“Are they really collaborators?” Monique asked.
“Ferdinand and Marie? Not that I ever heard of, and I’ve known them for years.” With a shrug, the man went on, “It could be that I did not know everything there is to know about what they did. But it could also be that someone who does not care for them for whatever reason-or for no reason at all-wrote out a denunciation.”
He said no more. Had he said any more, he might have got into trouble himself. Twenty-five years under the Nazis had taught wariness. They’d also taught Frenchmen, once lovers of freedom, to write denunciations against their neighbors for any reason or, as the man had said, for none.
“Do the purification squads ever let people go once they seize them?” Monique asked.
She got only another shrug by way of answer. The man with whom she’d been talking had evidently decided he’d said everything he was going to say. Monique shrugged, too. She couldn’t blame him for that. Under the Germans, talking to strangers had been a good way to land in trouble. Things didn’t look to have changed too much with the coming of the new regime.
With the motorcars gone, the crowd that had followed the purification squad out to them began to break up. Monique walked her bicycle to the tent she shared with Pierre and Lucie. She brought the bicycle into the tent, too. The folk of Marseille were notoriously light-fingered even at the best of times. In times like these, a bicycle left outside for the evening was an open invitation to theft.
“Hello,” Monique said as she ducked her way through the tent flap and came inside. She wondered if her brother would be dickering with Keffesh or some other Lizard, and would have to explain her presence. What infuriated her most was that he always sounded so apologetic.
But he and Lucie were alone in the tent this evening. Lucie was cooking something that smelled good on a little aluminum stove. Pointing to it, Monique asked, “Is that Wehrmacht issue?”
“Probably,” Lucie answered. She went on, “If it is, what difference does it make?”
“I don’t know for certain that it makes any difference,” Monique said. “But I wouldn’t let the purification squads know you’ve got a German stove.”
Patiently, Pierre Dutourd said, “Monique, probably seven-eighths of the people in this camp are cooking off Wehrmacht — issue stoves. There are a lot more of them in France than there are French-made stoves these days.”
“Without doubt, you have reason,” Monique said. “But will the purification squads care even the least little bit about reason?”
“Oh.” Pierre nodded. His jowls wobbled a little. Monique was glad she was slimmer than her older brother. “I don’t think we need to worry about the purification squads. We have enough friends among the Race to make it very likely indeed that they’ll leave us alone.”
“I hope you’re right.” Monique was willing to admit he might well be. The Lizards didn’t formally occupy France, as the Germans had. But the French were still too weak, still too unused to ruling themselves, to have an easy time standing on their own two feet. If they weren’t going to lean on the Nazis, the Race was their other logical prop.
That savory odor Monique smelled turned out to come from a rabbit stew full of wild mushrooms. With a tolerable rose, with some cheese and afterwards the fruit Monique had bought, it made a good supper.
Monique and Lucie washed the dishes in a bucket of water. Then Lucie and Pierre settled down, as they usually did of evenings, to hard-fought games of backgammon. Backgammon held no interest for Monique. She wished she had her reference books. She never had finished that article on the cult of Isis in Gallia Narbonensis. Her books, like the apartment from which her brother had spirited her, were bound to be radioactive dust these days.
She sighed, wondering if she would be able to find a teaching position in the new France. She was sick of living with her brother and Lucie. But the Reichsmarks the Race had given her not so long ago were worth hardly anything at the moment. New French francs were coming into circulation, and German money was shrinking in value almost as fast as it had after the First World War. It seemed most unfair.
Her brother didn’t think so. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph after winning the game. “If we’d been playing for money, I’d own you now, Lucie.”
For all practical purposes, he did own Lucie. Monique was almost angry enough to say so, which wouldn’t have made the tent a more enjoyable place to live. Pierre and Lucie started another game. That didn’t make the tent any more enjoyable, either, not as far as Monique was concerned. Her brother and his lover, unfortunately, had other ideas, and they outnumbered her. The tyranny of democracy, she thought.
