought forth words.
‘Were you able to follow the lyrics?’
‘Yes, mostly: a soldier saying goodbye to his beloved, under a lamp-post.’
‘It is wonderful, isn’t it? We listen to it as often as we can. Radio Belgrade plays it every night for German soldiers everywhere, by popular demand. It unites us all: wherever we are, whatever we are suffering, we remember the one we love. This song brings us together, for we all listen to it. We listen, and we weep. Whatever loneliness we are suffering, being away from our families, it touches the heart. You see, German soldiers are not the soulless brutes the French dismiss us as. We are all at depth sentimental fools, dreaming of our beloved, of our homes, our Heimat.’
‘Is this why you brought me here? To see this, to understand this?’
‘Exactly. Because I can feel, I can sense, your prejudice against us, against me, against the German race, and it is painful to me. Only by exposing you to the romantic over-enthusiasm you have just witnessed can you comprehend the complexity of the German soul, the profundity of its depths.’
‘I see. But why do you want me to understand this?’
‘But surely, Fräulein Dauguet, you are sensitive enough to feel what I have no words to express?’
‘I cannot read minds, Herr Major. If you want to tell me something, just tell me.’
And don’t be an arrogant jackass about it. No amount of maudlin songs can correct that side of your pompous complex soul, was what she wanted to add, but didn’t.
‘If this is what you wanted me to hear – can we go home now? It’s an interesting conversation, but maybe another time. I’m tired, it’s past my bedtime.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Let’s go.’
They said their farewells. Sibyl shook everyone’s hand, and Ilse’s was even limper than before. Many of the officers squeezed hers so tightly it hurt, or held on to it so long she had to pull away.
‘I apologise for their behaviour. They are all drunk,’ said von Haagen as he helped her into the sidecar. ‘So primitiv
.’
He helped her out again when they reached the cobbler shop.
‘Fräulein Dauguet, you hinted that we could meet another time. May I be so presumptuous as to assume that means you would allow me to escort you out on another occasion? The next time, perhaps, a slightly more intimate engagement? Perhaps at a nice restaurant – Der Rote Löwe comes to mind – or even a ride out into the country? For the latter I would of course borrow a sturdier vehicle than this old thing’ – he patted the motorcycle –‘and we could make a day of it, on my next day off.’
‘That… that sounds pleasant,’ she tried not to stutter, straightened her back. ‘I have Sundays off. That is the only day I could take time off during the daytime.’
‘Well then, let’s say next Sunday,’ he said. ‘Auf Wiedersehen, gnädiges Fräulein. It was a pleasure spending the evening with you. I do hope you enjoyed it.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
She hunted for the door key in her clutch purse, threw him a smile, turned the key in the lock, and entered the shop. Once inside she threw herself against the closed door and took a deep breath. It was over – for tonight.
‘There you are,’ said a voice in the darkness. ‘I was beginning to get worried.’
‘Oncle Yves!’ she leaped away from the door, reached in the darkness for the cord that would switch on the shop’s single ceiling bulb. Light flooded the shop. At the back, next to the door leading to the workshop, puffing at a cigarette, he sat.
‘Where did you get the cigarette from?’
‘Don’t be so nosy! You agents are supposed to understand the principle of never ask, so that you don’t know! A man has to have his secrets. What took you so long? And – pooh! You ask about my smoking – what about yours? You stink, my dear. That lovely dress. You will never get the smell out of it.’
‘I’m going to give it back to him anyway. I’m not accepting presents from him just yet.’
‘He probably got it from one of his whores.’
‘Whores! Really! Oncle, you are terrible!’
‘But of course he has his whores. There are two whorehouses in Colmar, one with French whores and one with German ones. The soldiers can take their pick. But I believe the German ones are reserved for officers.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Again, too many questions. Now tell me about your evening.’
She drew up a stool from behind the counter and she told him.
‘Ah, yes. The lovely Lili Marlene. She is quite a famous lady. Beloved by soldiers everywhere, not just the Germans. Did you know there is also an English version? I heard it on the BBC.’
‘Since when do you listen to the BBC?’
‘Too many questions again. What is this, an interrogation? You don’t need to know. Yes, Marlene Dietrich sings it in English and all the Allied soldiers listen to it. Whereever they might be, Africa, Asia. Europe…’
‘You know this about some silly sentimental soldier song, yet you did not know about the Normandy invasion. Very strange.’
‘I am picky about the news I hear. And anyway, my BBC connection is only recent. And that is all I am going to tell you about it. So tell me more. Did your Herr Major declare his undying love for you?’
She sighed. ‘No, it didn’t come to that. But I fear it he was hinting at it. Or something like it. He wants to meet again. Next Sunday. A picnic in the country or something. The Wehrmacht in Colmar really are a lazy bunch, going off with girls on Sunday. I thought they were fighting a war.’
‘In Colmar there is no war to fight. They only have to harass the citizens into following the rules and making us all into good respectable Germans. Over my dead body.’
‘Don’t say that, Oncle Yves. It gives me the creeps.’
‘The day I become a German is the day they take me out of this house feet first. Speaking of which, let me tell you a joke about dead Alsatians, oui?’
‘One should not joke about the dead.’
