What posters that? interrupted Janine.
Dont you pay attention to anything? Its been decreed that all Jewish shopkeepers have to put up these posters. Fortunately the sergeant clearly thought there werent many medals in arresting a seventy-year-old woman for threatening him with a bunch of celery, so he was glad to let me smooth things over.
Yes, she said, taking in his neat dark suit and his guarded bureaucratic expression. Youd be good at that, Christian. Personally I think youd have done better to join in bashing the Boche with the celery. If we all did that, wed soon get things back to normal!
All? Who are these all? wondered Valois.
People. You dont think any real Frenchmans going to sit back and let the Boche run our lives for us, do you?
He said, Janine, its real Frenchmen who are putting their names to these decrees. Ill tell you something else that real Frenchmen have done. Its been suggested - thats the word used - suggested to publishing firms that they might care to do a voluntary purge on their lists, get rid of unsuitable authors such as German exiles, French nationalists, British writers, and of course Jews. Theyve all agreed! No objections. Not one!
Oh, those are intellectuals with their heads in the clouds, or businessmen with their noses in the trough, said Janine wearily. Its the ordinary people Im talking about. They wont let themselves be mucked around by these Boche. Just wait. Youll see. But thanks for telling me about Sophie. Ill keep an eye on her.
As she spoke, Valois realized just how much on edge she was; emotionally frayed by worry about Jean-Paul, physically exhausted by her work in the shop combined with sleepless nights looking after the kids, and doubtless worn down by the simple strain of daily life with the formidable Louise.
Behind him the shop door opened and a German officer came in. He was a stocky fellow of indeterminate age with an ordinary kind of face, were it not for a certain shrewdness of gaze which made you think that every time he blinked, his eyes were registering photographs.
Good day, Mamselle Janine, he said in excellent French. I hope the children are improving. I was asking after them when I talked with your excellent mother earlier. I thought perhaps a few chocolates might tempt their appetites back to normal
He proffered a box of chocolates. Janine ignored it and glanced furiously at Valois. She was angry that after what shed just been saying, the civil servant should see her on such apparently familiar terms with this Boche. Feeling herself close to explosion, she took a deep breath and said, No thank you, lieutenant. I dont think they will help.
Oh, said Günter Mai, nonplussed.
He regarded her assessingly, placed the box carefully on the counter and said, Forgive the intrusion. Perhaps your dear mother, or you yourself, might enjoy them. Youll be doing me a favour.
He patted his waistline ruefully, touched his peak in the shadow of a salute and brought his heels gently together in the echo of a click.
It was the gentle mockery of these gestures plus the diplomatic courtesy with which hed received her rejection that finally triggered off the explosion.
She pushed the chocolates back across the counter with such force that the box flew through the air, struck him on the chest and burst open, scattering its contents all over the floor.
Why dont you sod off and take your sodding chocolates with you? she shouted. We dont want them, do you understand? I can look after my own kids without any help from the likes of you.
59
The door from the living quarters burst open.
Whats going on! demanded Madame Crozier. Whats all the noise?
Its nothing, madame. The young lady is upset. Just a little misunderstanding, said Mai with a rueful smile.
Ive been telling your Boche friend a few home truths, cried Janine. You talk to him if you want, maman. Me, Ive had enough!
She pushed her way past her mother and disappeared.
Janine! Come back here! commanded Madame Crozier. Lieutenant, Im so sorry, you must forgive her, take no notice, shes overwrought. Excuse me.
She turned and went after her daughter. Soon angry voices drifted back into the shop where Mai and Valois stood looking at each other.
And you are? said Mai courteously.
Valois. Of the Ministry of Finance.
Ah. Not in Vichy, monsieur?
Finance remains in Paris.
Of course. Good day, Monsieur Valois.
No salute or heel clicking this time. He turned and left the shop. Christian Valois went to the door and watched him stroll slowly along the pavement. His back presented an easy target. With a shock of self-recognition, Valois found himself imagining pulling out a gun and pumping bullets into that hated uniform. But if he had a gun would he have the nerve to use it? He realized he was trembling.
Behind him, Louise re-entered, her face pink with emotion.
