The Collaborators (30 page)

She stood up and looked down at him.

‘And you take some consolation from that thought, do you?’ she said thoughtfully.

‘Yes, I do,’ he answered, not flinching from her gaze. ‘It’s not much, but it works. It’s worked with my friends. It’s worked with my mother. But, Jan, I’m not saying I believe anything’s happened to the kids, far from it. I’m sick to my stomach about them but I’m ninety per cent certain we’ll find they’re OK…’

‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘No, you’re not. I understand you now, Jean-Paul. I thought at first you were being either incredibly stupid or incredibly callous. The truth’s both better and worse, isn’t it? What you’re ninety per cent, even ninety-nine per cent sure is that the
worst
has happened, that there’s nothing we can do. Or perhaps you simply have to believe that because that’s your way of dealing with life now.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said angrily. ‘This is no time for cut-price psychology.’

‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Because it’s wasting time we could spend trying to save our children? Or because it’s wasting time you’d rather spend saving western civilization? Jean-Paul, they’ve got our children again. Hasn’t it penetrated? Last time I had to face it alone. This time help me, please, I beg you.’

‘I will,’ he cried in an anguish almost matching her own. ‘But I can only do what seems best…’

‘Like carrying on with your precious meeting, you mean?’

’Yes!
That’s one of the ways, yes. Everything we can do to help the invasion brings everybody’s freedom closer…’

‘I don’t give a damn about
everybody,
or
anybody
except Pauli and Céci,’ she said harshly. ‘Those German bullets did a lot to you, but the worst thing they did was make you forget how to love your children. You must have forgotten or else you’d know that there was nothing and nobody more important in the world. Well, I’ll leave civilization in your safe hands. I’ve got other things to do!’

She turned and marched through the living-room where Les Pêcheurs were sitting with the embarrassed expressions of men who’d heard every word. Valois half-rose and said, ‘Janine,’ but she didn’t even pause in her stride.

Simonian came into the room a moment later and sat down heavily.

‘For God’s sake, go after her, man,’ urged Henri.

‘Why? You heard what she said. She was right. I’ll do all I can, but inside I fear the worst. Later, I’ll talk with her later. Now isn’t the moment, can’t you see that?’

‘Yes,’ said Henri uncertainly. ‘Look, shall we go now, leave this till later?’

‘No,’ said Simonian harshly. ‘There’s work to be done.’

Valois shook his head and said softly, ‘Janine was right. Those bullets really changed you, didn’t they?’

‘They taught me to face up to the truth,’ said Simonian. ‘They taught me there are no short cuts to winning.’

‘I see. It’s the
Cause
that’s all important! And you, Jean-Paul, you wouldn’t betray that Cause, not even to save your own flesh and blood, would you?’

’No,’ came the reply.

‘I don’t know whether to admire or despise you,’ mused Valois.

But Henri said softly, ‘From the bottom of my heart, I pity you.’

4

Günter Mai also received a letter that morning. The envelope bore Zeller’s hunting horn emblem and, as required by military law, had the sender’s address on the back. Nevertheless it had been opened and resealed. Censorship of officers’ mail was unusual, especially from such an influential source. Was it because of me or because of him? wondered Mai uneasily.

It was a relief to find the contents were not even comically subversive. Zeller, now promoted colonel and, he modestly noted, awarded the Iron Cross, said the doctors had finally finished with him. He’d returned from Berlin to the family estate where he was convalescing. One of the pleasures of convalescence was entertaining old friends. He hoped Mai would spend a few days of his next home leave visiting him.

Had it not been for the censorship, Mai might have jokingly replied that he’d possibly look in as the whole army retreated across the Rhine. He too had been told of the BBC’s message the previous night. More than 50 per cent of these coded messages were known to the
Abwehr. ‘The dice are cast’
merely confirmed what had been anticipated for weeks. The only question was, where would the landings be? Mai guessed Normandy but he hadn’t been asked. His job was going to be coping with the support the Resistance would be giving the enemy.

‘Excuse me, captain,’ said a corporal sticking his head round the door. ‘There’s a woman says she wants to see you.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes. She just walked in, bold as brass and asked to see you. They’re holding her downstairs.’

‘I’d better take a look.’

The corporal held the door open for him and didn’t quite manage to conceal his grin as Mai passed.

He reckons I’ve put someone in the club, thought Mai.

He ran down the stairs into the sumptuously decorated vestibule of the Lutétia.

Standing quietly by the desk with an armed guard in close attendance was Janine Simonian.

He said, ‘It’s all right,’ to the guard and to Janine he said, ‘Come.’

He led her into the lift. As they sped upwards he said, ‘What is it? The children or Jean-Paul?’

He knew that it must be some grave family crisis which had caused her to walk so openly into
Abwehr
HQ. When she said, ‘The children,’ he was relieved. To tangle with the Gestapo over Simonian, a terrorist Jew, was more than he could undertake. Yet he feared if she’d asked him, he might have tried, even though he knew she saw him only as a last resort, a lesser evil, when desperate needs made desperate demands.

They went into his office.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered, going round his desk. When he turned, she was still standing.

