by Sharon Maas
‘That’s still much too old for me. I’m not even twenty-one yet!’
‘But older men are more stable, reliable.’
‘He’s not that ugly, either!’
‘Only forty-five? That’s old enough to be my father!’
‘If only he would smile, once. You can’t tell if a man is really ugly until he smiles. A smile makes nearly anybody beautiful.’
‘Ha! Not even a smile would make him attractive. He’s got an ugly mind. He goes through life mentally spitting on everything. Everything for him is rubbish or nonsense or bunkum or humbug.’
‘Oh, absolutely! He’s the King of Humbug. Bockmist. Scheisse. Wahnwitz. Blödsinn. His favourite words, from the horse’s mouth.’
Erika giggled. ‘King Shit. König Scheisse. Let’s call him that.’
‘No, that’s too explicit. We need to be subtle. Something else. Something funny.’
They all spoke at once, giggling and offering up suggestions. Prince Rubbish. Lord Twaddle. General Gobbledygook. But it was Marie-Claire who came up trumps. ‘Graf Koks,’ she offered. ‘Count Nonsense.’
Applause and giggles all round. ‘That’s it! Definitely!’
Marie-Claire frowned. ‘But it’s not complete. We need a von. Von-somewhere. He’s aristocracy, remember.’
Suggestions poured in, among much hilarity. Graf Koks von Berchetsgaden. Von Mückenloch. Von Zufenhausen. But to each suggestion, Marie-Claire shook her head. ‘No. It has to have that certain… I don’t know. A certain rhythm.’
‘Graf Koks von Schmerlenbach?’ offered Erika.
‘Yes! That’s it exactly!’
‘Where’s Schmerlenbach?’ asked Gertrud. Marie-Claire shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? It sounds good.’
‘It’s a village in Bavaria,’ said Erika. ‘Where I grew up.’
‘Well, it’s perfect,’ said Marie-Claire. Erika giggled. ‘Graf Koks von Schmerlenbach. Yes! Now, let’s see if he’s as unassailable as you claim. I mean, I did try once, you know. Flirted with him before your promotion. He didn’t react. He’s immune to feminine charms.’
‘I bet I could get a reaction, if I really tried,’ said Marie-Claire.
Klara sniffed. ‘Well, go on then, prove it! I challenge you, Marie-Claire. To find out if he’s got red blood running in his veins, or ice.’
Marie-Claire swung round to look at Klara. Her eyes narrowed, and she slowly smiled. The room fell silent as everyone waited for her response. The words ‘he’s old and ugly’ hung in that silence. But still, a challenge was a challenge. Marie-Claire licked her lips. She remembered her recent defeats where her seductive powers over men were concerned. She had largely recovered her lost equanimity, but still. Something still rankled. She smiled.
‘Challenge accepted!’ she said. ‘Give me a month.’
They all cheered.
‘But,’ Marie-Claire added, ‘it’s only a joke, remember. All I need is a reaction. Of some kind. I don’t really want him.’
Words she would one day have to eat.
Thirty-Seven
For the first time in her adult life, Marie-Claire could say she had friends. The German secretaries closed her into their fold as if she had never been outside of it. They liked her, they opened themselves to her, they respected her. There was nothing – almost nothing – she couldn’t talk about with them. They were on the same – she searched for the right word – the same frequency. Whereas at home, at school, in the family, she had always felt like the odd one out, the alien, the one nobody understood, while they were all tuned in to each other. That’s how it felt now: tuned in. Most especially, these women understood her. At home, everyone had disparaged and mocked her vision of a future life in Paris. Here, they shared it. Furthermore, obviously, nobody here disparaged her for working with the enemy – they were the enemy, after all, from an Alsatian point of view.
As promised, Klara’s Franz had driven her out to the chateau last Saturday, at a time she knew Maman would be out making deliveries. There was a risk she’d run into Victoire or one of her brothers, but it was a risk she chose to take. It was quickly done. The magazines packed into a suitcase, a quick selection of dresses, skirts and blouses from the wardrobe packed into another suitcase, a drawer of make-up and perfumes emptied into a canvas bag, and voilà – she was ready to go. She grabbed the two suitcases, slung the bag over her shoulder and clattered down the stairs.
