Oona’s bed was freezing and when he had settled back into it, he knew Giselle would accuse him of favouritism and that she wouldn’t listen to his protests even though her bed had been fully occupied.
He was just drifting off to the tolling of the Bibliotheque Nationale’s five o’clock bell some, distance across the river, when Oona slid in beside him to fan the flames of jealousy into a little fire of their own.
‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘Hold me. I’m worried.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Another seven and a half months? Perhaps. It all depends on Giselle, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Only that she’s the one who’s expecting, not me. You were thoughtless, Hermann. You got carried away and did not take precautions.’
‘It’s the war. It’s those lousy capotes anglaises they hand out. Someone’s been sabotaging them.’
The condoms. Long ago in Paris the Englishmen had worn rubber coats with hoods, and the French had given the name to that most necessary of garments.
‘Perhaps you are right,’ she murmured, snuggling closely for comfort, ‘but, then, perhaps not.’
When she awakened, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in his greatcoat, gloves and fedora, smoking a cigarette, and she knew he’d been like that ever since. Unfortunately he had had to be told things and, yes, unfortunately she had had to be the one to have to tell him. ‘A woman notices such things, Hermann. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Hey, you were right to tell me. Giselle wouldn’t have.’
11 rue des Saussaies was bleak at any hour but especially so in winter as the sun struggled to rise. Its grey stone walls and iron grilles were webbed with frost. The courtyard’s snow had been packed hard by the traffic of the previous night.
Gestapo plain clothes came and went in a hurry always. A panier a salade languished, the salad shaker,* having emptied its guts at 3 or 4 a.m. A wireless tracking van drew in to report after a hard night’s trying to get a fix on a clandestine transceiver. Had they zeroed in on someone? wondered Kohler. Those boys didn’t work out of here, so their presence had to mean something was up.
Black Citroens were in a row with black Renaults, Fords and Peugeots, black everything and hated, too, because like the trench coats and the briefcases of the plain clothes, they were a symbol of what this place had become.
Once the Headquarters of the Surete Nationale, it was now that of the Gestapo in France yet had retained all of the attributes and successes of the former, particularly a records section which was second to none, even to that of the Sicherheitsdienst in Berlin.
Kohler coughed. Louis hunched his shoulders and pulled up his overcoat collar before saying, ‘To business then, and stop worrying, eh? Everyone knows that without sufficient food, the female body loses its ability to menstruate. Treat Giselle to some good black-market meals. Include Oona. Stop being so pious. See if it doesn’t help. Load the larder. Use your privileges and your head, and suit-up before you have another go at either of them!’
Father Time and no patience, no sympathy at all! Louis had always gone on about Giselle’s returning to her former profession, to the house of Madame Chabot on the rue Danton, which was just around the corner from the flat and a constant reminder. ‘Oona’s positive.’
Ah, pour I ‘amour de Dieul what was one to do? Drag along this worried papa-to-be who was old enough to have been the girl’s grandfather? ‘I can’t have you distracted, Hermann. Not with the Gypsy. Besides, Pharand wants to see me. He’s insisting.’
‘Then quit fussing. Hey, I’ll take care of that little Croix de feu for you. Just watch my dust!’
The Croix de feu were one of the notorious right-wing, fascist groups from the thirties. Kohler went in first, Louis followed, but when they reached the Major’s office, the Bavarian left his partner out of sight in the corridor and shot in to ask, ‘Have you seen St-Cyr?’
The secretary spilled her boss’s coffee. A Chinese porcelain vase went over – a priceless thing – and she cried out in dismay even as he righted it only to hear Pharand hiss from his inner sanctum, ‘Not in, eh? and at 0900 hours! It’s les hirondelles for him.’
The swallows … the bicycle patrols in their capes and kepis. ‘Why not the pussy patrol?’ sang out Kohler.
Louis’s boss came to stand in the doorway. ‘Enough of your shit, Hauptsturmfuhrer. Where is he?’
That’s what I’m asking.’
The carefully trimmed black pencil of the Major’s moustache twitched. The rounded cheeks were sallow and unhealthy in winter, though they’d always been like that. The short black hair of this little fascist was glued in place with scented pomade and splashes of joli Soir, the dark brown eyes were alive with barely controlled fury.
‘He was to see me first. A report is forthcoming. Orders are orders, is that not right, Hauptsturmfuhrer? The Ritz, then Cartier’s and now … why now … Ah! you did not know of it, did you?’
The bastard …
The pudgy hands came together as if squeezing the joy out of his little triumph. At fifty-eight years of age, Osias Pharand still had his friends in the upper echelons and hadn’t wasted them. Readily he had moved out of his plush office – had given it up to Gestapo Boemelburg and had willingly shifted his ass down the hall. Taken his lumps because he had known the French would run things anyway, and had cluttered the den with the trivia of his years in Indochina and other places.
A stint as director of the Surete’s Deuxieme bureau des nomades had been a big step to the top – you’d think he’d have come to appreciate the gypsies for having provided so many rungs in the ladder but no, he hated them as much as he hated the Jews. But for the Resistance, for the so-called ‘terrorists’, he reserved an unequalled passion.
‘Bring St-Cyr in here now,’ he said.
The air was full of trouble but Kohler couldn’t resist taunting him. ‘He’s probably with Boemelburg already. The IKPK, eh? Hey, the two of them worked together before the war. They’re old friends, or had you forgotten?’
‘Never! Not for a moment. It’s the only thing that saves him but with this …’ Pharand toyed with the fish. ‘With this, I do not think even that will be enough. The matter demands special treatment – Sonderbehandlung, or had you forgotten?’
‘Maitre Pharand …’
‘Ah! I’ve got your attention at last. Another robbery. A big one, eh? Now piss off. Go on. Get out. Leave this sort of work to those best suited for it. Let me live with my secrets until they become your partner’s demise. Perhaps then he will understand that it is to me that he owes his loyalty and his job. I could have helped you both.’
Boemelburg was not happy. ‘The Gare Saint-Lazare. The ticket-agent’s office. That idiot of an agent-directeur didn’t bother to deposit last week’s receipts or those of the week before. Apparently he does it only once a month.’
‘But … but there are always those on duty, Walter? A station so huge … Traffic never stops …’ insisted St-Cyr.
A stumpy forefinger was raised. ‘Passenger traffic does stop, as you well know. Those arriving must wait until the curfew is over; those departing must purchase their tickets before it begins. The wickets are then closed, the receipts tallied and put away in the safe, and the office locked.’
‘How much did he get?’ asked Kohler, dismayed by the speed with which the Gypsy was working.
The rheum-filled Nordic eyes seemed saddened, as if in assessing them, Boemelburg was cognizant of certain truths. A flagrant patriotism in St-Cyr, questionable friends, a rebellious nature in Kohler, among other things. ‘682,000 francs in 100 and 500 franc notes. He left the rest.’