April in Paris (13 page)

I stiffened my spine. “
Swimming
, Captain?”

“A splendid day for a swim.” He placed himself in front of the window in such a way that I couldn’t make out the expression on his face. “It was bloody hot while we were making our raid yesterday afternoon.”

I held my breath.

“So what did you do on such a lovely summer afternoon?” He blinked in the sunlight.

“Nothing special. Met up with a comrade.”

Leibold turned to the door, gripped the handle, and waited.

I understood: He wanted to know the name. “Hirschbiegel. A lieutenant on Colonel Schwandt’s staff.”

“Panzer outfit?” The captain looked at me steadily.

“Yes, sir.” I named Hirschbiegel’s unit.

“What do you have to do with panzer officers?” One boot heel rocked back and forth on the floor.

“The lieutenant and I are billeted in the same hotel.”

“I see.” He opened the inner door; in the interrogation room, the corporals were on their feet and ready for action. “We didn’t get them all yesterday,” Leibold said with a thin smile. “All the same, I’m satisfied.”

I felt as though an iron clamp were closing around my throat. I lowered my eyes, ostensibly to turn to a clean page in my notepad.

“Be careful,” the captain said.

The floor of the room seemed to sink. I pressed a pencil with two fingers. It would snap soon; I could feel it. Finally, Leibold went into the room. I followed him and took my usual place.

They brought in the barber.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 119

He’d been beaten—there was an open wound over his right eye. They set him down on the chair. Leibold had his particulars read aloud: Gustave Thiérisson, residing at 31 rue Jacob. Propri-etor of a barbershop.

He hadn’t looked at me yet.

“Have you had your shop for a long time?” Leibold began.

“Le salon, vous l’avez depuis longtemps?”
I asked him softly.

Gustave straightened himself. His handcuffs clinked. It wasn’t his appearance that shook me; it was the hopelessness in his eyes.

He stared at me.

At last he said in a cracked voice,
“Propriété de famille.”

“Family property,” I said.

“And do you have a license to operate a printing press in your
family property
?”

I hesitated a moment too long. “Say it!” Leibold snapped.

I pressed my knees together and interpreted. The barber was about to speak, but they didn’t wait that long. And this time, the captain didn’t let me leave.

They struck Gustave in the face. He didn’t cry out; he groaned and waited for the next blow. They let his pain subside and then beat him some more, throwing him to the floor, kicking his soft parts. Leibold didn’t interrupt and asked no questions. He let them take their time. Eventually, they hauled the barber back onto the chair and opened his trousers. One of them put on a glove. Gustave gazed at me in bewilderment. Blood dripped from his eyebrow. He watched the glove approach his genitals. The corporal seized them. Gustave screamed wildly and twisted around to escape the other’s grasp. His shoulders were yanked back. The 120 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

one with the glove let go only when Leibold gave the sign. Gustave’s body shuddered and twitched. He continued to scream, but as though from far away. Gradually, the screaming turned to whimpering. A rivulet ran down his trouser leg and dripped onto the floor beside his shoe.

“From now on, I want precise answers,” Leibold said. “Say one word I don’t like and we do it again.”

I translated. My armpits and back were damp with sweat.

Leibold continued: “Are you the owner of that printing press?”

I asked the question in French and added, in the same breath,

“Dis-le vite!”

Leibold scrutinized me but said nothing.

The lacerated face, the broken nose. Gustave admitted to own-ing the press.

“There’s a woman who works in your shop,” said the captain.

“What’s her name?”

I translated. Gustave raised his head a little. Our eyes met.

“What’s her name?”
Leibold repeated. The corporals got ready.

“Dis son nom!”
I shouted at the barber with exaggerated fe-rocity.

“Chantal,” he replied, his voice barely audible.

“Chantal what?”

“Joffo.” He stopped.
“Elle n’en a rien à foutre.”

“The woman had nothing to do with it,” I said.

Leibold’s eyes went from me to the prisoner and back. “That remains to be seen.” He carried on with the interrogation.

