For a moment she didn’t know where she was. She must have fallen asleep. Even the toilets here were pleasantly warm. She considered going properly to sleep, but fear of the night watchman jolted her awake. She didn’t know how late it was, but the light from the department store was gone and it was almost pitch black. She groped her way forwards and out.
The door to the sales floor was still open. She worked her way gradually towards the furniture department, taking cover behind whatever shelves she could find, until she reached the trunk. Stretching for one of the cushions draped over a nearby sofa, she lifted the lid and climbed inside. She just needed to adjust her legs slightly and everything was perfect albeit dark as an inkwell. Only when her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom did she notice the cracks in the wood through which light filtered.
On the cusp of sleep a noise startled her. It must be the night watchman doing his rounds. She scarcely dared breathe, but listened and hoped that he might soon be on his way. The steps drew closer until… Goddamn it! He must have noticed one of the sofa cushions was missing. The lid above her opened.
Paralysed by fear she squinted upwards; her ‘night watchman’ was equally terrified. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve, dressed even more shabbily than she was, looked down at her out of large, frightened eyes.
PART II
SMOKE
Thursday 2nd March to
Sunday 26th March 1933
Smoke, visible suspension of carbon or other particles rising from a burning substance as a result of complete or incomplete combustion.
27
Neuville, March 1917
The beam creaks but still refuses to budge. Only when a fourth horse is harnessed does it yield, and the building collapses in a huge pile of dust. The men interrupt their work and applaud as if they had witnessed a vaudeville act. Each time a unit succeeds in collapsing a building the others show their appreciation, only to engage in an even more spectacular act of destruction.
I let them do as they please, ensuring only that they do not descend into a frenzy of annihilation. A German soldier must never lose his discipline or resort to savagery. Observing this rule even in the chaos of war is what makes us strong.
Much of our work is already done. Many buildings, above all on the western side, have been destroyed by enemy fire, even the ancient church tower which, until the latest British offensive, had withstood countless allied assaults.
Our brief is to take care of the rest: the aim of Operation Alberich is to leave nothing behind, nothing which might, in any way, serve the advancing foe. Our sector comprises a dozen of the two hundred villages that must be razed to the ground.
We detonate rail tracks, bridges and roads, contaminate wells and burn fields, make kindling of orchards and fell roadside trees. Yes, we clear and burn down entire forests. We take everything we can from the houses and cellars before turning them to rubble: food of course, but also items left behind when we deported the men to labour camps, and the women, children and old people to basements and shacks on the edge of Alberich territory, where they are herded together like cattle.
It might lack the honour of single combat, but this is a necessary and dangerous operation. We will be among the last to leave Alberich territory. Unbeknownst to the enemy, four entire armies have already withdrawn, entrenching themselves in the impregnable ferroconcrete of the Siegfried Position. My unit is one of the last charged with destruction work, simulating the presence of troops who have long since retreated.
A little away from the village is a splendid estate, left miraculously unscathed by the war, a neat villa with servants’ quarters and gardens. The house is said to have belonged to a bank manager, but presently it is where I reside with my faithful Heinrich, the orderly who has accompanied me since Marne. The garden walls have taken hits, but the house itself remains intact, although its days are numbered. I have tasked my best men with its destruction. On the day we withdraw to the Siegfried Line, we will blow up the bank manager’s villa along with the schoolhouse next to the church where the rest of the men are housed. Chief Artificer Grimberg, a demolition expert holding the rank of staff sergeant, is among the best in his field. The men are preparing the house to his instructions, drilling holes and planting explosives as he dictates.
I am sitting in the orderly room dictating the situation report, when Wosniak brings a message.
‘Beg to report, Sir: there is something wrong with the cellar.’
‘What do you mean something wrong?’
‘It’s too small. If the Herr Lieutenant would care to see for himself.’
I follow him down to the cellar, where the men hover in front of a brick wall which until yesterday was the site of wine shelves reaching to the ceiling. The shelves have been cleared and the wine incorporated into army stock in the officers’ mess.
Corporal Meifert, a budding mathematician, makes his report. The area of the ground floor does not match that of the cellar.
‘You’re certain, Meifert?’
‘I notice these things, Sir.’
‘A false wall?’
‘That’s what we suspect, Sir.’
‘Knock it down.’
This is the order they have been waiting for. Private Wibeau, a wiry Huguenot, is already wielding a sledgehammer. He winds up and, as the first blow strikes, around a dozen bricks fall back with a hollow crash. A dark hole opens up in the wall and Wibeau swings the hammer for a second, a third time. The hole grows larger, and when enough light filters into the room from our side, there is a shimmer, which becomes brighter as the chamber reveals itself. Finally we are gazing upon a sparkling wall, which rises above its brick counterpart, perhaps a metre high, and is piled with – gold.
Wibeau retrieves one of the bars, weighing a solid twelve kilograms, and shows me the embossing.
As we later discover, the manager of the Banque du Nord made a secret vault in his private cellar, storing his bank’s gold reserve for safekeeping as our second army stood outside Cambrai.
‘This gold is hereby requisitioned,’ I say. ‘It must be taken to safety.’
I see the disappointment in my men’s eyes. So much gold, and all for the Kaiser. Still, they comply, tearing down the brick wall and fetching the bars from the secret chamber. When there are footsteps on the stairs they stand to attention. As Wegener, recruited to the front just days before, salutes, a gold bar falls from his hands and crashes to the floor. No one laughs. Captain Engel frowns at the foot of the stairs.
‘They told me I’d find you here, Lieutenant.’ He looks around. ‘I thought your men were preparing the house for detonation.’
‘Beg to report, Sir: we have discovered considerable quantities of gold in the cellar.’
‘And?’
‘I have given orders for it to be requisitioned and brought to Cambrai before we continue with our preparations.’
Engel examines the bars, which shine as bright as day in the light of the cellar window, and rubs his chin. ‘You are right,’ he says. ‘The gold must not fall into enemy hands, but it is too late for it to be transported to Cambrai. It would hinder our retreat, and jeopardise the outcome of the entire operation.’