Clandestine (26 page)

‘A “safehouse,” Hermann, the Standartenführer having announced our presence well beforehand.'

All exits sealed. ‘But safe for whom?'

‘In April, our informant told us of this house, in July, of yet another,' said Kleiber. ‘Both have been dealt with.'

‘There isn't anyone here, Colonel,' said Hermann. ‘The instant those trucks and cars of yours careened into the district, word shot out and the ones we want vanished.
Ach,
this is the tenth,
mein Lieber
. Belleville and Ménilmontant are nearby, La Villette, the largest of the city's abattoirs, but a little to the north.'

The steps were worn, the staircase narrow, the smells as would be expected, felt St-Cyr. Even the concierge, old, miserable and demanding to be left alone, knew little beyond that the owner was still in the south, in the former
zone libre
and that the rent had been paid month by month without question.

‘The tenants they came in their truck and they left. Last April it was, the twenty-fourth I think and staying but till the Sunday, or was it the Monday? The memory, you understand.
Bien sûr
, they had items to sell—everyone does these days but me, who am I to question a good tenant when so many try to dodge the rent and wear out the legs, the lungs and the patience? Labrie … yes, yes, that was the name. Étienne, I think, but will have it written down, since that
is
the law in these parts, and I would remind you, monsieur, that a magistrate's order is required before anyone searches anything, even one such as yourself!'

It was the same at 34 rue de la Goute-d'Or in the 18th, a deep courtyard with many ateliers, the staircases leading down from the flats above and all lettered through the alphabet. ‘Clearly our
Schmuggler
has used another safe house, Colonel,' said St-Cyr, ‘but what is not so clear is why your
Spitzel
chose not to tell you of it.'

‘Maybe he's had a change of plan,' said Hermann.

Frans was onto her; Frans
was
sticking close, felt Anna-Marie. Having let him steal that coin and her false papers, she had deliberately put herself at his mercy so that he would know he could follow at will because that was the way Frans was. Arrogant, domineering, very sure of himself, flip too, of course, and hopefully overconfident. But what she
hadn't
anticipated was that he would have
needed
a ready excuse to leave the others: her papers. ‘Forgotten,' he'd have said, ‘left behind in the rush to get away.'

Étienne had been firm. No one was to have left the house at 3 rue Vercingétorix until all was clear and he had checked things with the concierge. Arie had taken a bike from the truck and had asked if its saddle was at the right height and she hadn't waited­, had simply hopped on and ridden down the courtyard and out onto the street. Now she pedalled like the damned, but she
couldn't
,
mustn't
lose Frans.

The rue Froidevaux ran alongside the Cimètiere du Montparnasse whose gates were now open. Flowers for the dead were on offer as usual, the Occupier lined up for a look at the famous. At
place
Denfert-Rochereau, the traffic was insane. Bicycles were everywhere and of all types, pedestrians too, for without the cars and trucks, people simply cut across the streets whenever they felt like it, bells ringing madly. But on the boulevard Arago, though still busy, the cumulative sound dropped off—fewer shops and smaller line-ups, more single pedestrians, the Café de la Santé always busy:
flics
, guards, Gestapo, SS and
gestapistes français
. Made to hold 200, the prison held more than 1,500, but she wouldn't look back to see if Frans was still there. She
had
to trust he would,
had
to appear as if taking her life in her hands by being so desperate as to ride along this street on a bike that didn't even have a Paris licence, because
that
was what Frans had to think.

Heading up the rue de la Santé, brought her to the boulevard de Port-Royal and Val de Grâce, the military hospital. Tempted to use it as a means of appearing to escape, the thought to turn up the rue Saint-Jacques came but she would continue on to the avenue Denfert-Rochereau. Severe, walled in by wood, brick and stone, that street gave no chance to look back or escape. Priests, nuns and the wealthy lived behind tall, often solid gates. Only when across the Île de la Cité and just to the east of Les Halles did she finally chance a look. A mountain of empty wine barrels was perched on a wagon whose horse was so thin it looked ready to drop. Hesitant streams of traffic parted as they passed, but
merde
there was no sign of him. In the window of a nearby
pâtisserie
, birthday cakes,
babas au rhum
and petit-fours surrounded a sumptuous wedding cake. All were so realistic few said they would have known the difference had that little sign not been there:
TOUTES SONT IMITATIONS
.
ALLES NUR ATTRAPPEN
, all sham. Papier-mâché, paint and endless hours of devotion to remind everyone of what could no longer be purchased.

