by Sharon Maas
To her astonishment, his face, too, now turned an unaccustomed beetroot red. He coughed, produced a neatly folded handkerchief from his inner jacket, wiped his forehead, coughed again, picked up the cigarette, took another drag and, standing across the desk from her, spoke:
‘Fräulein Gauss… aaaahhm… I have to say I am extremely pleased with your work here at the Rathaus. You have been attentive, thorough, hardworking. Eine fleissige Frau. A diligent woman. That’s what you are. The kind of young woman the Third Reich appreciates and supports. You have been an indispensable assistant to me as I attempt to instate the new German order into this region – a Herculean task, let me tell you, which I could never achieve without your indefatigable support, and sometimes, even, as a native French speaker, advice. Yes, I am very pleased.’
At this point he dropped abruptly onto the office chair behind him so that the cushioned seat emitted a light puffing sound, which, under other circumstances, would have produced a giggle from Marie-Claire, resembling as it did a light breaking of wind. But the seriousness of the speech precluded any such hilarity, and she managed to keep a straight face, gazing at him with focused intensity. Inside her, she felt a swelling of pride at his words. Nobody, ever, had spoken words of praise to her; at least, not so far as her memory informed her. Nobody, not even her mother. She did not include her father; his flattery, of course, was more paternal ego-massage, with the sole aim of retaining her adoration. She recognised that, even while basking in it. This was different. It was genuine.
At the same time she felt a twinge of guilt. If he only knew! Only two weeks ago she had delivered the first spool to Madame Guyon. She was diligently – she smiled to herself, because diligence, he claimed, was one of her main strengths – keeping watch on the next band, ready to turn it over at the best possible moment for the bottom row to become the top, for a second row of highly confidential material. If he only knew…
But he didn’t, and now he continued.
‘And, gnädiges Fräulein, I was thinking that it would do you good to also educate yourself. You have exactly the characteristics the Third Reich exalts as necessary for the perfect woman. The only thing that is lacking, I fear, is education. Yes, you do need to educate yourself for the new world order as ordained by our great Führer, in order to understand what is going on and to fully support the revolution in ideas we have started. A revolution in thinking, in insight and in motivation. History is being made, and it is vital for a young woman like you to stand on the right side of it. A human being needs a great idea in order to develop to his maximum potential. I believe you have not yet reached this maximum, and thus I have brought this book…’ he pushed the Mein Kampf volume across the desk towards her… ‘for you to take home and read over the Christmas holiday. Please read it carefully and with all your attention: it is an important volume that will have as much impact on society as the Bible, eventually surpassing that book in its effect on global politics and societal improvement. Go on, pick it up.’
Marie-Claire did as requested. She picked up the book.
‘Take it home and read it. Let your heart imbibe its wisdom, absorb it to the fullest. Self-education is imperative. As I said, history is in the making, a new world order is being created, and it is vital that your thinking is correct.’
He fell silent, as if re-gathering the lost strands of his previous personality, the reins of his authority. When he spoke again, his voice was the usual bark.
‘That will be all, Fräulein Gauss. I have some typing to do; if I need any help from you for the remainder of the day, I will send for you.’
He laid his cigarette back in the tray, removed a ledger from a drawer and opened it.
Having regained whatever equilibrium he had temporarily, and uncharacteristically, lost, his dismissal of her was as abrupt as that of Grötzinger before her. She nodded, clasped the volume to her stomach and fled the room.
Twenty-Three
Marie-Claire sighed, and clapped the book shut. She couldn’t. It was impossible. She’d tried, the last two nights, but never made it past a few pages. There were passages that she simply couldn’t stomach, or didn’t understand, or found, simply, shocking. She had started at the beginning, and had then taken to opening the book randomly and just reading, here and there. And, slowly, a chill spread through her as she read the words.
The very first essential for success is a perpetually constant and regular employment of violence.
Humanitarianism is the expression of stupidity and cowardice.
Through clever and constant application of propaganda, people can be made to see paradise as hell, and also the other way round, to consider the most wretched sort of life as paradise.