Has he gone? Such behaviour! I dont know where she gets it from, not my family, Im sure. Shes never been the same since she married that Jew.
She sank to her knees and began collecting chocolates. Janine came in. Ignoring her mother, she said, Christian, no need to worry about Sophie. Soon as the children are well enough, Ill be coming to stay with her. Will you tell her that, please? Ill be round later to sort things out.
60
Its a very small flat, said Valois. Youll be awfully crowded.
Not as crowded as we are here, knee deep in Boches and their hangers-on.
Listen to her. Such ingratitude, shell get us all killed, muttered Louise, crawling around in search of stray chocolates.
Pauli came in and looked curiously at his crawling grandmother.
Whats gramma doing? he asked.
Rooting for truffles, said Janine. Goodbye, Christian.
Stepping gingerly over Louise, Christian Valois left the bakery. As he walked along the empty street, he began to smile, then to chuckle out loud.
Unobserved in a doorway on the other side, Günter Mai smiled too.
6
In October, a census of Jews was announced. They were required to report in alphabetical order to their local police station. When Janine expressed unease, Sophie laughed and said, Its our own French police I shall see, not the Germans. In any case, would the Marshal have met with Herr Hitler and shaken his hand if there was need to worry?
Janine too had taken comfort from the meeting at Montoire. If things were getting back to normal, surely prisoners must soon be released? He wasnt deadhe couldnt be dead
At the police station there was a long queue. When she reached its head, Sophie filled in her registration form with great care. Only at the Next of Kin section did she hesitate. Something made her look over her shoulder. Behind her, winding around the station vestibule and out of the door, stretched the queue. Conversation was low; most didnt speak at all, but stood with expressions of stolid resignation, every now and then shuffling forward to whatever fate officialdom had devised for them.
Come on, old lady, said a gendarme. Whats the hold-up?
She put a stroke of the pen through Next of Kin.
What? No family?
A son. Until the war.
Im sorry. Thank God its all over for the rest of us. Now sign your name and be on your way.
It felt good to be out in the street again and her confidence rapidly returned as she walked home as briskly as her rheumatic knee permitted.
As she reached the apartment building, Maurice Melchior emerged, resplendent in a long astrakhan coat which hed been given by accident from the cloakroom at the Comédie-Française the previous winter and at last felt safe in wearing.
Good day, Madame Simonian. And how are you? Taking the air?
Piqued at being accused of such unproductive activity, Sophie said sharply, No, monsieur. Ive been to register.
Register? He raised his eyebrows. How quaint! Good day, madame!
Melchior set off at a brisk pace, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and this silly old Jewess whod gone voluntarily to put her name on an official census-list. How desperate people were to convince themselves that everything was normal. Normal! All they had to do was stroll along the boulevards and look in the shop windows. Everything had gone. Ration coupons had been introduced the previous month. And the forecast was for a long, hard winter. The only people who had any cause for complacency were the black-marketeers.
I must make some contacts, thought Melchior. But not today. Today he had more immediate and personal worries.
Bruno was close to dumping him, that was the brutal truth. A couple of nights earlier theyd visited the Deux Magots where Melchior, rather full of Brunos excellent brandy, had spotted Cocteau in a corner.
Do I know him? Blood-brothers, dear boy! Of course Ill introduce you. And hed set off across the room, big smile, outstretched hand, with Bruno in close formation. The Great Man (pretentious shit!) had thrust an empty bottle into the outstretched hand and said, Another of the same, waiter. A bit colder this time, and all his arse-licking cronies had set up a jeering bray.
Zeller turned on his heel and stormed out of the door. By the time Melchior got out, he was in his car. The engine drowned Maurices attempts at explanation and apology, and as he grasped the door handle, the car accelerated away, pulling him to his knees in the gutter.
Perhaps it was the supplicatory pose; or perhaps Zeller was reminded of the circumstances of their first meeting. He stopped the car, reversed and opened the door.
Get in, he said.
They drove away at high speed up the Rue de Rennes and turned into the Boulevard Raspail.
Are we going to the Lutétia? asked Melchior.
Yes.