Frans could just be seen behind a cart that was loaded with firewood twigs at which two tethered goats were nibbling. The couple with the tandem bike were selling the milk. Everyone in the line-up had their own container. Timidly some four- and five-year-olds were attempting to pet the goats, Frans having just fed one the last of his cigarette.

At the Gare de l'Est she again paused but wouldn't look back. To her left and west, on the original facade, were the statues of Strasbourg; to her right, on the newer wing, those of Verdun. Two wars, this
quartier very much of Alsacians and Lorraines.

Heading to the
Arrivée
, mingling with the crowd who were hurrying to get home or to wherever else they were going in Paris­, she walked the bike among the baggage handlers whose two-wheeled carts leaned this way and that awaiting customers.

Frans would know she hadn't a lock for the bike but what he wouldn't know is that she had something else.

Grâce à Dieu,
those dark, oft-questioning eyes swept over her, she softly saying, ‘
Félix,
un mouchard, le Buffet de la Gare, un pistolet, le Browning neuf millimètre
.'

Leaving the bike, she hurried into the station.

Street by street, courtyard by courtyard, sewer by sewer and under­ground tunnel or cavern, the avenue Foch's map of Paris and its suburbs wasn't just impressive. It was, St-Cyr had to admit, as Hermann­ would, a terrible shock and damning indictment. Every­thing noted was, of course, in Deutsch and quite obviously the
gestapistes français
and others, including the PPF, had been busy supplying the Occupier with the necessary.

‘Well, where then?' demanded Kleiber, having spread the map over the still warm hood of his tourer.

‘Another courtyard, Colonel,' said Louis, ‘but I have absolutely no idea which. Any of a few hundred would compare with what we have just visited. Paris is Paris—tell him, Hermann. No matter where he looks, its history has to be navigated. This street, this rue de la Goutte-d'Or is that of the golden droplet. Wine, you understand. White wine but so famous in the 1500s, its name has stuck. Look uphill. Look up this very street. What is it that you see, and please don't tell me it's just the basilica. Oh, for sure, humility caused us to build that huge white encrustation in the years after the Franco-Prussian War we lost, but for the history you really need, you must go back further. Gradually those little farms, monasteries and vineyards became what we now see of the Louis-Philippe era from 1830 to 1848. Each house is of five storeys. All don't just face the street behind closed blinds and curtains but line up to the very pavement. Intermittent courtyards, however, are relics of the once deep gardens that led to the stables behind and to places for the help, and with, perhaps, a few back rooms to rent so as to ease the budget. But then … why then, the times changed, and many of the houses became tenements, the flats smaller and smaller, while the courtyards were flanked by one- and two-storey ateliers. Coffin makers, funeral directors, photographers, print shops, ironworkers, et cetera, et cetera, off which all-but-hidden staircases lead to the concierge's
loge
and finally to those flats, yet still in districts like this, the citizens cling to their original dialect and village closeness. She could be anywhere, so if you would be so kind, please begin by telling us what you and Kriminalrat Ludin know not only of her but of those others we are supposed to be finding for you in top secret.'

Grâce à Dieu,
and good for Louis.

‘Ask a Frenchman, Kohler, and right away he has reasons beyond reasons for even the most simple of things. Heinrich,
mein Lieber
, having chosen him yourself, you will know far more than myself about this
Spitzel
of yours, Frans Oenen—Paul Klemper. Start with him while I have a look at those “villagers” who have been rounded up.'