The great strength of the totalitarian state is that it forces those who fear it to imitate it.
The receptivity of the masses is very limited, their intelligence is small, but their power of forgetting is enormous. In consequence of these facts, all effective propaganda must be limited to a very few points and must harp on these in slogans until the last member of the public understands what you want him to understand by your slogan.
These, and other passages, disturbed her deeply.
She had from the very beginning done her best to take a neutral stance, deliberately closing her ears and her mind to the passionate arguments of her family members against the Nazi regime. She had been determined to remain objective, to avoid their obvious bias. People had strong opinions about Hitler, yes; but surely, in the end, everyone strove for self-preservation; for maintaining the best possible outcome for him or herself, his or her family. She could understand that. She understood that her mother, her sister, Jacques, all wanted nothing to change, and that this Hitler was changing their world. France was going to be ruled by Germany. Thus the invasion. So what, she’d thought. What did it mean for them, personally? Alsace had been German before, and nobody had minded. Had they? They’d been German, and then French, and then German again, French again, and life as everyone knew it had simply continued.
She did not believe in war, and violence, of course. Nobody of any sense did. And nobody should be killed. That much was obvious. And Jews – what exactly did Hitler have against them? Marie-Claire liked Leah and her daughter – what had they ever done to Hitler, to the Germans, to evoke such hatred? She’d tried valiantly not to believe what her family was saying – that Jews were being persecuted in Germany, killed, even – that their lives were in danger. Surely it was all an exaggeration?
Maman had come to collect her and Great-Aunt Sophie that morning, drive them home, to the chateau, for the Christmas celebration. Marie-Claire had finally agreed to come, reluctantly – she’d been perfectly willing to stay behind in Colmar, celebrate a lonely Christmas all on her own. She hated these family festivities, and was not in the mood for forced jollity. She and her mother might have called a truce, but there was no denying the suppressed conflict. Christmas tended to bring such matters to a head, to release all that was pushed out of sight.
But Margaux was adamant. She had simply not accepted Marie-Claire’s sniffy, offended rebuttal. It was Christmas. A time for family, for healing old wounds, putting aside differences, for coming together in peace. As always, Tatie was invited for the festive days, and of course, Marie-Claire must come too. Grandpa would be there from the gatehouse, the Dolch family – what was left of them – would be there, and tonight, a few other guests, neighbours or colleagues – as always. As tradition demanded.
‘Of course you must come. It’s Christmas. Run along and pack your bags. The van’s waiting. Are you ready, Tatie? See, Marie-Claire, Tatie’s ready, why aren’t you?’
And like the respectful little girl she’d once been, Marie-Claire had obeyed. And now she was home, back in the comforting warmth of the chateau, where the walls had wrapped themselves around her like a loving mother’s arms; and the floorboards, the curtains and the wooden kitchen table all seemed to breathe their welcome, seemed to whisper we missed you. She cou
ldn’t help it; the nervous tension that had gathered over the weeks had slowly started to dissolve. But there were changes; disturbing ones.
For a start, Leah and her daughter seemed to have disappeared. There was another girl who came to do the cleaning and laundry, Aimee, a girl from the village. What had become of Leah and Estelle? Nobody told her anything, she realised with some resentment, and she was too proud to ask, hadn’t enquired into their well-being, presented a front of complete indifference to anything to do with Hitler, war and Jews. Taboo subjects, never to be raised, and everyone seemed to have signed a mutual pact of non-mention.
Until dinner. That had been a catastrophe for Marie-Claire, and she’d fled at the earliest opportunity, retired to an early bed amid the cries of ‘stay, stay, the evening’s just begun!’ But those cries had come not from family, not from Maman, but from strangers, invitees, neighbours, friends of Maman, who knew nothing of the awkwardness hovering like a ghost in the shadows. So here she was, in bed, pillows puffed up behind her, the bedside lamp casting a yellow glow on the pages as she turned them, desperately searching for some spark of enlightenment to leap out at her, draw her in.
