April in Paris (14 page)

The next day, I asked Leibold if I could discuss something with him. We weren’t standing in our usual spot by the window overlooking the garden. This time, we were in his office. “I’m a corporal in the Wehrmacht,” I said, “and for that reason I request to be transferred back to my old unit.”

“Don’t you like working in rue des Saussaies anymore?” Leibold’s tone remained friendly, but I sensed he was lurking behind it.

In recent weeks, rumors of an Allied invasion had encouraged A P R I L I N PA R I S . 129

the French Resistance forces to intensify their efforts considerably. Every day, dozens of arrestees came through our department; the questioning of a prisoner was often a mere preliminary to his execution by firing squad. I admitted to Leibold that I was finding the interrogation sessions hard to take.

“These people are enemies of the Reich!” the captain replied, stressing each word. “If you were at the front, you’d have to kill such enemies with your own hands.” In the silence, we could hear a truck drive past. “Is that what you want, Corporal?”

The sun painted a hard-edged cross on the whitewashed wall.

I stared at the patch of light behind the captain.

“I’m requesting a transfer,” I repeated. My voice sounded strange to me.

“You’ll be informed of my decision.” He bent over his desk.

That same day, I translated the interrogation of two French-women who had broken
into
a prison camp in order to see their men. When I left the typing room late in the afternoon, Rieleck-Sostmann was conversing with an SS lieutenant. He told her that the barber they’d detained had died of his injuries.

“Greece, if you’re lucky,” Hirschbiegel said. We were sitting side by side on his bed. “Maybe Romania. Do your best to get to the mountains.” He was kneading his pink hands between his knees.

Outside, a lovely fall afternoon was under way. The sky gleamed behind the rooftops of the buildings across the street.

The air was cooler.

“Romania?” I tried to remember the map of the Balkans that 130 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

my major had brought from there. Remarks were scribbled in pencil on the map: “Partisan Corps ‘Josip’ ” or “12th Partisan Division”; it seemed that the war in the Balkans was being fought against bandits.

We fell silent; neither of us had mentioned Russia. Why should Leibold shrink from sending me there?

“Don’t you want to see her again before you go?” Hirschbiegel asked.

“They’re gone,” I said. “They probably went to the country.”

“So rue Faillard goes unused.” The lieutenant sighed. “What a shame.”

We drank cognac.

“Let me hear the song one more time,” I said. Hirschbiegel scooped some brilliantine from a jar and rubbed it between his hands. I stood up and went over to the shelves. “Next April, I’ll surely be somewhere other than Paris.”

When I found the brown record sleeve, he said, “A mistake.

I’m sorry.”

I pulled out the record. It was in two pieces.

“I sat on it.” Hirschbiegel’s eyes were apologetic.

“Do you remember the melody?” I held the two halves together. “How did it go?”

The lieutenant was rubbing pomade into his hair. “It was just a pop song,” he said. “What’s the difference?”

I read the split title. “Avril Prochain.” I couldn’t remember the song anymore.

Shortly thereafter, we were strolling in the direction of the Seine, preceded by the scent of Hirschbiegel’s violet water. The A P R I L I N PA R I S . 131

sky cooled off above the green-and-yellow plane trees, and it was growing dark very fast. I inhaled the soft air. The few clouds were brownish smudges. In the surrounding buildings, men dressed in sweaters lounged in the windows of the upper floors. A café was just opening; the garçon hadn’t yet finished sweeping out. The sounds of various kinds of music came from all directions. We could hear fiddling in the distance, trumpet notes, a German song. An all-female group was playing in the restaurant across the street. We ambled over there.

Hirschbiegel fell for the petite violinist, a French girl right out of a picture book, who conducted the tricky entries with her bow.

The violist was her opposite: robust and well-nourished. Her instrument rose and sank on her bosom with every breath she took.

At the end of the waltz, the cellist gave me a sad look.

Hirschbiegel chewed a piece of French bread. “Why don’t you introduce us to the ladies?”

“All four of them?”

“The matron at the piano will be sent home,” he cried, laughing.

After a few glasses, he forgot the lady musicians.