Shortly before noon, the barber lost consciousness. The corporals tried to waken him by throwing water on him. When that proved useless, Leibold had him returned to his cell. They A P R I L I N PA R I S . 121

dragged his unconscious body out of the room; his feet thumped against the floor.

Away from the others, I sat down in the courtyard and had a smoke. I saw Gustave, his open wounds. One more session like this and he’d tell all. I sucked frantically on my cigarette.

“You should get more sleep.” Anna Rieleck-Sostmann stepped out of the shadows.

“It’s just the heat.” My smile was unsuccessful.

She sat down, thrusting her legs into the sunshine. “If I can help you, I will.”

“You think I need help?”

“You know this barber, don’t you?” She leaned her head back.

My frightened look said it all. “What makes you think that?”

“Don’t play games with me.” Rieleck-Sostmann shooed a fly away from her forehead.

“I got a haircut in his shop once.” This statement was supposed to sound casual. She laid her hand close beside mine.

“Have you said anything to Leibold?” My finger touched the back of her hand.

“Why should I?” She took a cigarette out of my packet. I gave her a light. “You’re perfectly capable of doing yourself in without any help from me.” She blinked as a spark flew too close to her eye.

“Please, Anna—”

“I’ll have some time today, I think. Shall we say six o’clock?”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Don’t forget your bag under the desk.” As she spoke, she stood up and left.

For several minutes, I stared at the patch of sunlight as it reached my boot and then my calf. My leg got very hot inside the leather shaft. I didn’t move until one of the corporals ordered me inside.

Iwashed myself, scrubbing my feet and knees with the rough washcloth, even using the coarse soap in my hair. I avoided looking in the mirror and poured ice-cold water over my head by way of a final rinse. A short while before, the door had shut behind Rieleck-Sostmann. I was making an effort to erase the past hour from my memory. The powerful thighs, the flushed throat. I sprang out of the bathroom and tore three pages off the calendar.

Then I put on the good uniform, bought a bottle of cologne from the toilet attendant, and daubed it on my throat and temples.

There wasn’t a star in sight, and hardly any civilians in the street. I walked out into the evening haze and encountered the usual mixture of officers and enlisted men sauntering about, looking for pleasure. Once, I thought I heard steps behind me, but the sidewalk was empty.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 123

I went straight to rue Faillard, no detours. When I reached the building, a fearful feeling came over me. My hands were damp; I ran my fingers through my hair twice before I pressed the doorbell. Once again, the concierge remained a phantom behind a curtained door. Only a cough revealed that someone was in there.

I whispered Chantal’s name loudly into the stairwell; no answer. I climbed up to the flat and waited in front of the door. She could have been delayed somewhere, I told myself. At the end of half an hour, I was certain she wasn’t coming. It took me a long time to get the door open, but it scraped over the floor again at last. The flat seemed musty and unfamiliar today. Only the pillows and sheets were reminders of last night. I found a bottle of wine in the kitchen. Without turning on a light, I sat down on the ship’s sofa and drank. Later, I poured myself some of Hirschbiegel’s cognac and I drank it in big gulps.

When both bottles were empty, I opened the window and paced around the flat, oppressed by my own helplessness. I felt sick, spit up the burning liquor, and made a dash for the exit downstairs, stumbling on the smooth steps. My boot heels were intolerably loud. I ran past the concierge’s booth, headed toward the river, and didn’t slow down until I was walking on the stone pavement of the bridge. I saluted as I passed two SS sergeants and made my way through narrow side streets, avoiding the vicinity of rue Jacob.

A clock was striking ten when I reached the black gate that opened into rue de Gaspard. Darkness everywhere. I entered the narrow street. The junk dealer’s shop was boarded up, as if he had left it forever. I reached the bookshop and sat down on the big 124 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

rock to catch my breath. Sweat ran down over my eyebrows. Suddenly, something in the darkness made me leap to my feet. Was the shop under surveillance? Were they already waiting out there in the dark, ready to strike at any moment? How foolish to come here! Dangerous for Chantal, as well. I reached the top of the steps in one bound and knocked on the door. It opened with a squeal, making me jump. The shop bell failed to ring. Only then did I notice the broken glass. Even though I could see things only in outline, I could tell when I walked in that they’d done a thorough job. Cases had been tipped over; hundreds of books strewed the floor. By the flickering light of a match, I contemplated the devastation and then spun around suddenly, blowing out the flame. Had something moved in the street? I stood still and listened for several seconds. In the end, I cleared a passage for myself and reached the counter. The ledger lay in pieces at my feet.