‘You look different in your uniform,’ she said.

She’d grown used to seeing him in civilian clothes, perhaps had even half grown to think of him as Édouard Scheffer, the dubious Alsatian businessman. Here, in uniform, he was indubitably the enemy and she was beginning to believe she must be crazy to have come.

‘Janine, sit,’ he said gently. He undid his tunic, removed it, rolled up his shirt sleeves, lit his pipe.

‘Thank you,’ she said and sat.

‘Now,’ he said.

Silently she handed him the curé’s letter.

He read it without comment and handed it back.

‘What do you want from me, Janine?’

‘Find them,’ she said. ‘Get them released. You helped me last time.’

‘Last time,’ he echoed. He marshalled his thoughts. He should be telling her that last time they were in Paris and there was still some semblance of military control of internal security; he should be telling her that last time he had a favour to call in and could arrange for an
Ausweis
with little difficulty; he should be telling her that last time the children had been picked up because they were staying with their Jewish grandmother, not arrested because they were illicit members of a terrorist household.

And perhaps he should be telling her too that his country was about to face the most important, most deadly, and most desperate battle in its history, and every fibre of every nerve of every German officer ought to be straining to win that battle.

Above all he should be telling her that in the months that had elapsed since their last meeting, he had gained control of his emotions, that the love he had declared for her then had died of exposure, that he owed her nothing.

He looked at her and considered in his mind what he should be telling her and wondered how so much deception could have got mixed up with so much truth.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she said rising. ‘I’ll be at the boulangerie.’

‘You’re living with your parents again?’

‘I shall be from today,’ she said heading for the door. ‘Thank you again.’

She’s so certain I’ll help her, so certain I’ll succeed! he thought. Partly he resented this certainty, wanted to puncture it. But how much more he treasured it as the most direct and personal link between them!

He said, ‘Wait. I’d better get someone to see you out.’

He summoned the corporal who looked in surprise at his shirt sleeve order.

‘Please escort madame to the street,’ he ordered.

She regarded him seriously for a moment, then she was gone.

He reached for the phone and asked to be connected with Lyon. The exchange operator told him there was very heavy traffic that morning and also that several lines were out of commission, meaning, he guessed, cut. It had started already, the terrorist back-up. The operator wanted to know his priority so that she could fit him into the order of precedence.

He hesitated, then gave the highest
Abwehr
priority he was authorized to use.

When his call got through about midday he kept it short. Two children, Paul and Cécile Simonian, had been taken by the occupying authority from the house of an Ain farmer called Lucien Laurentin some time in May. What had happened to them? Where were they now?

The captain in Lyon who took the call seemed disposed to wonder if, in the present state of the war, the whereabouts of a pair of French kids was worth very much
Abwehr
time.

‘Do it!’ barked Mai. ‘Top priority.’

‘All right,’ said the captain reluctantly. ‘But if it’s a Gestapo matter, it may take a little time. Their right hands are never sure what their left hands have got hold of. Montluc’s packed jam-tight.’

‘Montluc?’

‘It’s a prison. A fortress really. The Frogs had closed it on health grounds, but the Gestapo had a grand reopening. From what I hear, compared with what it is now, it must have been like a Swiss sanatorium when they closed it.’

‘Do what you can,’ said Mai. ‘It’s urgent.’

He replaced the phone. It didn’t sound good. He’d heard many reports of the barbarity of the SD regime down in Lyon. It sounded repressive even by Gestapo standards.

He hadn’t heard anything by midnight. He’d felt a strong urge to walk round to the bakery earlier but the picture he had of hope lighting up that pale, thin face, then fading as she realized he brought no news, kept him from such foolishness. Besides he was very busy. Everybody was. There was an electricity in the air. Everyone, French and German alike, knew it was coming, knew it was close. Rumours mushroomed; exploded, they sprouted up somewhere else.

But Mai knew it was no rumour that made his corporal shake him awake in the early hours of the following morning, June 6th.

‘Sir, it’s started,’ he said. ‘We’ve just had a signal.’

Mai rubbed his eyes, stretched.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Normandy.’

‘Thanks,’ he said and went back to sleep.

Next morning the atmosphere had changed from electric to explosive.
They’re getting news quicker than us,
someone complained.
And it’s all good!
He meant the people of Paris. This good news was probably just about as accurate as the version of things the Propaganda Staffel in the Champs-Élysées was trying to feed them with, which told of enemy landing parties being driven back into the sea and showed the first pictures of Saint-Lô, destroyed by ‘barbarian’ bombers the night before.

Mai sat in the Café Balzac at midday and absorbed the atmosphere. It was the day of his regular meeting with Michel Boucher. He wondered if the big red-head would turn up. News of an allied invasion must have sent tremors of fear through the more blatantly collaborationist community.

But Boucher turned up, dead on time and sat down simultaneously with the arrival of his drink. Mai eyed the patron thoughtfully. There was a good weather-vane. When
he
decided that Miche should be struck from his list of most favoured customers, then it was time to worry.

‘How are you, Édouard?’ asked Boucher.

‘I’m fine. A lot of patriots here today, I see.’

