But none of this caused Hermann to stop on the threshold, to gape in surprise and dart his eyes over the walls and ceiling, then hesitantly grin only to caution himself and finally croak, ‘Mein Gott, Louis. Was it done overnight?’
From wainscoting to ceiling, and over that too, huge murals revealed the heart, the mind, the sympathies and loyalties of the restaurant’s owner.
‘It’s Rudi’s little contribution to morale,’ whispered St-Cyr. ‘Be sure to praise it. You’ll have to and so will I.’
Across the far wall, Arminius, conqueror of three Roman legions in AD9, rode a white stallion through the brooding forests of the Teutoburger Wald. Chained centurions and legionaries were among the captives, their former slaves, too, and in front of the pommel of his saddle was bent all but double, a naked maiden, she forced to moon her gorgeous backside to the heavens and to all and sundry, her long, blonde tresses trailing.
There were crowded shields and swords and drinking horns of mead among the barbarians who wore wolfskins and whose women were dressed in blowsy, off-the-shoulder gowns that were belted at the waist. Smiles and grins were on most of the conquerors, outraised arms of welcome from the humble citizens of their forest abode. Babes in arms, babes on shoulders to better see the victorious, and babes voraciously suckling from under bearskin comforters. Kids everywhere.
‘I like the helmet, Louis.’
It was big and it was winged. ‘What about his brassiere?’
‘Did they wear such things — the men, that is? I don’t think the women did.’ It was of iron — two mounds shaped like tumuli that had been forged by Vulcan himself. A battle-axe in hand, the expression on that thick-bearded, big-boned Teutonic countenance was ever-grim even in conquest. ‘Muscles … mein Gott, look at his arms and thighs!’
‘Look at the prize he’s brought home. There is something vaguely familiar about her but I can’t quite put my finger on it. The hair perhaps.’
‘Her ass, Dummkopf! and the women who are looking on.’
Most of the female faces were similar. ‘Rudi’s little Yvette and his Julie were models.’
‘Helga, too, idiot!’
Rudi’s youngest sister waited on tables and was still hoping for a husband. ‘But they all wear boar-tooth necklaces?’ hazarded St-Cyr.
‘That’s because they like the feel of teeth!’
There were always a few plain-clothed Gestapo about, a few of the SS too, in uniform, and burly Feldgendarmen, et cetera. Saying hello to some, ignoring others, Hermann found a table right in the middle and, throwing himself into a chair, sat staring up at the ceiling in wonder to where Stukas dived through thunderclouds, Henkel-ms dropped their bombs and Messerschmitts chased Spitfires which exploded into flames.
‘Well, my Hermann. You say nothing?’
It was Helga. The round, milkmaid’s eyes were bluer than blue, the blonde braids cut shoulder length, the chunky hips firm under a pale-blue workdress that hugged them.
‘Helga, meine Schatze.’ My treasure. ‘I can’t believe it,’ swore Hermann, still taken aback and trying, perhaps, to find a deeper meaning where there was absolutely none.
She indicated the other wall on which a naked Brünnhilde rode a comparable white stallion but at one of the Munich torch-lit fêtes. Surrounded by lusty, young torch-bearing Brown Shirts with swastika armbands, the girl had risen up in her stirrups for a better look at the bonfire.
‘That’s you,’ he murmured, half in surprise perhaps, half in interest — it was hard to tell.
‘I modelled for it,’ gushed the girl. ‘Rudi let me.’
The blaze was huge, a pillar of fire whose light glistened in her eyes and on her pale white thighs and ample breasts, but lost itself among the tangled mat of pubic hair which glowed more softly.
‘Good for Rudi, Helga. You deserve it. Alle Halbeit ist taub, eh, Louis?’ Half-measures are no-measures.
‘Such poise, mein Kamerad der Kriminalpolizei. Were you one of the BDMs?’ asked Louis of her.
The Bund deutscher Mädchen, the League of German Maidens. ‘Of course. It’s gesunde Erotica, is it not, my Hermann?’
Healthy eroticism designed to increase the birthrate and produce cannon fodder. ‘This …’ Kohler indicated the murals. ‘Is fantastic, Helga.’
‘If only the Führer knew,’ exclaimed Louis.
‘He does. Rudi sent him photographs,’ she said and proudly blushed.
‘The murals are bound to be the talk of Paris and Berlin then,’ enthused St-Cyr. ‘Ah! not Braque, you understand, or Picasso who is also out of favour but also thinks he’s so good. Still … what can I say, Hermann? I, a lover of art?’
And bullshit! Braque and Picasso were the fathers of cubism! ‘Art for the people and of the people.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s it exactly!’ said Louis, still full of enthusiasm.
‘Pea soup with pig’s snout and trotters, Helga,’ said Hermann positively.
She screwed up her face in distress and frowned deeply. ‘Rudi won’t like it. You know how he is. Meals at mealtimes. Coffee and cakes at other times.’
Kohler put a hand firmly on her hip. ‘Tell him it’s necessary and that I’ve managed something sweet for him. Now after the soup, we’ll have the grilled Franconian sausages with pork rind, sauerkraut and boiled potatoes. And two big steins of that Münchener Löwen he saves for friends like us. The sight of you up there on that wall has made me hungry.’
But had it made him see her as she really was? wondered Helga, and wetting the end of her pencil, took longer at this than necessary.
‘Encouraging her will only get you in trouble!’ hissed St-Cyr when the girl had disappeared into the kitchens.
‘Trouble,’ muttered Kohler. ‘Our days are clouded with it just like those of the Romans on that wall.’
From a pocket he took a small ball bearing of silver perhaps, and after rolling it around in a palm, let it trickle slowly across the table towards his partner and friend. ‘Don’t bite on it, Louis. I already have.’
The days of the Munich Putsch, the uprising of 8 November 1923, lived on in the triumph of murals. A Brown Shirt from them, a survivor with fists, the mountain of flesh that Rudi Sturmbacher had become weighed 166 kilos. The hair was flaxen and cut short in Wehrmacht and SS style; the eyes were small, red-rimmed, pale-blue and wary.
A moment ago there had been greed and larceny in those eyes — the expectation of profit which had accompanied the huge platter of sausage, potatoes, sauerkraut, et cetera, to the table.
Uneasily the mountain’s gaze flickered over the little silver ball bearing Hermann had placed in an ashtray. That gaze passed beyond this humble Sûreté, thought St-Cyr, and took in at once the whole front half of the restaurant, the reward for years of service and loyalty, the murals, the entrance — everything. Even the newspapers and magazines that had come straight from the Reich that very morning.
Rudi hadn’t touched the ball bearing and wouldn’t. ‘Something sweet,’ he breathed and pursed the big lips that had only just lost their grin.
‘Honey,’ confided Hermann, conspiratorially leaning over the table, and why must he do this? demanded St-Cyr silently. Didn’t he care about the SS and Gestapo who were now taking note of them, even the GFPs, the Secret Police of the Army? Didn’t he know that gossip was instantly passed to, and generated here at the centre of it?
‘Honey from Russia,’ confessed the Sûreté — one had to say something, especially after having had to listen, over their soup, to Hermann’s long-winded discourse on the subject.
Steam rose from the platter, and with it came an aroma which made the juices flood to remind one that meals, even though from the Occupier as this one was, were seldom seen and often taken on the run.