Just as she reached the downstairs hall the kitchen door opened and Jacques stepped into her path. She stopped dead in her tracks – but only for a moment. She brushed past him without a word. It was he who spoke.
‘Marie-Claire! Wait a moment! Where are you going?’
She marched down the hall towards the front door, not deigning to answer. He hurried behind her, grabbed an elbow, stopped her in her tracks. ‘What’s the matter, Marie-Claire? Talk to me!’
That’s when she did talk. She glared at him. ‘I have nothing to say! Let me go!’
‘I will. I will, Marie-Claire but – but what about your work? You know what I mean. It’s so important – when can you get the next spool?’
‘Spool? You must be joking! You don’t really think I’m going to still risk playing that game? Who do you think I am?’
‘I think you’re my friend, I think you’re a citizen of Alsace, and you want to help!’
‘Well, you can think again. It’s over, Jacques. Goodbye.’ She wrenched her arm free, and he loosened his grip to let her go. He called after her: ‘Goodbye, Marie-Claire. I wish you all the best.’ But he said it to her back as she put down one suitcase for a moment, opened the front door, picked it up again and fled out to the waiting jeep. She flung the bags into the back of the jeep and settled into the passenger seat.
‘Whew! That’s done! Let’s go!’
Franz grinned at her. ‘You sound like you’re escaping prison!’
‘I am, Franz, I am! You can’t imagine!’
Nobody could imagine. They couldn’t imagine the wild pounding of her heart as she made her escape, a breakneck, almost audible hammering, and it didn’t let up until she was safe at home in the rue Stanislas. That was it, then. She was free. Jacques behind her, completely and forever.
A pity, though, she had not, as planned, been able to nip back into the house and down to the cellar to retrieve a crate of wine. That was her only regret. It had been good, seeing the look on Jacques’ face as she’d spat out her last words.
The girls were delighted with her Parisian trophies. They giggled in delight as she raised one dress after the other, held them up to their shoulders, advised them on what suited whom and which colour dress went best with which colour hair. Ursula alone was disappointed, as everything was too small for her; but then, Ursula was the least likely to metamorphise into that vision of Paris female perfection they all strove for. She knew it and she accepted it graciously, content with admiring the others and offering opinions. ‘You are all so beautiful!’ she sighed. ‘You will take Paris by storm! Me – well, I suppose I’ll have to make do with good old Ernest in Stuttgart.’ Ernest being her childhood family friend, with whom a family ‘understanding’ of marriage had been long arranged.
But that night, they would all – including Ursula – be going to the officers’ dance at one of the larger Colmar houses, and for once, appropriately dressed, they would shine.
* * *
Now, the dance behind them, with every passing day Marie-Claire felt more at home. The cloud of boredom that had settled around her when she’d lived with Aunt Sophie dispelled forever. Here, there was never a dull moment. When she wasn’t chattering with the girls she was teaching them French – they had insisted, it was preparation for their Paris debut – or they were clustered around the radio, listening to the evening news.
That was the part Marie-Claire enjoyed the least. The politics. What a pity that politics followed her wherever she went; she wished radios could be un-invented. Back at the chateau, it had been clandestine sessions wi
th the BBC, obsessively followed by her mother and sister; she had always escaped whenever she heard those five pips introducing the news.
Here, it was the Volksempfänger, people’s receiver, they gathered around each evening. It was almost a religious ritual, and just as with the church services she had been forced to attend while growing up, Marie-Claire knew she could not excuse herself without raising eyebrows, and even sanctions; here, the disapproval of her new friends.
They were all so enthusiastic. Marie-Claire, determined to maintain her neutral stance regarding the war and its controversial leader, found it almost impossible to shut her ears to the strident messages delivered over the air with stunting regularity and irritating pomposity. How could the girls listen to that rot? It was deadening, but she was obliged to nod and smile with them as they enthused over Germany’s progress in the war. The talk was all ‘when the war is over and Germany has triumphed’. Yes, she too was keen for it all to be over, for Paris to shake off the shadows of the present and emerge again, shiny and new. Paris would always be Paris, whatever government ruled France. Its spirit could not be vanquished. Marie-Claire only longed for it to be over. Talk of war and battles won and bombs and air raids seemed only to push that date into a distant future. But what could she do? The girls loved talking about German triumphs, and listening in and pretending to enthuse was the price she had to pay to be one of them.