Melchior relapsed into a nervous silence. Once before he had suggested provocatively that Bruno should take him to dine at the Lutétia. The German had said coldly, The only Frenchmen who come into Abwehr Headquarters are agents or prisoners. It can be arranged.
Now Melchior recalled that moment and shivered.
The trouble was things hadnt been going well for some weeks. As life returned to something like normal it had grown increasingly difficult to maintain his claim to be at the artistic heart of things. Name-dropping was only successful if the names dropped kept a decent distance from the city. But many had returned, and even when they were polite, they made it very clear they were not intimate with him. Usually he was able to bluff it out but a snub like tonights was too unambiguous for bluff.
They entered the hotel by a side-door. It was clear he wasnt going to see the public rooms. Whos duty officer? Zeller demanded of an armed corporal.
Lieutenant Mai, sir.
Fetch him.
When Günter Mai arrived, annoyed at having been dragged from his dinner, he recognized Melchior instantly but concealed the fact. His superiors sexual impulses were his own affair as long as they didnt compromise the sections security. As soon as the inevitable happened and Zeller found himself a friend, Mai had done a thorough check. In the light of official Party attitudes to Jews and perverts, Maurice Melchior was not an ideal companion for a German officer. But it was clear he hadnt a political thought in his head. Motivated entirely by hedonistic self-interest, conceited, cowardly, the little queer posed no security risk at all. But what on earth was he doing here?
This is Monsieur Melchior, said Zeller. Ill be interviewing him immediately. Is there a room?
Of course, sir, said Mai. This way.
In the sparsely furnished room, Zeller waited till Mai had closed the door behind him, then said, Lets talk seriously, Maurice.
Delighted. But why have you brought me here?
So youll understand quite clearly what Im saying to you, said Zeller softly. Maurice, you havent been honest with me, have you? Youve been a naughty boy.
Always willing to oblige, laughed Melchior.
Shut up! It seems that far from being the celebrity you claim, youre a nobody. Worse, youre a bit of a laughing stock. Thats your bad luck, but by your idiocy, youve got me involved in it too. I dont care to be made to look ridiculous, Maurice. Getting mixed up with you was a mistake. Some people can forget mistakes. I cant. I need to correct them.
What do you mean, Bruno? demanded Melchior nervously.
Youre going to have to start earning your keep, said Zeller spitefully. As a cultural guide, youre a dead loss. As a sexual partner, you have your moments, but frankly, with the exchange rate the way it is, I can afford troupes of prettier, younger, more athletic friends than you, and theres no shortage of offers. So that leaves only one avenue.
Whats that, Bruno? asked Melchior, his mouth dry.
65
When we first met, you asked if I was going to make an agent out of you. Like you, I took it as a joke. But by Christ, Maurice, the joking time is over. Those big ears and sharp eyes of yours must be good for something. From now on, if you want protection - and the alternative, let me assure you, is persecution - youre going to earn your keep. Do you understand me?
Hell hath no fury like a German officer made to feel ridiculous, thought Günter Mai who was listening in the next room. But trying to make an agent out of a creature like Melchior, that really was ridiculous. There could be trouble there. Should he try to warn Zeller? He thought not. It would mean admitting his knowledge. And Zeller probably wouldnt listen. Besides, he thought with a smile, a bit of trouble wouldnt do that gilded youth any harm at all.
A not unkind man, Günter Mai might have been rather more concerned, though not much, if he could have shared Melchiors growing panic as October turned to November and Zellers threats became more and more dire. He tried to explain how terribly difficult it was for someone like himself to become an agent. He was more than willing to oblige, dear Bruno must believe that, but the kind of gossip he was so expert at collecting was not, alas, the kind which held much interest for the guardians of military security.
But at last a break had come. There were rumours everywhere that, angered by the complacent acceptance by their elders of the German Occupation, the university students were planning some kind of demonstration on November 11th, armistice day. Melchior spent all his spare time in the cafés on the Boul Miche where once he had sought the occasional pick-up. The youngsters were happy enough to let him pay for their drinks, but laughed behind his back at his efforts to draw them. Did someone who had so shamelessly flaunted his Aryan nancy-boy really believe they were going to spill their plans for a few cups of coffee?