‘But this joke is really funny, and all the more funny because it is true. See, there was this family, the Kaltenmeiers, they lived in a big house over that way.’ He gestured vaguely. ‘A good old Alsatian family, but they were half German and the lady of the house went to visit her relatives in Cologne, in Rhineland. And she had an accident there and died. And because returning the body here – not to mention buying a coffin and burial – would be so expensive, the family here requested that she be cremated over in Cologne. So they did that. The family that side put the ashes in an empty soup jar, with a screw top, and sent it back. So the family here cooked the soup which tasted a little bland so they added cabbage and beetroot and enjoyed it. A week later the death documents arrived. What a commotion! They had eaten their own mother. And serve them right, for collaboration with the Boche.’
‘Oncle Yves, I don’t believe a word of that story.’
‘Suit yourself, but it is true. Everyone in Colmar laughs about it. About the family that ate corpse soup. And did you hear the one about the family that had their grandfather’s ashes in a tin on the shelf and a child was playing with it and it fell and spilled on the floor and the maid…’
‘Oncle Yves! That’s enough. I’m off to bed. I’m exhausted.’
‘Good night, my dear. You know, I’m starting to feel you really are my niece.’
‘Thank you, Oncle. Bonne nuit. You are coming too?’
She planted a kiss on his forehead and helped him to his feet. Arm in arm they made their way through the shop, then single file up the stairs.
Chapter 24
There would not be a chance to see Jacques before the next meeting with von Haagen, and certainly no wireless contact with Acrobat. She was on her own with this.
Midweek she received post from Colmar’s town administration; her new papers were ready, she should come and collect them. Her case-worker was a portly sergeant, the buttons of whose uniform strained to remain closed, the seams of his sleeves slightly overstretched. He sat at an oversized desk, files piled up on one side of it, the other side empty but for a single framed photo of the Führer; the same photo hung on the wall behind him, along with swastika banners on either side.
He beamed as she approached.
‘So, now you are officially a German citizen! I congratulate you, Fräulein Schuster. So take a seat.’
‘Fräulein – Schuster? I think maybe you have the wrong person?’
‘Indeed not. As you know, the Germanisation of the Alsace region involves the renaming of all those who still have French names. Your former name was undeniably French. We have taken it upon ourselves to give you an appropriate new name. The name chosen for you is, as you can see, Marlene Schuster.’ He pushed a brand new German identity card over to her. It bore her photograph, and indeed, the name Marlene Schuster.
‘Now all you need to do is sign these other documents, showing that you have received your new identity. You may apply for a passport if you so wish, but you will need another photograph and, of course, to pay the fee. So – please sign these documents.’
She trembled with outrage; but she could not let it show.
‘Who – who chose this name for me? And why?’
‘Naturally, it was not just picked out of a hat. The surname was chosen due to your relationship with the cobbler Yann Schuster.’
‘Yann Schuster? But…’
‘I believe he still clings to his French name, your uncle – there is a dispensation for citizens over the age of seventy, as they will not be procreating and will soon die out. But that is his official name.’
‘And why – why Marlene? Why not at least something similar to my old name? Johanna, for instance?’
‘Sadly there is already a Johanna Schuster on file in Colmar. We wanted to avoid duplications.’
‘But then – surely…’
‘The issuing of new documents and new names is a process that usually takes months. It can be speeded up under special application. In your case, there was some inter
vention through the Wehrmacht. The name Marlene was chosen for you and your case prioritised. You must have friends in high places – it helps.’
By now, Sibyl’s outrage had subsided and she was beginning to see the positive aspects of this new development; and to smile at that very initial reaction of indignation. It showed how much she had identified with the name Jeanne Dauguet, how much she had actually become Jeanne Dauguet; that was a good thing. She had truly shed one personality and taken on another. Marlene Schuster was nothing more than a label, and it helped to solidify her presence in Colmar. An official German citizen, approved by the powers that be, issued with genuine documents by the enemy – what more could an amateur agent want? What better cover? Friends in high places – that could only be one person. So, von Haagen was behind the name Marlene; her camouflage was complete. The label was irrelevant. A German citizen, with authentic German papers! She smiled to herself. SOE headquarters would be pleased.
‘You may now have your original documents back: your birth certificate and lycée certificate from Paris. They are no longer needed. Just a signature, now, Fräulein Schuster.’
She signed the dotted line – a strange new signature, foreign, unfamiliar, but now hers, her very own stamp of authenticity, handed to her on a plate by the enemy. She tucked the new ID card into her purse and stood up.
‘Thank you.’
* * *
Oncle Yves was not impressed. ‘Marlene Schuster! What a farce! How ridiculous! To me you remain Jeanne, my beloved niece.’
‘But as you know, Oncle, even Jeanne is not…’
‘Ssshh! Tais-toi! I don’t want to know. For you it might be a thing of ease, to slip out of one identity and in to another, just like a lizard changes its skin. To me and to the people of Colmar it is an abomination. So you now see it?’
She nodded. ‘Of course. And my first reaction was indeed infuriation – how dare they? But don’t you see, Oncle, this is the very reason I am here. Changing names, identities: it’s the bread and butter of an agent, not to be taken personally. To speed up the end of the oppression, to chase the Boche out of Colmar. It is going to happen, Oncle. I promise you it will happen.’