Yet still, the subject closest to everyone’s heart, the one that created the most buzz, was the immanent seduction (only in theory, Marie-Claire reminded them all) of Graf Koks von Schmerlenbach. That good man, however, was still not back from his Christmas holiday. Still, they could talk about him, and Marie-Claire could prepare and practise her tactics. She had already started, by leaving the top buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. She could hardly wait for his return.
Thirty-Eight
Victoire
Juliette closed her eyes, squeezed them tight, placed her hands over them for extra protection.
‘Go ahead. I’m ready.’
Victoire, standing behind her, open scissors in one hand and a long silken strand of black hair in the other, still hesitated.
‘You’re sure? Quite sure?’
‘Yes, dammit. Just do it. Snip snap.’
And Victoire did it. Closed the blades on the hair, and her fingers over the amputated hair, before it fell to the floor.
‘It’s done,’ she sighed. ‘No going back now.’
‘Just get it over with, Victoire. I’m past caring.’
‘I know you’re not, Juliette, because why’re your eyes still closed?’
Juliette immediately dropped her hands and opened her eyes.
‘There! Happy now?’
Victoire had already cut a second strand, placing each length of hair carefully on the bed beside her. She chuckled.
‘You can’t see anyway, seeing as there isn’t a mirror!’
‘Yes, it’s more hearing than seeing, isn’t it! And feeling. I can feel it, you know. Feel the scissors cutting. I think my hair has nerves.’
‘I know it must, the way you’ve taken care of it. It’s such a pity. You’re so brave.’
Juliette swiped the air in dismissal.
‘This isn’t brave. Brave is going out there, facing up to those Nazi devils, defeating them. Brave is Nathan, not running away but staying to fight them. Brave is facing the terror in your heart and going after them anyway. Nothing brave about cutting off your hair. That’s just overcoming vanity.’
‘I know, I know. And I know I’ve a long way to go. I just wish—’
‘No, Victoire. You’re brave too, doing what you’re doing. Anyway. Let me have a look…’
She held out her hand, and Victoire placed a long ribbon of hair in it.
Juliette sighed. ‘Now that it’s done, it doesn’t feel so bad any more. I’ll keep it. Who knows, maybe it’ll be useful for something.’
‘I’ve heard they make wigs out of real human hair. You should definitely keep it.’ Victoire continued to cut in silence.
At last she said, ‘That’s it, then. Short hair. I don’t think coiffeuse is a profession for me, but it’s done, and doesn’t look too bad. You won’t recognise yourself!’
‘Ah well. I’ll still be the same inside, and Nathan will recognise me.’
* * *
Later that evening, Jacques dropped by.
‘Eric’s back from Colmar,’ he said. ‘It’s all arranged. It’s a seamstress called Madame Delacroix, and she’s going to put you up in her basement, Nathan. It’s a bit better than this place, with a small window so you’ll have a little daylight. She’s happy to help. Her best friend was Jewish and was evacuated. She’s furious about it. And she knows your mother.’
‘Yes, I know her,’ said Nathan. ‘Maman was a customer from when I was a little boy. It’s on the rue Stanislas, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. You can move in tomorrow, she says.’
Juliette frowned. ‘And I? Where should I go? Have you spoken to Tante Sophie? Can I stay with her?’
‘You could. But, Juliette…’
‘But, what?’
‘I don’t want you to stay in Colmar. I need to separate you two for a while.’
‘But why? Why can’t I stay in Colmar, with Nathan?’
‘It’s because you’re known in Colmar. People will notice your changed hair; they’ll talk about you. It’s one thing to fool the Nazis but you won’t be able to fool those you’ve grown up with in Colmar. Besides, you’re needed elsewhere. I need you to go back to Mount Louise, to Natzwiller, and stay there for a while.’