“There’s music playing
outside
!” The lieutenant stumbled out to the boulevard.

We pressed our way into the passing throng, which got denser with the approach of the blackout. The air was loud with voices and a thousand footsteps and the stamping of soldiers’ feet. Mus-taches thick as thumbs, gold teeth laughingly exposed. Blood-drained faces, despite the remnants of summer tans. Soldiers were standing in front of a pathetic display window, hands clasped be-132 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

hind their backs. They were pretty casual about the saluting regulations, and there were few officers out and about anyway. I noticed a small sergeant hurrying across the same intersection for the fourth time, acting important, like someone late for an appointment, even though he was nothing but lost and alone.

Women outnumbered soldiers. Hirschbiegel imagined that every female who showed so much as a bare calf was a professional. Every few meters, he’d whisper loudly, “
She’s
one for sure!”

Wooden soles, costume jackets slung over shoulders. They crowded the street in groups of two or four, putting their heads close together and laughing. I listened to the fragments of broken German the girls used to start conversations with the soldiers.

Paß mal uff—auf Wid-dersen.
Laughter, cheekiness, nothing ex-treme. The real professionals stood out like racehorses in a herd of clueless ponies: high heels, furs on their shoulders. Exhibiting, being ogled, haggling with their eyes, disappointedly moving on.

We passed a dashingly dressed boy standing beside the entrance to a café and insisting to the waiter,
“Mais j’ai douze ans.”
We passed an old woman wrapped in a green woolen shawl and sitting as though petrified in the darkness of her newspaper stand.

I opted for a café on the quai de la Tournelle with a view of Notre-Dame.

“Now what?” Hirschbiegel looked around impatiently at the other customers.

“Now we wait until our lucky break comes along.”

He eyed the couples around us sullenly. To do nothing but sit there thwarted his desire for conquest. “I’ve had enough stag evenings recently to last me a long time,” he grumbled.

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 133

I enjoyed the breeze coming off the river. A short while later, two young women appeared. Proper skirts, starched blouses, pretty little hats on their heads. After a brief exchange, they decided to have a seat in the café. Hirschbiegel’s spine stiffened when they headed for the table next to ours. He wiped his glistening forehead with the back of his hand. “I like the tall one with the full shirt,” he whispered. “You mind taking the delicate one?”

I agreed without really looking.

“What can they be, do you think? Seamstresses? Schoolteach-ers? They’re not commercial girls—you can tell that right away.

When are you going to talk to them?”

I let ten minutes pass before undertaking anything.

He pressured me. “Before someone snatches them away from us,” he said.

And in fact, an elegant Frenchman appeared at the neighboring table and started a conversation.

“Now the frog’s beating us to it!” Hirschbiegel squirmed in his chair. “And the big one was exactly my type.”

The women gave the Frenchman a friendly rebuff. He shrugged his shoulders and turned back to the friends he was sitting with.

Hirschbiegel poked me. “Your turn, buddy!”

I leaned over to the next table.
“Excusez-moi, mesdemoiselles.

On n’a pas encore dîné, mon copain et moi. Et nous ne sommes pas
d’accord quel restaurant choisir.”

“Mais il y en a des excellents dans le quartier,”
the delicate one said.

“What? What’s she saying?” Hirschbiegel was sitting in a pose, like an equestrian monument.

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

“Les demoiselles n’auraient pas une petite faim, par hasard?”
I asked.

“Une toute petite faim toujours
.
”
The big girl laughed.

“Look how she laughs,” the lieutenant said rapturously.

I explained to him that these two couldn’t afford an expensive place.

“Tell them I’ll pay for everything!” he declared. “The best, nothing but the best!” Hirschbiegel was childishly happy, clapped for the garçon, and would not be dissuaded from paying for the ladies’ drinks, as well. He suggested a posh restaurant.

By the time our meal was over, the curfew had long since begun. Hirschbiegel’s luck made him patronizing and timid at once.

He proposed that we all go to rue Faillard for “a nightcap.” The big girl, a worker in a button factory, took his arm. The delicate one trotted beside me in silence.

