by Sharon Maas
The telephone rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Margaux, and walked into the hall.
Oncle Yves began to sing the ‘The Marseillaise’ in a shaky old-man voice, and everyone joined in, and Sibyl tried to join in but her heart was heavy, aching, actually, but it didn’t show and she had to hide it. It was unpatriotic. Treasonous, even. Himmler is dead! She scolded herself. It’s a day of great rejoicing! The monster of the Nazis is dead and now it will all collapse, and it’s all thanks to you. She should be proud of herself. But all she could think of was Wolf: Wolf’s trusting eyes, Wolf saying, you are the confidante of my heart.
The kitchen door opened as Margaux returned. But she didn’t enter the room. She stood in the doorway. They sang, waving the French flag; they rejoiced, raised glasses on high, grinned at each other, hearts filled with the stirring, bloodthirsty lyrics of the Marseillaise:
* * *
Grab your weapons, citizens!
Form your battalions!
Let us march! Let us march!
May impure blood
Water our fields!
* * *
Jacques noticed Margaux, standing in the doorway. Sibyl had seen her long ago, locked eyes with her, read the rigid lines of her now unsmiling face. Jacques stopped singing.
‘Come on in, Margaux. What’s the matter?’
Margaux did not move. Now everyone stopped singing. Everyone stared. Somehow, they understood, without words. But finally, Margaux spoke, in a strangled stuttering voice.
‘The meeting was postponed. The bombed room? It was empty. Himmler is alive.’
Chapter 45
Jacques spirited Sibyl back to Colmar within the hour. She could not risk a Château Gauthier vehicle; one had to assume the SS would be swarming everywhere; and they were. They went by foot, on bicycle, by horse carriage and delivery van, from village to village, friendly farm to friendly farm. Not that Sibyl considered herself a prime suspect, but she was the perpetrator, and her heart was galloping, and not until she was safely behind her counter at the cobbler’s did her breath flow comfortably again. And not even then.
News of the bomb attack was all over town, said Oncle Yves, who had gone to the market to hear the gossip. Everyone knew. Everyone knew it had failed. No-one knew the details.
What had gone wrong? There was no way of knowing. Had the room been checked for explosives, and evacuated at the last moment? Had the conference been postponed for other reasons? Where was Himmler now? Where was von Haagen?
Did he suspect her?
That was the question hammering at the back of Sibyl’s mind, for a guilty mind is a restless mind, perception biased to the point of paranoia.
He had told her. He must suspect her. They would come after her…
But perhaps not. She should have stayed away from Colmar. No. It was right to return. Suicide pills, hidden in shirt pockets and lingerie – just in case. Brazen it out. If they came for her: deny, deny, deny. Or did they have proof? Had von Haagen confessed to indiscretions? To pillow talk, even without a pillow? What did they know? What did he think? Would he be back?
Sibyl sat in the cobbler’s shop behind the counter, reading Rilke poetry, or trying to read, as her mind was chaos.
The window was still boarded up; she could not see the street, which made it all so much worse. If the Gestapo came it would be without warning, bursting through the door; no jangle of bells to announce them. No polite small talk. No Guten Tag, Frau Schuster. They’d charge in with pointing pistols, frogmarch her away.
But maybe not.
It was, she realised, the ultimate test for von Haagen. Trust no-one: it was the fundamental warning given to all wartime players. Trust no-one. As a good German he should turn himself in, turn her in. Yes: I told my fiancée. She knew. I am the leak. She is the leak.
And yet. Von Haagen’s face hovered before her mind’s eye, and in it was a trust so inviolable, so intimately fused with his very sense of survival, his need to survive this war and live on with her at his side: it generated a reciprocal trust, trust in him. That he would not betray her.
You are the other half of my soul, he had said at their last meeting. My better half.
He clung to that belief as a drowning man to a lifebelt. She knew he would never let go, never betray her. Betrayal was her game, not his. And it would continue. Her job was not yet over.
And yet: she had wept for him, believing him dead, believing she had killed him. She had not only wept for him: it had been a complete breakdown, a crumbling of self, faced with the magnitude of her betrayal, faced with the knowledge that she had done the unthinkable, betrayed love that was true and genuine.
In a matter of hours she had regained her professional identity, put such sentimental notions behind her. She had done her job, and that was all. She would continue to do it; she would wear the mask she had been contracted to wear, and life as Marlene Schuster, cobbler’s assistant, would continue. Von Haagen would return. She would betray him again and again; for the duration.
* * *
They came that evening. They did not burst through the door in the scenario of her imagination and her fears. They came, indeed, to the familiar jangling of bells, and they greeted her by name. Again, it was two of them; but not the same two.
‘Sicherheitspolizei. Sturmbannführer Weber. This is Obersturmführer Müller. Good evening, Fräulein Schuster. Please be so kind as to show us your identity papers.’
Sibyl did as asked. Her identity card was passed between them, inspected and handed back. Sturmbannführer Weber nodded. Obersturmführer Müller took a notebook out of his uniform pocket and held it with a pencil poised above it. Sturmbannführer Weber nodded at his colleague.