Instead, this required reading – it sent shock-waves into that carefully nourished placidity of non-alignment, that state of diligently cultivated neutrality, requiring a not-so-neutral shutting-down of natural curiosity and interest in the world around her. That world was changing far too quickly for her liking, disrupting all her carefully laid plans and enthusiastic dreams for her own future. But she had carefully, methodically, rearranged her strategy, shelved her needs and dreams for the time being, while trying to outsmart the Germans by playing along with them, placating them, playing the role required of her, in order to achieve what, in essence, were her own private goals. That had been her long-term plan; the very reason for acquiring a job in the Nazi nest at the Mairie. Her decision. Justifiable, even in the face of family objection.
The only fly in the ointment, of course, was her love for Jacques. No matter what she did, how much she fought it, it would not recede. It was simply there; a virus eating at her being. While all else in her life was meticulously cultivated and executed, there it was, illogical and deeply annoying: she loved him. She’d push it away, and it would rise up through all the layers of refusal and rejection and negation and repudiation, burst into her consciousness with a shout of acclamation: here I am again! I love him all the same! Do what you will!
It was hopeless, and she was helpless against it. And so, as a sort of last-ditch attempt to win his approval, she had done this thing, this dreadful thing, this betrayal of her employer.
But now, reading this book, shaken to the core by what she read there, a new insight began to creep through, emerge into the broad daylight of her conscious mind:
Jacques was right. They were all right. Her mother, her sister. Leah was indeed in danger. (Where was Leah?) Her friends of long ago, the Lake sisters and their mother, in England – would they be bombed? How could she live with that knowledge, that guilt, if so? How could she work for the enemy, work with the enemy, enable the enemy? How could she be a cog in that malevolent wheel of conquest and brutality? She shuddered.
At that moment, a knock on the door caused her to gasp, jump and quickly shove the book under the bedclothes.
‘Y-y-yes? Who is it?’ she called, but the door had already opened and Victoire, wrapped in a rather threadbare dressing-gown, stepped across the floor towards her. Marie-Claire pulled herself up in bed, leaning against the wooden head-rest, pushing a pillow up behind her back.
Victoire, smiling, held out both hands as she came.
‘I just wanted to say goodnight!’ she said. ‘You slipped away from the dining table; anyone would think you’re trying to get away from us!’
It was true. Margaux had invited some guests from the neighbouring vineyard, the Sipps, as well as her old friend and winemaker, Maxence Dolch, and the conversation, fuelled by wine, had been animated, livened by harmless disputes centred on exactly those topics Marie-Claire was struggling with: Hitler, the war, the Jews. She couldn’t deal with it, had nothing to say herself, and so, while Victoire had been in the kitchen, had said a quick goodnight and made her escape.
Now, here was Victoire, the bright little sister she had so often ignored but who had always, always, treated her not as a distant alien to whom she had no connection, but as someone whose self-constructed barriers did not exist. Victoire was by her very nature warm and loving, and it was becoming ever harder to shut her out – especially in these strange times when Marie-Claire’s own indomitable self-confidence was on a journey through the wringer.
So Marie-Claire smiled.
‘Hello, Victoire. Sorry I didn’t come to say goodnight. I had a bit of a headache – it must be the wine. I don’t drink often, down in Colmar, and I think I had a glass too many.’
Victoire laughed, and plonked herself down on the bedside. ‘Well, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve and there’ll be even more wine, more guests. Better prepare yourself.’
Marie-Claire groaned. ‘Do I have to? I’m not really feeling all that sociable these days.’
‘I noticed you hardly said anything at all at dinner.’
‘Well, I don’t have much to say.’
‘I hardly think so! You’re actually working with the enemy – I’m sure you have a lot of stories to tell, and some opinions! What are they really like? That awful Herr Grötzinger – do you have to take orders from him? What’s it like?’
Marie-Claire made a face. ‘I hardly think that’s a good topic for dinner conversation. They’d all jump on me and berate me for working there in the first place.’