We reached the narrow, darkened street and then the apartment building. I was working on an excuse I could use to get away without spoiling Hirschbiegel’s adventure. I had no desire to go up to the flat. The lieutenant took his companion by the hand and pushed her finger against the doorbell. The abrupt buzz sounded in reply. Before Hirschbiegel pushed the door open, I noticed a movement in the shadows and flinched; ever since the afternoon in rue Jacob, the fear of being followed had taken root in my heart.

Footsteps approached. Chantal stood on the edge of the curb.

She assessed the women and Hirschbiegel, looking for answers to her questions. Then she called softly, “Antoine?”

I was so happy, I didn’t know what to do. I ran to her and hesitated. “You’re still in the city?”

A P R I L I N PA R I S . 135

She was wearing a heavy jacket and carrying a bag in one hand. “You’re not alone?”

“Yes I am, yes I am,” I stammered. Then I turned in Hirschbiegel’s direction.

The lieutenant walked over to us. “Is that her?” he asked, bursting with curiosity.

“This is my friend,” I explained to Chantal. “The one who owns the flat.”

“The
Jew
?” Despite the unreality of the situation, she smiled.

“Can I talk to you?” A glance at the women. “It won’t take long.”

“Where are you two going to go?” Hirshbiegel asked.

“Anywhere,” I said. She looked at me.

The large man inserted himself between us. “Here,” he said.

With a cordial nod, he handed me the silver key.

“What about you?” I kept hold of his hand.

“There are plenty of hotels.” He made an awkward bow and returned to the two French girls. In laborious fragments, he explained that the three of them would have to move on. Protests, laughter, and then their footsteps fading away.

“Why are you still in Paris?” I asked.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Lost, dubious, and happy, I stood on the edge of the curb.

Chantal, I love you,” I said hoarsely.

“No,” she whispered in the darkness.

“I won’t be in Paris much longer.” I moved closer to her face.

“Why not?”

“I requested a transfer.”

“Good idea.” She touched my cheek. “Anyone who speaks our language as well as you—”

“Where I’m going, French won’t do me any good.”

She gave me a questioning look and put her arms around me.

We kissed. She unhooked her dress and let it fall to the floor. We slid onto the bed. She captured my tongue between her teeth. I stroked her long, suntanned thigh. Her pelvis moved slowly. Tenderly, she took me inside her. Her soft breasts. I swirled her thick hair and pushed all thoughts aside. This night outshone every-A P R I L I N PA R I S . 137

thing. It was borrowed time. Afterward, I poured us some wine and spoke about what the future would bring. About a
free
France.

Chantal laughed, her eyes half-closed. “My father has a soft spot for the emperor.”

“Napoléon?” I touched her back.

“Papa’s not a monarchist.” She looked at me. “But before the war, he was against anything he thought sounded like a coup d’état.”

“And you?” I examined every one of her vertebrae.

“I still had short hair back then,” she said, smiling. “In the evenings, after work, Papa and Bertrand often used to sit together in the storeroom. Bertrand is Gustave’s father. In those days,
he
was the barber.”

“The white-haired man who reads the newspaper?”

She nodded. “He was an ardent leftist, a member of the
front
populaire.
He tried to convert Papa. Papa said, ‘The people demonstrating in front of the Bastille should go for a walk with their families instead. That’s a better way to spend a Sunday.’ ”

Sitting naked on the bed, I tried to imagine the times to come after the war, as if my mere thoughts had the power to create them. I forgot about devastated Europe and evoked an island of normality. I could tell from Chantal’s averted gaze, from her meager replies, that she didn’t believe in such a future. For her, the present was too urgent and uncertain to afford a glimpse even of tomorrow. The war was going badly for the Germans now, yet she still saw nothing but foreign uniforms in her city. It would be better in the country, she said. There were very few occupying troops in the vicinity of her grandfather’s farm.

“The countryside can’t be subjugated,” she whispered into 138 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R

the room. “The countryside’s stronger than the tanks that roll through it.”

From downstairs in the street, a German song reached our ears like a stray dream. I took Chantal in my arms and told her that Gustave was dead. She lay still, completely rigid. After awhile, I realized that she was crying.

Suddenly, I said, “I could go underground.”