‘In Ordnung. Now, Fräulein Schuster, if you don’t mind, we have a few questions regarding some of your personal relationships. We believe you are the niece of Herr Schuster. Is that correct?’
Sibyl nodded. ‘Yes. That’s true.’
Obersturmführer Müller scribbled in his notebook.
‘But you did not grow up in Colmar. You came from Paris, recently. Is that also true?’
‘Yes. But I was born in Colmar and my parents are both Alsatians. Were. My father died when I was a child.’
That was a mistake. Answer questions, but only what was asked. Don’t offer them more.
Sturmbannführer Weber nodded again, as if to agree with her. ‘Now, Fräulein Schuster, we are interested in your more personal relationships. Your friends and – ah – lovers. We believe you are the mistress of Oberst Wolfgang von Haagen?’
She shook her head. ‘I am not his mistress. I am his fiancée.’
Sturmbannführer Weber smirked. ‘Often those two are one and the same. But we will accept your terminology. Our next question is, how long have you been intimate with the Herr Oberst – though I believe he was a Major back then?’
‘We met in July.’
‘We would like details of that first meeting. How did you approach the Herr Oberst? And why?’
‘I did not approach him. He approached me.’
‘Go on – tell us how this encounter took place.’
‘I was walking from the station with a heavy suitcase. Major von Haagen very kindly offered to carry the suitcase for me.’
‘You did not approach him, ask for help?’
‘No.’
They both nodded, as if Sibyl’s denial confirmed information they already had. Obersturmführer Müller scribbled furiously.
‘Now, we would like to know more about the details of your relationship. I assume the two of you have many intimate conversations?’
‘Well, we have conversations. I don’t know what you mean by intimate.’
‘Well – of an intimate nature. Lovers are after all inclined to share the details of their lives, their hopes and fears, their – ah – most intimate secrets. Do you have this kind of conversation with the Herr Oberst? What do you discuss?’
‘We talk about culture, books, music, a
rt. We like the same things. And we talk about our future together. We plan to marry soon.’
‘When a man has met the woman he plans to share his life with, sometimes he is inclined to discuss matters that – ah – are better kept to himself. Did Herr Oberst speak to you of military matters?’
‘No. Of course not. Only things that are generally known.’
‘But how do you know what is generally known and what is not?’
‘Because they are in the newspapers. My uncle buys a newspaper sometimes and I read it.’
‘Did you know of any visiting dignitaries in Colmar?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know of any planned conferences? The dates and times?’
She held his gaze. Steady. In spite of a heart thumping so loud she was sure he could hear it.
‘No.’
‘Fräulein Schuster – did you hear of a somewhat large explosion in Colmar this morning?’
‘I heard of it, yes. People were speaking of it in the market.’
‘Where were you, Fräulein Schuster, last night?’
‘I was in bed.’
‘You did not go out?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you at about nine thirty this morning?’
‘I was working. Here.’
‘You were not in a black Renault, which was seen in the vicinity of the explosion?’
‘No.’
‘When did you go to the market?’
‘I don’t know the exact time. Around lunchtime.’
‘Can you recall anyone you spoke to at the market? Do you have witnesses, for your whereabouts last night and this morning?’
‘Well, my uncle, for one. I spoke to a few people at the market. I don’t know if they will remember me.’
Sturmbannführer Weber looked at Obersturmführer Müller. ‘Have you got that, Herr Kollege? Good. Fräulein Schuster, we thank you for your cooperation. We will check the details of what you have told us and if necessary get back to you. In the meantime, we would like to speak to your uncle. Please could you…’
Part IV
The Colmar Pocket
‘We can still lose this war.’
General George Patton, 4 January 1945
* * *
‘Whatever you do, don’t crush the vines.’
Jean Joseph Marie Gabriel de Lattre de Tassigny
Chapter 46
On the third day, he came.
Smart as ever, buttons gleaming, cap straight, he burst into the shop with a jangling of bells and a bounce, almost a swagger, to his step; gone was the solemn intensity, the gravitas of their last encounter. ‘Wolfg—’
But he was already mid-speech, beaming, as he reached across the counter and took her hands in his. He radiated confidence, his demeanour not that of a man in the aftermath of a bomb attack. In the reversed world of values that was her work, that meant bad news.
‘I’ve so much to tell you, but no time now. I just dropped in to say I’ll pick you up tonight at seven, for dinner – if you’re free?’ Always that polite addendum; surely he knew, by now, that she was always free, that she had no social life besides him.
‘Yes, yes, of course. Are you all right? I heard…’
‘Yes, yes, the explosion.’ He brushed it away with his hands. ‘An amateur bomb attack. Nobody killed, though they did make the villa unliveable – we all have to move out, which is part of the reason I haven’t been able to come earlier. I hope you weren’t worried –oh!’ he exclaimed, interrupting her again, ‘You were, weren’t you! Of course you were! Well, as you see, I’m alive and well and full of good news. But I have to go. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ she had started to say, but he’d pre-empted her and the words died on her lips.
