"Thank you, Sir." Christian saluted. "Heil Hitler."
But Hardenburg was already lost among the armour on the rolling plains on the road to Smolensk, and he barely lifted his hand as Christian went out of the door, stuffing the lace into his tunic and buttoning it to make sure the package would not fall out.
The first two men on the list were hiding out together in an unused garage. They grinned a little worriedly at the sight of the guns and soldiers, but they made no trouble.
The next address the Milice Frenchman directed them to was in a slum neighbourhood. The house itself smelled of bad plumbing and garlic. The boy they dragged out of bed clung to his mother and they both screamed hysterically. The mother bit one of the soldiers and he hit her in the belly and knocked her down. There was an old man who sat at a table weeping, with his head in his hands. All in all, it was as unpleasant as could be. There was another man in the apartment, too, hiding in one of the cupboards. Christian suspected from the look of him that he was a Jew. His papers were out of date and he was so frightened he couldn't answer any questions at all. For a moment Christian was tempted to leave him alone. After all, he had only been sent out for the three boys, not to pick up random suspects, and if it turned out the man was a Jew it would mean concentration camp and eventual death. But the man from the Milice kept watching him and whispering, "Juif, Juif." He'd be sure to tell Hardenburg and it would be just like Hardenburg to have Christian recalled from his leave to face charges of neglect of duty.
"You'd better come along," he said, as kindly as possible, to the Jew. The man was fully dressed. He had been sleeping with all his clothes on, even his shoes, as though he had been ready to flee at a second's notice. He looked blankly around the room, at the middle-aged woman lying on the floor moaning and holding her belly, at the old man bowed over and weeping at the table, at the crucifix over the bureau, as though it was his last home and death was waiting for him the moment he stepped outside the door. He tried to say something, but his mouth merely hung open and went through the motions of speech without any sound coming from the pale lips.
Christian was glad to get back to the police barracks and deliver his prisoners over to the Duty Officer. He made out his report, sitting at Hardenburg's desk. It hadn't been so bad. Altogether, the whole business had only taken a little over three hours. He heard a scream from the back of the building as he was writing, and he frowned a little. Barbarians, he thought. As soon as you make a man a policeman you make him a sadist. He thought of going back there and stopping them, and even got up from the desk to do it, then thought better of it. There might be an officer back there and he'd get into trouble interfering.
He left a copy of the report on Hardenburg's desk, where he could see it in the morning, and left the building. It was a fine autumn night, and the stars were sharp in the sky above the buildings. The city looked better in the dark, too, and the square in front of the city hall was quite beautiful, spacious, well-proportioned, and empty under the moon. Things could be worse, Christian thought as he walked slowly across the pavement, I could be in worse places.
He turned off near the river and rang the bell of Corinne's house. The concierge came out grumbling, but kept respectfully silent when she saw who it was.
Christian went up the creaking old steps and knocked on Corinne's door. The door opened quickly, as though Corinne had been awake, waiting for him. She kissed him warmly. She was in a nightgown, almost transparent, and her heavy, firm breasts were warm from bed as Christian held her to him.
Corinne was the wife of a French corporal who had been taken prisoner outside Metz in 1940 and was in a labour camp now near Konigsberg. She was a large woman with thick ropes of dyed hair. When Christian had first met her in a cafe seven months ago he had thought she was striking and voluptuous-looking. But she was an affectionate, easy-going woman with a mild, placid style of making love, and from time to time as he lay beside her in the big double bed of the absent corporal, Christian had the feeling that he had no need of travelling for wares like this. There must be five million peasant girls in Bavaria and the Tyrol, he felt, exactly as fat, exactly as firm, exactly as bovine. The fabled women of France, the quickwitted, mercurial, exciting girls who made a man's heart quicken when he thought of the flashing streets of Paris and the South, all seemed to have escaped Christian. Ah, he thought, as he sat on the heavy carved walnut chair in Corinne's bedroom, taking off his shoes, ah, I suppose you have to be an officer for that kind. He thought heavily of his application for officers' school, lost in the traps of Army communications, and he had to hide the expression of distaste on his face as he watched Corinne climb domestically into bed, her large buttocks shining in the lamplight.
Corinne got up and prepared breakfast for him. There was white bread he had brought her from the shop that did the baking for the officers' mess. The coffee, of course, was ersatz, thin and black. He felt his mouth draw sourly as he drank it in the still-dark kitchen. Corinne looked sleepy and messy, with her heavy hair in disorder, but she moved around the kitchen deftly enough.
"Cheri," she said, sipping her coffee noisily, "you will not forget me in Germany?"
"No," said Christian.
"You will be back in three weeks?"
"Yes."
"Definitely?"
"Definitely."
"You will bring me something from Berlin?" She coquetted heavily.
"Yes," said Christian, "I'll bring you something."
She smiled widely at him. The truth was, she was always asking for something, new dresses, black-market meat, stockings, perfume, a little cash because the sofa needed recovering… When the corporal-husband comes back from Germany, Christian thought unpleasantly, he'll find his wife well fitted out. There'll be a question or two he'll want to ask when he looks through the cupboards.
"Cheri" Corinne said, munching strongly and evenly on her bread, which she had soaked in the coffee, "I have arranged for my brother-in-law to meet you when you return."
"What's that?" Christian looked at her, puzzled.
"I told you about him," Corinne said. "My husband's brother. The one with the produce business. Milk and eggs and cheese. You know. He has a very nice offer from a broker in town here. He can make a fortune if the war lasts long enough."
"Good," said Christian. "I'm delighted to hear your family is doing well."
"Cheri…" Corinne looked at him reproachfully. "Cheri, don't be mean. It isn't as simple as that."
"What does he want from me?" Christian asked.
"The problem is, getting it into the city." Corinne spoke defensively. "You know the patrols on the roads, at the entrances. Checking up to see whether it is requisitioned material or not. You know."
"Yes?"
"My brother-in-law asked if I knew a German officer…"
"I am not an officer."
"Sergeant, my brother-in-law said, was good enough. Somebody who could get some kind of pass from the authorities. Somebody who three times a week could meet his truck outside the city and drive in with it at night…" Corinne stood up and came around the table and played with his hair. Christian wriggled a little, certain she had neglected to wipe the butter off her fingers. "He is willing to share fifty-fifty in the profits," Corinne said, in a wheedling tone, "and later on, if you find it possible to secure some petrol, and he can use two more trucks, you could make yourself a rich man. Everybody is doing it, you know, your own Lieutenant…"
"I know about my own Lieutenant," Christian said. God, he thought, her husband's brother, and the husband rotting in prison, and the brother anxious to go into business with the wife's German lover. The amenities of French family life.