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‘I don’t think your mother really meant that, dear,’ said Claude Crozier mildly.
‘Permit me to say for myself what I mean!’ said his wife. ‘Listen, my lady, I run a business here. I don’t pick my customers, they pick me. And we don’t have to like each other either. But I tell you this, there’s a lot of our French customers I like a lot less than Lieutenant Mai.’
‘Maman,’ said Pauli at the door. ‘Céci’s crying.’
55
‘Shall I go?’ offered Louise.
‘No thanks,’ said Janine. ‘She doesn’t speak German yet.’
She left the room, pushing her son before her.
‘She gets worse,’ said Madame Crozier angrily. ‘I don’t know where she gets it from. Not my side of the family, that’s sure.’
‘It’s a worrying time for her what with the children being ill and no news of Jean-Paul,’ said her husband.
‘If you ask me, she’ll be better off if she never gets any news of him,’ said the woman.
‘Louise! Don’t talk like that!’
‘Why not?’ said Madame Crozier, a little ashamed and therefore doubly defiant. ‘It was a mistake from the start.’
‘He’s a nice enough lad,’ said Crozier. ‘And there was never any fuss about religion. The children are being brought up good Catholics, aren’t they?’
‘That’s no credit to him,’ replied Madame Crozier, who had never seen what consistency had to do with a reasoned argument. ‘You can’t respect a man who doesn’t respect his own heritage, can you? There’s someone come into the shop. Are you going to sit on your backside all day?’
With a sigh, Crozier rose and went through into the shop. A moment later he returned, followed by Christian Valois.
‘She’s upstairs with the little girl,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell her you’re here.’
‘Thank you. Hello, Madame Crozier.’
Christian was a little afraid of Janine’s mother. One of the things he admired about Jean-Paul was his mocking indifference to his in-laws. ‘They’re made of dough, you know,’ he’d said. ‘Put ‘em in an oven and they’d rise!’
Louise for her part was ambivalent in her attitude to Valois. True, he was one of her son-in-law’s clever-clever university chums. But he came from a good Catholic family, had a respectable job in the Civil Service, and was unfailingly polite towards her.
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘How are your charming parents?’
56
She’d never met them but knew that Valois senior was an important deputy. That was how to get the good jobs; have a bit of influence behind you! She felt envy but no disapproval.
‘They are safe and well, madame,’ said Valois. ‘My father continues to look after the country’s interests in Vichy.’
He spoke with a bitter irony which seemed to be lost on Madame Crozier.
Janine came in.
‘Christian, is there news?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid. But my contacts in the Foreign Ministry are still trying. And I’ve written to my father asking him to help.’
She turned away in disappointment and flopped into a chair. He looked at her with exasperation. Clearly she regarded his efforts on Jean-Paul’s behalf as at best coldly bureaucratic, at worst impertinently intrusive. His sacrifice of pride and principle in writing to his father for assistance meant nothing to her. Why Jean-Paul had ever hitched himself to someone like this, he couldn’t understand. A silly shop-girl, good for a few quick tumbles.
He said brusquely, ‘There’s another matter.’
‘Yes?’ said Janine indifferently.
‘Perhaps a word in private.’
‘Come through into the shop,’ said Janine after a glance at her mother, who showed no sign of moving.
In the shop, Valois said, ‘Have you seen Madame Simonian lately?’
‘Not for a while. I usually take the children on Sundays, but they’ve been ill. Why? She hasn’t heard anything, has she?’
The sudden eagerness in her voice irritated Valois once more.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s her I’m worried about. I went to see her earlier. The concierge said she’d just gone down to the greengrocer’s so I went after her. I found her having an argument with a German sergeant who’d seen her pulling down the JEWISH BUSINESS poster the greengrocer had put in his window.’
‘What poster’s that?’ interrupted Janine.
‘Don’t you pay attention to anything? It’s been decreed that all Jewish shopkeepers have to put up these posters. Fortunately the sergeant clearly thought there weren’t many medals in arresting a seventy-year-old woman for threatening him with a bunch of celery, so he was glad to let me smooth things over.’
‘Yes,’ she said, taking in his neat dark suit and his guarded bureaucratic expression. ‘You’d be good at that, Christian. Personally I think you’d have done better to join in bashing the Boche with the celery. If we all did that, we’d soon get things back to normal!’
‘All? Who are these all?’ wondered Valois.
‘People. You don’t think any real Frenchman’s going to sit back and let the Boche run our lives for us, do you?’
He said, ‘Janine, it’s real Frenchmen who are putting their names to these decrees. I’ll tell you something else that real Frenchmen have done. It’s been suggested - that’s the word used - suggested to publishing firms that they might care to do a voluntary purge on their lists, get rid of unsuitable authors such as German exiles, French nationalists, British writers, and of course Jews. They’ve all agreed! No objections. Not one!’
‘Oh, those are intellectuals with their heads in the clouds, or businessmen with their noses in the trough,’ said Janine wearily. ‘It’s the ordinary people I’m talking about. They won’t let themselves be mucked around by these Boche. Just wait. You’ll see. But thanks for telling me about Sophie. I’ll keep an eye on her.’
As she spoke, Valois realized just how much on edge she was; emotionally frayed by worry about Jean-Paul, physically exhausted by her work in the shop combined with sleepless nights looking after the kids, and doubtless worn down by the simple strain of daily life with the formidable Louise.
Behind him the shop door opened and a German officer came in. He was a stocky fellow of indeterminate age with an ordinary kind of face, were it not for a certain shrewdness of gaze which made you think that every time he blinked, his eyes were registering photographs.
