The Collaborators (19 page)

‘All right,’ said Janine. ‘When do we go? Tonight?’

‘We?’ said Valois.

‘I’m coming too,’ she said coldly. ‘No argument.’

‘But you mustn’t!’ he said. ‘The children…’

‘I’ll leave them with Sophie,’ she said. ‘I’m coming, Christian, and there’s an end to it.’

Henri laughed and said, ‘Not married, are you, monsieur? Thought not, else you’d know you were wasting your breath.’

The altercation seemed to have persuaded him to trust Valois and he now outlined his plan for picking up Jean-Paul.

‘Tomorrow night, Thursday,’ he said. ‘We’ll time it so that we’re driving back in the dusk. You can get away without lights still, and it makes cars so much harder to spot.’

Soon after the two men left. At parting when he offered to kiss her on the cheek she surprised him by kissing him full on the lips.

‘Thanks, Christian,’ she breathed. ‘You’re a real friend.’

Story of my life, he thought as he turned away. The only time I see the light of joy in that woman’s eyes is when she hears her husband is still alive.

He walked to the Monge métro station with Henri, chatting inconsequentially with the man. It soon became clear that Henri was no political animal.

‘André, he was a bit political,’ he conceded. ‘The rest of us, like your mate Jean-Paul, all we wanted to do was kill a few of them bastards.’

He was looking at a group of young German soldiers chasing each other drunkenly round the empty market stalls in the Place Monge before tumbling down the stairs into the métro.

’Master race!’ said Henri contemptuously.

They discovered they were going in different directions so shook hands and separated. Valois stood and watched the other walk away, a plump, middle-aged, shabbily dressed working man, one of millions. But he was uncluttered by self-doubt or Party dogma. And he had a gun in his pocket and was an active Resistant.

Suddenly he was glad that Delaplanche with all his cool calculation and his reasoned advice was far, far away.

9

The pick-up went perfectly.

The middle-aged couple who’d taken Jean-Paul in were at the same time relieved and apologetic.

‘We would have kept him longer,’ explained the woman, ‘but our son, Jacques…’

‘No names,’ growled Henri. ‘The less we all know the better. How is he?’

‘The doctor’s been today. He’s very weak still but he can be moved,’ said the man leading them upstairs.

Janine went into the room first. On the journey out she had convinced herself that Jean-Paul would have regressed to complete amnesia and now she steeled herself for the heart-tearing lack of recognition.

Instead the pale head raised itself from the pillow, broke into a joyous smile, immediately replaced by a look of irritated concern, and he said, ‘Janine, you shouldn’t be here!’

‘She’s come to take you home so shut up and be grateful,’ said Henri.

‘We’re using Christian’s car, he’s got a permit,’ said Janine trying to cover her emotion by being very businesslike.

‘Christian. You too. God, what risks you’re taking,’ said Simonian.

‘No risks,’ said Valois. ‘First sign of trouble and you’re out in the ditch.’

Simonian laughed and gripped Valois with his good arm as he stooped over him.

‘It’s brave of you to come, Christian,’ he said. ‘Thanks. I’ll not forget this.’

The light was beginning to fade as they got him into the car. The movement caused him some pain. He didn’t cry out or even wince, but Janine felt it in the tension of his body. His hosts stood anxiously around, knowing that these moments, with the injured man in full view of anyone passing the house, were for them the most dangerous. At last the car was ready to depart and Janine embraced them with tears in her eyes.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ she said. ‘When this is all over, I’ll come to thank you properly.’

And then they were on their way.

With light fading fast, they drove slowly so that they didn’t need headlights. Janine sat in the back with her arm round Jean-Paul. Soon after they set off he said in a low voice, ‘How are the children?’

‘Fine. They’re with your mother. They missed you.’

‘Does she know about this?’

‘No. I don’t know what she guesses, but I’ve told her nothing.’

He smiled his approval, then slipped into a silence which hovered on the edge of unconsciousness.

In the front, Valois drove, while Henri, who seemed to have a cab driver’s knowledge of roads, navigated. It was growing quite dark now and as they penetrated further into the unlit suburbs, Valois said, ‘I need to use my side-lights, I think. Besides being dangerous, without them we’ll look bloody suspicious.’

‘Wait,’ said Henri. ‘Slow down, turn left here.’

‘What’s up?’ said Valois, obeying.

‘Didn’t you see? Up ahead there was something going on. It looked like a road block to me. Right in about two hundred metres should bring us back on course.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Janine, trying to hide her fear.

‘Well, we’ve passed the Buttes Chaumont, must be on the edge of the Tenth Arrondissement. Right here, I think. Jesus, there they are again! Left, left! Just turn off, but don’t hurry!’

This time they were close enough for them all to see quite clearly the activity ahead. Two police cars. Half a dozen gendarmes. They looked towards the car and watched it as it turned off the main road once more.