‘Patriots? Yes, that’s what we all are really, when it comes down to it,’ said Boucher with apparent sincerity.

Mai smiled and wondered if Janine had gone to Boucher with her problems too. Seeking a way to prompt, without arousing suspicion, he said, ‘Ever hear from your friend, Melchior?’

‘Little Maurice?’ grinned Boucher. ‘A postcard last year. He must have stayed on in Lyon after he got rid of the kids.’

‘I thought he was going on to Marseille,’ said Mai with a frown.

‘What? Oh, you’re worried he might split on the kids if he got picked up in Lyon, are you? Or on you, even. You never did fancy him going along with the kids, did you? Was that because he was a queer or because he was a Jew? Don’t worry yourself, Maurice is all right. I wouldn’t have had him working for me else, would I?’

Mai was more annoyed than he cared to show at having to sit under Boucher’s mocking reproach. It was true, he didn’t trust Melchior, never had; but it was because the man was clearly an amoral opportunist. Wasn’t it?

Anyway it was clear Janine hadn’t yet talked to Boucher.

‘How’s your family?’ he asked to change the subject.

‘Great!’ said Boucher, his face lighting up. ‘Hélène loves it down in the country. And she’s having another! We just found out. Next January. It’ll be a boy this time.’

‘It must be great to be so certain of the future. Many congratulations.’

‘Thanks. The future’s what you make it, Günter. That’s the one thing I’ve learned these last few years,’ said Boucher with apparent confidence.

Mai smiled ruefully, almost enviously; lit his pipe and signalled to the patron who replenished their glasses. This was the signal that social chit-chat was over.

‘How’re
they
taking things?’ enquired Mai.

‘Running around like blue-arse fleas,’ said Boucher. ‘Blaming your lot for not knowing where the landings were coming.’

‘They may be right. Any action?’

‘They’re going after terrorists heavy-handed,’ said Boucher. ‘They reckon this invasion will trigger off all the loonies, so they’re going to pull in everyone they know.’

‘Anything specific?’

‘There’s some meeting tomorrow morning, a Resistance council or some such thing. They’re going to take it. They’ve got the address, timing, everything. I got details.’

He passed over a piece of paper. Mai studied it.

‘Good intelligence,’ he said with professional admiration. ‘Are you on the raid?’

‘No. Germans only. They’re not even letting Pajou and his mob in on this. They must want some of these buggers alive!’

‘What’s Pajou up to these days?’

‘He’s in with that Milice lot, didn’t I tell you? He took against them at first, but in the end he realized he couldn’t beat ‘em at their games, so he dealt himself in. He wanted me to stick with him, but I didn’t fancy it somehow. Nasty sods. You’ve got to draw a line somewhere.’

I hope your countrymen make such fine distinctions, thought Mai.

He slipped Boucher his money a little later. The red-head didn’t put the envelope out of sight with his usual speed.

‘What’s up?’ said Mai rather sharply. ‘Not enough?’

‘What? No!’ laughed Boucher. ‘I’m not going to try to push you up. Though you’re right, it’s not enough to be worth bothering about! No, the thing is, Günter, the way I’m placed, I’ve got more than enough cash. I don’t need this.’

‘You mean, you want to break our connection?’ said Mai.

To his surprise, Boucher said, ‘No! I mean, it’s not much of a connection really, professionally speaking. I never have much to tell you. And in any case, it’s no contest any more between your lot and the Avenue Foch boys. They’re in charge, aren’t they? Christ, you’re ten times brighter than me, so you must know it! Me, I enjoy meeting you, having a chat whether I’ve anything to report or not. I hoped mebbe you felt the same.’

Mai was at first amazed. Then as he examined what the other had said, he was forced to acknowledge the truth. Partly it was Boucher’s relationship to Janine that kept him coming to these meetings; but also it was because he enjoyed slipping into the clothes and character of Édouard Scheffer and relaxing for a friendly chat with this amiable, uncomplicated collaborator!

‘Yes, I do, Miche,’ he said. ‘Where does that leave us?’

‘Same place, same time next week,’ said Boucher cheerily. ‘But keep your money to spend on booze.’

He tossed the envelope back.

Mai said, ‘I’ll buy the baby something with it.’

‘That’ll be nice. Hey look, I’ve been thinking. You must get local leave some time. Why not come and stay with us for a couple of days? Hélène doesn’t see much company. We keep very quiet down there. To tell the truth, no one knows anything about me. I’ve kept what I do, who I am, pretty quiet. Some people react funny, don’t they?’

Intrigued at this glimpse of a new domestic and discreet Boucher, Mai thought, Why not? He’d been working at full stretch for too long. With the Battle of Normandy still to be fought, there was no hope of home leave, but being in charge of the Section now meant it was easy enough to slip away for a couple of days.

He said, ‘I’ll see what I can manage. If we keep the invasion pinned down in Normandy, perhaps they’ll be able to spare me briefly next month some time.’

‘And if you can’t keep the invasion pinned down, then you’ll take a real holiday,’ laughed Boucher. ‘Fine, that’s fixed. I look forward to it.’