Files, pictures, and folders were scattered about. The storeroom in the rear of the shop was in the same condition. They’d thrown the whole stock of books into a heap on the floor. My efforts exhausted me; I sat down on the book mound and took off my forage cap. I cursed the circumstances that had thrown me together with these people. Whatever I did would put them in danger. I accused myself of having informed on Chantal. Hadn’t I forced the barber to say her name? Would I be facing her tomorrow at her interrogation?

No sound of any kind except the rustling of paper. My cap slipped off my lap and fell to the floor. I groped for it and discovered one corner of a carpet that was covered with books. I straightened up. By the light of another match, I inspected the A P R I L I N PA R I S . 125

floor. Stamped on it; it was hollow. I pricked up my ears, but all was quiet in the shop. I found a candle and lighted it. Then I started raising the empty, overturned bookshelves and stacking the books against the walls. Slowly but surely, I cleared everything off the carpet, then stood at one corner, grabbed a handful of the dusty fabric, and pulled it back. With the toe of my boot, I looked for an edge or a dip in the floor. The air in the room was stuffy, so I took off my uniform jacket.

The notch in the floorboard was barely noticeable, even when I held the candle over it. Wax dripped onto my hand. The boards were smooth, except for one splintered spot, as though something had been attached there. Searching the room to see if there was anything I could use as a lever, I noticed a poker leaning on the wall behind the cast-iron stove. The handle was strangely thick, and the shaft tapered only slightly. I put the candle on the floor, jammed the flatter end of the bar into the floorboard, and put all my weight on the other end. There was a long, drawn-out creaking; it felt as if something was on the point of snapping.

Suddenly, the trapdoor came free. A small crack opened. I remembered how I’d been dragged down there weeks before. I put my foot on the first step and cautiously began climbing down.

Reaching the packed-earth floor, I held the candle high and turned in a circle. Rough brick walls; against one of them, a rack with potatoes and apples.

“I’m aiming right at your heart,” said a voice from the darkness.

I sprang back.

“Stay where you are!” he cried out.

126 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

“Joffo?” I blew out the candle. No answer. “I’m alone.”

“Why should I believe you?”

I reached for the matches. The box slipped from my hand, and I felt around for it on the damp floor. Soon the candle was burning between the bookseller and me. His face was filled with anxiety.

“How long have you been down here?” I asked.

“They came so suddenly, I couldn’t get away,” Joffo replied.

“Does the cellar have another exit?”

“No.”

“How did you intend to get out?”

“I tried. The trapdoor was too heavy.”

“You might have suffocated.”

“No.” Joffo held the pistol in the light. “Not while I had this.”

He started climbing upstairs. “They’ll be back.”

I followed him. “Where’s Chantal?”

“Gone.”

“Where?”

We were standing side by side. He closed the trapdoor and pulled the carpet over it. “You won’t see my daughter again, monsieur.”

“I’m not to blame for what happened!”

Joffo put the poker back in its place. “I’m going to have to abandon my books,” he said. “You
are
to blame for that.”

He blew out the candle and led me past the counter. We felt our way to the door. Before I left him, I told him about the barber. I didn’t mention the torture. Joffo stooped and picked up the door handle, which had been torn off. It made a cold sound.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 127

“Don’t try to find us, monsieur.” He looked back at his devastated world of books. Without saying good-bye, I slipped away, pausing a moment beside the rock on which I’d seen Chantal for the first time. I tried in vain to remember what she’d been reading then.

That night, I extirpated all Geman traces from my clothes, underwear included. Brand names were eliminated. Imprints were rendered unrecognizable. Even the numbers on the soles of my shoes—their German size—had to go; I dug them out with my knife.