‘All right. Straight on. Fast as you can, but don’t kill us!’ commanded Henri, twisting round to look for signs of pursuit.

There was none.

They were heading east and Valois kept going till they hit the Boulevard Davour where they turned south. Several times when he was contemplating turning west towards the city centre again he glimpsed gendarmerie cars parked across roads intersecting the boulevard.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Henri, what’s going on? We can’t be that important!’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, we’re not!’ said Henri. ‘They’re not interested in us. God knows what’s going on, though. What the hell’s that?’

A convoy of three green and white Paris Transport Company buses went speeding by. Their interiors were dark, but they seemed to be packed.

They crossed the Seine by the Pont National. It was pitch dark by now and Valois was forced to use his side-lights, but once on this side of the river, all signs of a police presence seemed to evaporate and they crawled west to the Quartier Mouffetard without further alarm.

‘Jean-Paul, we’re home,’ whispered Janine.

The words seemed to act like a reviving injection, as if he had deliberately lapsed into suspended animation to preserve his strength for this final effort. Even so, Valois had to half carry him up the flight of stairs, and when they laid him on the bed he was as quiet and still as any piece of funebrial marble.

Henri checked the dressings. There were signs of fresh bleeding but now he was lying down it seemed to have stopped.

‘He’ll be all right,’ he assured Janine. ‘Let him rest quiet, that’s best. Your kids are away? That’s good. Peace and quiet are what he needs. I’ll fix for a doctor to call. He’s good with bullet wounds and even better at keeping his mouth shut. But I think we’d better be off now, monsieur.’

Valois was stooping over Jean-Paul who opened his eyes for a moment and smiled. Then he turned to Janine and said, ‘Look, I’d stay, only I have to get the car back in the garage. Out there, it could attract attention.’

‘Yes, of course. Thank you, thank you both from the bottom of my heart for what you’ve done. I’ll never forget it. Never.’

She embraced them both, then accompanied them down the stairs to the front door and checked the street was clear.

‘Take care,’ she said anxiously. ‘Those gendarmes will probably still be about.’

Valois nodded, kissed her cheek and got into the car.

Henri grinned and said, ‘Don’t worry, lady. Without your husband, we’re just a couple of good citizens in a car with a permit. Besides, like I said before, whatever the flics are up to tonight, one thing’s for sure; it’s nothing to do with us!’

The knock at the door came just after Pauli had got into bed.

Sophie Simonian twitched more in irritation than alarm. It was probably that idiot concierge complaining once more that Charlot was howling outside her kitchen window. Then a movement on the sofa told her that Charlot was sleeping there in his favourite spot having dragged down the old heavy antimacassar on top of him.

‘Who’s there?’ she called at the door.

‘Gendarmerie, madame,’ replied a courteous voice. ‘Please open the door.’

She obeyed, but left it on the chain till she was sure the uniform matched the claim. Then she let them in.

There were two of them, a sergeant and a younger constable. The constable smiled apologetically but the sergeant wore the stern face stupid people adopt who are happy to accept instructions as a reasonable substitute for independent thought. Outside on the landing, Sophie could see two more men, hardly more than boys really. They were wearing blue shirts, with cross-straps, and they had armbands on, but she could not make out the symbol on them.

The sergeant was consulting a printed sheet.

‘You are Madame Sophie Simonian of this address?’

‘Yes, monsieur. I have my papers here if you wish to see them.’

She moved towards her old bureau but the sergeant said impatiently, ‘No, don’t show them to me. But bring them with you. They will need to be checked.’

’Bring
them, monsieur?’ said Sophie. ‘When?’

‘Now, of course.’

He flourished his sheet of paper at her. She saw it was a list of names and addresses. The sheet was headed
Census of Jews and Foreign Nationals 1941,
and she recalled her visit to the police station to register.

‘I have done nothing wrong,’ she said.

‘No one’s saying you’ve done anything wrong,’ he said impatiently. ‘It’s just the law, madame. Now please get ready. Bring some clothes with you, a bundle, you’re not going on a world cruise.’

‘Clothes? You mean I shall be away all night?’ she said in alarm. She was thinking about the children. She could trust Pauli to look after his sister for an hour or two, but all night…! She was opening her mouth to say something of this when the constable cried, ‘Hey sarge! In here!’

He had wandered through into the little bedroom. Céci was still fast asleep, but Pauli was sitting up, wide-eyed, regarding the policemen with that grave disconcerting gaze.

The sergeant consulted his paper.

‘There’s nothing about them down here,’ he said in irritation. ‘Are these your children, madame?’

Sophie laughed and said, ‘Hardly!’ and the constable grinned.

The sergeant wasn’t amused.

‘Here, lad,’ he said to Pauli. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Pauli. Paul.’

‘Paul what?’

‘Paul Simonian.’

‘Oh, I see. So this lady is…?’