Juliette and Nathan exchanged a glance.
Juliette was silent as she digested all this. Finally, she nodded. ‘If you say so, Jacques. But can you tell us why? Have you found out what’s going on there?’
Jacques nodded. ‘Yes, we know. Thanks to Marie-Claire. You know she was working for me?’
Juliette nodded. ‘I was wondering. Has she backed away? I heard she spent all of Christmas in a sulk. I haven’t seen her in ages. What’s she up to? She seems to have cut ties with the family completely.’
Jacques nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes. She’s gone off on a tangent. She came home today to get her things, sneaked into the house and ran off with two full suitcases. In a Nazi jeep. It’s very worrying.’
‘Oh my! So she’s changed sides? That’s terrible! You don’t think she’d…? She knows so much already!’
The word betrayal hung in the air, but Jacques shook his head. ‘I don’t want to accuse her of changing sides. She works for them, that’s all – administrative work. It doesn’t mean she’s turned into a Nazi. It’s just a job, she said.’
‘But what if she tells them about us? About you? She knows you’re a maquisard, Jacques. What if she betrays you?’ There. The word had been spoken, out loud.
But Jacques shook his head. ‘She won’t go that far. I know Marie-Claire. She’s the most apolitical person on earth – she truly doesn’t care. She just does what’s best for herself. And right now, that’s working for the Germans in the Mairie, Nazi or not. Betraying us, betraying me, would not be to her advantage, so she wouldn’t do it.’
‘That’s a horrible thing to say, Jacques! So you think she’s selfish enough to betray you, if she thought it would be to her advantage? Is she that calculating?’
Jacques shrugged. ‘Of course, we can’t know for sure. I’ll admit she’s a risk – but a minor one. Her decision to work for me, for us – it was personal rather than political.’
‘But what if the Nazis she works with, what if they offer her personal reasons? A promotion, for example, or some other perk? Would she betray you then?’
He shrugged again, and made a dismissive hand-gesture, waving her doubts aside.
‘Marie-Claire is a law unto herself. I admit that I’m offering her the benefit of the doubt; I can’t believe, I really can’t believe, that she’d put her own family in jeopardy, and she knows very well, or sus
pects, that Margaux, too, is involved. If she’d wanted to betray us, she’d have done it by now. No. No, she’s not that self-serving.’
‘Why did she stop working for you?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Was she of any use at all?’
Jacques hesitated before answering. ‘She was of immense help. The information she was able to hand over – it was tremendous.’ He paused again. ‘It actually concerns you both – you especially, Juliette. That’s where you come in. That’s why I want you back on Mount Louise.’ He paused again, thinking.
‘Well, now you’ve said that much you’ll have to tell us the rest.’
‘Yes, I see that. It’s about the Nazi activities up there, at Natzwiller. I now know what they’re up to. And it’s not good.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s for a labour camp. There’s a granite mine near there, excavation work to be done, and they need workers. They’re going to use political prisoners to do the work. And the terraces you saw – that’s where they’re going to be housed. Mount Louise itself has always been a ski resort; it was called Le Struthof, but now it’s going to be called Konzentrationslager Natzweiler. That’s the information we have.’
‘A camp, so high up in the mountains? That’s strange,’ said Juliette.
‘Well, I’ve done some investigation. There’s method to the madness. It all started when Colonel Blumberg, a friend of Heinrich Himmler – you know who that is, don’t you? One of Hitler’s top henchmen – was made mayor of Schirmeck, a small mountain town near Natzwiller. They got rid of the old mayor and installed this Nazi big shot. Now that was strange. Why? All was revealed in the information Marie-Claire provided, which was mainly correspondence between himself and the Gauleiter in Strasbourg.
‘Blumberg’s mission was to find a site suitable for the construction of a labour camp near the granite quarry up there in the mountains. The goal is to extract and cut blocks of granite. Out of that granite, magnificent palaces and grand edifices are to be built all over Germany, all for the glorification of Hitler and the Third Reich. It’s to be a new Renaissance, a grandiose undertaking reflecting all the megalomania our dear Führer is known for.