She heard footsteps outside: not the soft, skittering strides of Lizards, but the solid steps of men, and men wearing heavy shoes at that. One of them said, “Here, this is the place,” right outside the tent flap. He spoke clear, Parisian French. That should have warned Monique what would happen next, but she was taken by surprise when the men with pistols burst into the tent. The man who’d spoken outside now spoke again: “Which of you women is Monique Dutourd?”
“I am,” Monique answered automatically. “What do you want with me?”
“You were a Nazi’s whore,” the man snapped. “France needs to be cleansed of the likes of you. Come along, or you’ll be sorry.” He gestured with his pistol.
“Now see here, my friends,” Pierre Dutourd said, making what sounded to Monique like a dangerously unwarranted assumption. “You are making a mistake. If you will but wait a moment-”
“Shut up, you fat tub of goo,” the leader of the purification squad said coldly. “I tell you this only once. After that…” Now the muzzle of the pistol pointed right at the bridge of Pierre’s nose. Monique’s brother sat silent as a stone. “Good,” the other man said. “Come along with me, whore.”
“I’m not a whore,” Monique insisted, trying to fight down a nasty stab of fear. How could she make these hard-eyed purifiers understand? How could she make them believe?
“You are to be interrogated,” their leader said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “After the interrogation, your punishment will be set.” He sounded as if there weren’t the slightest doubt she would be punished. In his mind, there probably wasn’t.
“The Nazis interrogated me, too, at the Palais de Justice,” Monique said. “I hope you will be gentler than they were.” Terror at the thought of another such interrogation was what had made her let Dieter Kuhn do what he wanted with her.
But the leader of the purification squad said, “We shall do everything that is necessary.” The fire of righteousness burned in his eyes, as it had burned in the eyes of the Germans who’d questioned and tormented her.
She’d had no choice with the Germans. She had no choice now. With such dignity as she could muster, she said, “Be it noted that I come with you under protest.”
“Be it noted that no one cares,” the zealot answered. “Get moving.” Under the cover of his comrades’ automatics, Monique left the tent and stepped out into the warm night. Somewhere close by, a cricket chirped. You can afford to make noise, Monique thought bitterly. No one is going to interrogate you. The purification squad hustled her through the camp toward a waiting motorcar.
As she had on her previous tour of duty in Marseille, Felless found that she liked the place better than Nuremberg. Since she’d hated Nuremberg with a deep and abiding loathing, that wasn’t saying much, but it was something. The weather here, though not up to the standards of Home or even of the new town in the Arabian Peninsula where she’d been a refugee, was certainly an improvement on Nuremberg’s. At this season of the year, it was more than tolerable.
She soon discovered she liked Marseille better now than she had on her first visit, too, even though the Race’s explosive-metal bomb had torn out its liver. Then the Deutsche had been in charge of the city, and their arrogance, their automatic assumption that they were not just equal but superior to the Race, had gone a long way toward making her despise them and the place both.
The Francais, now, the Francais were easier to deal with. Technically, this subregion called France still wasn’t part of the territory the Race ruled from Cairo. It functioned as an independent not-empire. But the Francais Big Uglies listened to what the Race had to say to them. The alternative was listening to the Deutsche, and the Francais had done that for too many years to want to do it any more.
Felless did wish Ambassador Veffani wouldn’t keep turning an eye turret her way, but she couldn’t do anything about that. “I greet you, superior sir,” she said, polite as always when he telephoned.
“And I greet you, Senior Researcher,” Veffani said, sounding more friendly than he usually did. “I seek your opinion in an area that falls within your field of professional expertise.”
“Go ahead, superior sir.” Felless vastly preferred a technical question to his hectoring her over her ginger habit, the reason he usually called.
“I shall,” he said. “Here is my question: do you believe that, by leaving Tosevite not-empires formally independent but in fact dependent on the Race, we can lay the foundations for fully incorporating them into the Empire?”
It was an interesting question. Felless had no doubt she was far from the only one contemplating it. At last, she said, “On the two other planets the Race conquered, half measures were unnecessary. Here, they may well be expedient. We have the chance to experiment, both with France and with the Reich.”