‘She’s my grandmother,’ said Pauli. ‘Is something wrong? Have you brought bad news?’

‘He’s a real old-fashioned one!’ laughed the constable. ‘No, sonny, it’s all right. Nothing to worry about.’

‘No,’ said Sophie ushering them back into the living-room. She saw that the two young men had ventured through the door in the interim and were examining her ornaments and giggling together. She could see now that their armbands bore the initials PPF. Parti Populaire Français. She knew little of politics but she knew that this party and its leader, Jacques Doriot, were virulently anti-Semitic.

‘With permission, sergeant,’ she said quietly. ‘I will ask the concierge to keep an eye on the children while I’m away.’

The gendarme was blocking her way to the door. He didn’t move.

He said, ‘Their parents, where are they?’

‘Not here. I’m looking after them for a little while.’

‘Oh yes. It’s your son who’s their father, right? I don’t see his name down here. Or is he registered somewhere else?’

‘I expect so. I don’t know. He is not Jewish, so perhaps he will not have registered.’

‘Not Jewish?’ the sergeant exclaimed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He abandoned the faith many years ago,’ she explained. ‘He has no religion. He is no longer Jewish.’

‘It doesn’t work like that, madame, as I think you know,’ said the sergeant with grave stupidity. ‘We’ll check on him, never fear. Now, you get yourself ready quick as you can.’

‘Shall I see the concierge about the kids?’ offered the constable.

But the sergeant’s attention was diverted by a small movement on the sofa.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Not another of them?’

He reached down to tweak aside the antimacassar.

Charlot, rudely awakened and detecting a stranger, sank teeth and claws into his hand. Then with a farewell miaou counterpointing the sergeant’s scream of pain, he shot away out of the room and down the stairs.

‘Jesus Christ!’ cried the gendarme. ‘I’m bleeding.’

His hand and wrist were badly scratched.

Tut-tutting in sympathy, Sophie said, ‘Here, monsieur, let me bathe it in a lysol solution. He’s very nervous, Charlot, but very clean too. I don’t think you need worry about infection.’

‘I’ll see to it myself,’ barked the sergeant. ‘Savier! You get yourself upstairs. That special case we’ve got noted, the one who isn’t registered, see if there’s any sign of him. And take this pair of delinquents with you in case he’s locked himself in.’

‘Yes, sarge. And what about the kids?’

The sergeant looked at his bleeding hand.

‘They’ll have to come,’ he said grimly. ‘They’re family, aren’t they? No, it’s no use making a fuss, madame. I’ve got my job to do, and I’m bound by more regulations than you’d believe. I can’t just go around letting people go on my own responsibility.’

‘But these are
children!’
protested Sophie.

‘Yeah, sarge. They’re only kids,’ echoed Savier.

’Jewish
kids,’ said the sergeant. ‘Or have they given it up too, madame? Savier, didn’t I give you an order!’

‘Yes, sergeant.’

The constable left with the two PPF youths. The sergeant said, ‘Now get yourself packed, and those children too, madame. Fifteen minutes, that’s the most I can give you.’

Sophie obeyed. She recognized the kind of man the sergeant was. There was no point in arguing with such people. All she could hope was that wherever he was taking her, there would be someone there with greater power and enough sympathy to recognize that the little ones ought to be at home, safely tucked up in bed.

Upstairs there was the sound of loud knocking. She called to the sergeant who was at the sink, bathing his hand, ‘Monsieur Melchior is not at home. He has not been home for many months.’

The man ignored her and with a shrug she went through to the children. They were both awake now; Céci had probably been disturbed by the noise above and she was close to tears. Pauli had his arm around her and was talking to her in that low-pitched incomprehensible buzz which, even though Céci was now quite articulate, still remained their private form of communication.

‘Children,’ said Sophie. ‘We’re going out now with the gendarmes. Don’t worry, it won’t be for long, but the night air can be chilly even in summer, so you must dress up warm. Pauli, will you help your sister while I pack a few things together?’

‘Yes, Bubbah,’ said the boy.

Upstairs the knocking had stopped, but now came a violent crash and the sound of splintering wood. Céci began to cry in earnest. Sophie said, ‘There, there, child. It’s nothing. They’re here to protect us, the gendarmes, you know that, don’t you, Pauli?’

Their eyes met. Hers moved away.

‘Yes, Bubbah,’ he said.

Swiftly they made preparations to the accompaniment of footsteps and bangings from above. After a while, she heard the constable return and report to the sergeant that the flat was definitely empty. But the two youths obviously hadn’t come down with him, and the sounds now crescendoed to the discord of wanton destruction.

Finally they were ready, their belongings crammed into an old carpet bag which had come with Sophie and Iakov from Russia all those years ago. The PPF bully boys were back in the flat, their faces flushed with the joy of vandalism. At the door, Sophie produced her key and stood and stared at them. There was a long pause. One of them made an obscene gesture with his arm.