And he was gone. She shrugged, and continued the work she’d been doing, threading laces through a farmer’s ancient pair of leather boots.
He was back promptly at seven, whisking her out of the door in a flurry of compliments (You are more beautiful by the day! How do you do it?) and admiring glances. In the lane waited a new vehicle: not the motorcycle – the last few weeks had been bitterly cold, ruling out motorcycles with sidecars – and not the Mercedes-Benz, but a small black round-topped automobile.
‘A Beetle!’ he said. ‘Volkswagen; see, Hitler did do some good; it’s a people’s car, small and inexpensive, a car the ordinary man can afford. Not that I am ordinary, or you – but the Benz wasn’t available and one of my colleagues lent me this. What do you think?’
‘It’s adorable!’ said Sibyl as she slid into the passenger seat. Von Haagen shut the passenger door and sprinted around to the driver’s door, climbed in and drove off.
Again he beamed at her. ‘So, how have you been?’
‘Well, I was worried! I knew you had that conference, so…’
‘Yes, yes. Fortunately, the conference was postponed. General Wiese had an upset stomach and as he’s the most experienced Wehrmacht general we couldn’t start without him, not even with Herr Himmler. So… the bomb misfired. So much for British terrorists!’ he laughed.
‘Why do you think they were British?’
‘Plastic explosive. Where would French terrorists get it from, if not from the British? As I said, an amateur attempt.’
‘But if the conference had taken place as planned…’ she pulled herself together. No room here for taking offence. ‘Wolfgang, you could have been killed! I was distraught! And no word from you!’
‘I’m sorry, darling; I just didn’t have the time to come by and reassure you. But I knew it would be in the next day’s news – your uncle reads the news, doesn’t he? So I was sure you’d be informed. But – and this is what I came to tell you – there’s good news in the bad. We have all had to be rehoused – even though only half the house was destroyed, it’s unsafe. And anyway, the staircase was hit. So all the officers have been billeted elsewhere. And guess where I’ve been billeted? At my request?’
She shook her head, even though she had guessed it right away.
‘The violin-makers! At the moment we’re all cramped in various hotels but as soon as the house has been fixed up a little I’ll move in. I’ll be a few doors away from you! Isn’t that wonderful!’
‘Wonderful!’
‘But there’s also some bad news. And more good news. And bad news. But the general outcome is – well, you’ll hear it all tonight. I have so much to tell.’
Once they were seated in their cubicle at the Rote Löwe, and once he had ordered –lamb chops for both of them, and gewürztraminer – he plunged right into the volley of news.
‘… as I was saying. I’ll be moving into the very house I had picked out as our first marital home. But – well, I’m sorry, darling. I know I promised an early wedding but it just isn’t to be. Not even with pulling strings from above; it takes time to get all the papers together – I need an Eheunbedenklichkeitsbescheinigung from Munich – damn German bureaucracy!’
‘What on earth is that?’
‘Eheunbedenklichkeitsbescheinigung? Proof that a person is not already married. You will need one too, from Paris. That will take months. And the civil offices here also need months, to arrange everything, and no amount of pressure will speed them up. Unfortunately. So that’s the bad news.’
‘Oh, what a pity!’ she said, even as a hundredweight fell from her shoulders, even as she cursed herself, and the silent word hypocrite! drifted across her mind.
‘But I’ve put in the all the applications and we’ll be married as soon as we can, and the way things are going, the war will be over by then and Alsace will be German.’
‘What! Really? You said…’
‘I said we would all fight to the death, so that Germany will at least go down with honour, and not in cowardice, fleeing from the enemy with our tail between our legs. I have to admit, it didn’t look good, the last time we met. I really didn’t think I’d survive the next phase of the war. That’s why I wanted to marry
so early but now…’
There was a long pause; Sibyl realised she was holding her breath and had to make a conscious effort to relax, to breathe, to sound intrigued and not anxious.
‘Go on! Don’t keep me in suspense!’
He laughed, and filled her glass. ‘We must drink to this!’ he exclaimed. ‘Marlene! I have been withdrawn from field duty! As I’ve been the Commandant of High Alsace for the last three years, there’s no-one who knows this area better than me. So I am to stay in Colmar and work with the generals on strategy. A desk job! I’ll be safe! And I know I said I want to regain my own honour and die fighting, but I don’t. It may be selfish, and personal, but I want you. I want a home with you, and if a safe desk job is the price I have to pay in order to survive these terrible times and be with you – I will happily pay that price. My honour will be vicarious, through the German army, which will be victorious in this one small way: my dear, we are going to win Alsace! With absolute certainty! Honour will be restored!’
She tried to keep her voice steady.
‘How – how do you know that?’
‘Just a minute.’ He stood up, left his full glass on the table, edged out of the cubicle, and strode towards the door leading to the toilets, beside the bar. Sibyl was left to stew in suspense. She sipped at her wine, topped up her glass. But von Haagen did not take long. A minute later he was sliding back into his seat at the back of the cubicle, reaching for her to edge nearer. She did. He lowered his voice.