‘Not true. Even Maman has accepted it, that you just wanted to keep your job and earn some money. It might not be the most pleasant workplace, but we understand you had to do it. As long as you’re not actively collaborating, people understand and are forgiving. I certainly don’t blame you.’
‘Maman does. She puts on a neutral face but deep inside, she wants to kill me.’
Victoire swatted the air. ‘Oh, Marie-Claire! Don’t exaggerate. Of course not! Of course she wasn’t happy for you to work there but I promise you, she understands and just wants us to have harmony in the household. I do wish the two of you could act – well, normally. Like mother and daughter. And we could be sisters. It’s what I always wanted.’
‘You never wanted me. You had Juliette.’
‘Juliette and I are close but you’re my sister. It’s just that you’re so – different. So apart. I just think that in these hard times we should all stick together, no matter what our differences.’
‘It’s not something I can force, Victoire. I am the way I am and that’s just the way it is.’
‘Families should make the effort to draw closer together in times of war, like now. It’s what I always wanted – a big warm loving family, with you and the boys and Juliette and Jacques. And now we’re all apart – oh! did you know that Jacques is coming tomorrow? For Christmas?’
Marie-Claire tried to hide her interest.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes – just for a day. It’s all a bit rushed but he’ll be here for dinner and then leave the next day, back to Strasbourg.’
Marie-Claire pretended to yawn. ‘Well, it’ll be nice to see him again.’
Victoire grinned, and shook her head.
‘You can’t fool me. I know you and he have some secrets you aren’t sharing. I know you’re doing something for the Resistance – I contacted him for you, after all. But I know it’s all top secret so I won’t ask any questions. And no, Maman doesn’t know, but if she did she’d be so proud of you. I think you should—’
‘Victoire! Stop it now. I don’t want to talk about Jacques or the war or the Nazis or anything. I’m really tired.’ She yawned ostentatiously.
‘But you were reading when I came in. Don’t deny it. I saw you shove the book under the bedclothes. What was it, some naughty love story full of sex?’
<
br /> ‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘I bet it was. I bet you think I’m too young for books like that. But I’m not. I do know the facts of life, you know, and I have to because I’m going to be a nurse. You can even let me read it afterwards. What was it?’
‘Victoire, shut up and mind your own business!’
‘The more you deny it, the more curious you make me! Go on, show me the book! I promise not to tell Maman. Or laugh. Does it have them kissing on the cover, or something? Where did you hide it?’
She began to grope along the top of the blankets, patting up and down.
‘Ha! Found it! Here it is!’
Marie-Claire, protesting, had reached out to push away Victoire’s probing hands, but she wasn’t quick enough to stop them whipping away and diving beneath the blanket. Out they came, holding the volume of Mein Kampf.
Never had a face converted from glee to horror with such instantaneous speed. Never had Victoire taken the Lord’s name in vain.
‘Good God!’ She dropped the book as if it were a live red coal. As if she would catch fire from it, or some violent, deadly disease. She leapt to her feet. The book fell to the floor. Marie-Claire sprang from under the covers, dived down to retrieve it.
‘Victoire! It’s not what you think! It’s—’
‘It’s poison, it’s evil! How could you bring that thing into this house! How could you, Marie-Claire!’
‘Wait! Don’t go! Please, Victoire, let me explain – it’s…’
But Victoire had already reached the door, was out in the hallway; the door slammed shut behind her, and Marie-Claire could hear her footsteps fleeing along the wooden floorboards.
* * *
The next morning, Marie-Claire woke late after a night of tossing and turning. The book lay discarded, sprawled upside down, on the floor beside the bed, and she stepped round it with a shudder. A sinister aura seemed to radiate from it – she couldn’t bear to touch it, to pick it up, put it away. But she’d have to, before emerging from the refuge of her room to go downstairs and meet the family again. Had Victoire told them all? Would they all look at her with hate and rage boiling in their eyes? She washed and dressed herself, and hesitated at the door. She couldn’t leave it there.