The Buffet de la Gare was simply that: thin soup for herself, thought Frans, because she didn't have her ration tickets and papers. No salt either, nor even the usual ‘ashtray' of powdered saccharine for the acorn water that passed as ‘coffee.'

Though she was at his mercy and it felt good, he would still go carefully.
Feldgendarme
, looking for deserters, were grousing about, as were plain-clothed Gestapo, though after others,
flics
, too, and
gestapistes-français
types.

Lots of other French were about, but she had deliberately chosen to sit near a group of German officers. Spooning her soup, blowing gently on it, she was watching him approach her table, but a Hauptmann got up to ask if she would like his slices of the grey national, and with margarine too.

Managing surprise and a grateful smile, she said, ‘
Dank, Herr Offizier
, that is most kind of you.'

‘
Sprechen Sei Deutsch, Fräulein?'
he asked in surprise, pleased by it too.

‘
Deutsch lernen, mein Herr.
I'm taking classes through the Deutsches Institut.'

‘
Ach, das ist keine Kunst, Fräulein. Viel Glück!
' There's nothing to it. Good luck!

‘Und gleichfalls
,' she said. And likewise with yourselves. The Hauptmann even bowed.

Breaking the bread, she dropped pieces into the soup but never for a moment looked down at that bowl and spoon, for now she knew for sure she hadn't managed to escape. Still, he'd play it as if having come upon her unexpectedly, thought Oenen, and leaning over her and the table as a lover would, put his arms about her for the embrace of embraces. ‘You left us in such a hurry, Étienne insisted I come after you, but are we to call you Annette-Mélanie Veroche of the Salle Pleyel and from Rethel, was it, or is it still to be Anna-Marie Vermeulen?'

His lips had been dry, his fingers cold, he now taking a chair facing her, so there was no other solution. She would
have
to appear as if having given up, have to appear as if putting herself right into his hands. ‘Please tell me what you want.'

She wasn't even trembling and should have been, felt Oenen, but he would smile again as a lover would and confide, ‘Not to see you lying naked on the floor in the cellars of the rue des Saussaies.'

Gestapo and Sûreté headquarters and being hosed off. ‘Or in those of what was once a lovely public school on the Euterpestraat?'

Where they would have taken Josef Meyerhof to finally get every last thing out of him. ‘Either way,
ma chère
, you haven't a chance. No one is going to believe that you lost your papers during the Blitzkrieg when Rethel was virtually destroyed. The
Moffen
…'

‘The Boche, your masters.'

‘Won't go looking for tombstones with the Veroche name on them to verify these.'

Having hurriedly shown them to Étienne and Arie, but not necessarily the name, he had found excuse to chase after her and not have the two of them immediately go to ground in his absence. ‘Good, then you can give me back my papers and while you're at it, that rijksdaaler.'

‘Ah, the last of my little crumbs. Would it have told my “masters” that you had somehow been delivered, do you think?'

Must he always tease? ‘Please just give me my papers and tell me what you want.'

‘Finish the soup. You'd better not waste it.'

But was he waiting for the Germans? Had he somehow managed to tell them where she was? People were glancing at them, some suspiciously, others simply with the inherent curiosity of the French. Using the last piece of bread, she would, she felt, break off a few crumbs and set them before him, then push the soup plate aside.

‘Well?' she asked. ‘What is it you want in return for your supposed silence?'

There had been no such offer, felt Oenen, but he'd shove the papers at her and see what happened.

Immediately she checked to see that nothing was missing, but that didn't bring the grateful sigh it should have, simply a deeper suspicion. ‘Well?' she asked again, defiantly too.

There would be no smile. Instead he would put it to her as if he had paid for her services. ‘A share of whatever it is that they are after so badly they would order me to get it for them.'

‘And what, please, would that be?'

Stripped, she'd soon cry it out. ‘What Meyerhof told you of, the black diamonds.'

‘The “hidden” ones? Me, I simply ask because there are also those that are really black.'

How cruel of her. ‘Then those that our “friends” call black, but also those that you were given to bring to Paris for him.'

‘Josef didn't give me anything. They would have already taken everything from him.'