‘Good day, Ma’m’selle Janine,’ he said in excellent French. ‘I hope the children are improving. I was asking after them when I talked with your excellent mother earlier. I thought perhaps a few chocolates might tempt their appetites back to normal…’
He proffered a box of chocolates. Janine ignored it and glanced furiously at Valois. She was angry that after what she’d just been saying, the civil servant should see her on such apparently familiar terms with this Boche. Feeling herself close to explosion, she took a deep breath and said, ‘No thank you, lieutenant. I don’t think they will help.’
‘Oh,’ said Günter Mai, nonplussed.
He regarded her assessingly, placed the box carefully on the counter and said, ‘Forgive the intrusion. Perhaps your dear mother, or you yourself, might enjoy them. You’ll be doing me a favour.’
He patted his waistline ruefully, touched his peak in the shadow of a salute and brought his heels gently together in the echo of a click.
It was the gentle mockery of these gestures plus the diplomatic courtesy with which he’d received her rejection that finally triggered off the explosion.
She pushed the chocolates back across the counter with such force that the box flew through the air, struck him on the chest and burst open, scattering its contents all over the floor.
‘Why don’t you sod off and take your sodding chocolates with you?’ she shouted. ‘We don’t want them, do you understand? I can look after my own kids without any help from the likes of you.’
59
The door from the living quarters burst open.
‘What’s going on!’ demanded Madame Crozier. ‘What’s all the noise?’
‘It’s nothing, madame. The young lady is upset. Just a little misunderstanding,’ said Mai with a rueful smile.
‘I’ve been telling your Boche friend a few home truths,’ cried Janine. ‘You talk to him if you want, maman. Me, I’ve had enough!’
She pushed her way past her mother and disappeared.
‘Janine! Come back here!’ commanded Madame Crozier. ‘Lieutenant, I’m so sorry, you must forgive her, take no notice, she’s overwrought. Excuse me.’
She turned and went after her daughter. Soon angry voices drifted back into the shop where Mai and Valois stood looking at each other.
‘And you are…?’ said Mai courteously.
‘Valois. Of the Ministry of Finance.’
‘Ah. Not in Vichy, monsieur?’
‘Finance remains in Paris.’
‘Of course. Good day, Monsieur Valois.’
No salute or heel clicking this time. He turned and left the shop. Christian Valois went to the door and watched him stroll slowly along the pavement. His back presented an easy target. With a shock of self-recognition, Valois found himself imagining pulling out a gun and pumping bullets into that hated uniform. But if he had a gun would he have the nerve to use it? He realized he was trembling.
Behind him, Louise re-entered, her face pink with emotion.
‘Has he gone? Such behaviour! I don’t know where she gets it from, not my family, I’m sure. She’s never been the same since she married that Jew.’
She sank to her knees and began collecting chocolates. Janine came in. Ignoring her mother, she said, ‘Christian, no need to worry about Sophie. Soon as the children are well enough, I’ll be coming to stay with her. Will you tell her that, please? I’ll be round later to sort things out.’
60
’It’s a very small flat,’ said Valois. ‘You’ll be awfully crowded.’
‘Not as crowded as we are here, knee deep in Boches and their hangers-on.’
‘Listen to her. Such ingratitude, she’ll get us all killed,’ muttered Louise, crawling around in search of stray chocolates.
Pauli came in and looked curiously at his crawling grandmother.
‘What’s gramma doing?’ he asked.
‘Rooting for truffles,’ said Janine. ‘Goodbye, Christian.’
Stepping gingerly over Louise, Christian Valois left the bakery. As he walked along the empty street, he began to smile, then to chuckle out loud.
Unobserved in a doorway on the other side, Günter Mai smiled too.
6
In October, a census of Jews was announced. They were required to report in alphabetical order to their local police station. When Janine expressed unease, Sophie laughed and said, ‘It’s our own French police I shall see, not the Germans. In any case, would the Marshal have met with Herr Hitler and shaken his hand if there was need to worry?’
Janine too had taken comfort from the meeting at Montoire. If things were getting back to normal, surely prisoners must soon be released? He wasn’t dead…he couldn’t be dead…
At the police station there was a long queue. When she reached its head, Sophie filled in her registration form with great care. Only at the Next of Kin section did she hesitate. Something made her look over her shoulder. Behind her, winding around the station vestibule and out of the door, stretched the queue. Conversation was low; most didn’t speak at all, but stood with expressions of stolid resignation, every now and then shuffling forward to whatever fate officialdom had devised for them.
‘Come on, old lady,’ said a gendarme. ‘What’s the hold-up?’
She put a stroke of the pen through Next of Kin.
‘What? No family?’
‘A son. Until the war.’
‘I’m sorry. Thank God it’s all over for the rest of us. Now sign your name and be on your way.’
It felt good to be out in the street again and her confidence rapidly returned as she walked home as briskly as her rheumatic knee permitted.
As she reached the apartment building, Maurice Melchior emerged, resplendent in a long astrakhan coat which he’d been given by accident from the cloakroom at the Comédie-Française the previous winter and at last felt safe in wearing.
‘Good day, Madame Simonian. And how are you? Taking the air?’
Piqued at being accused of such unproductive activity, Sophie said sharply, ‘No, monsieur. I’ve been to register.’
‘Register?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How quaint! Good day, madame!’
Melchior set off at a brisk pace, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and this silly old Jewess who’d gone voluntarily to put her name on an official census-list. How desperate people were to convince themselves that everything was normal. Normal! All they had to do was stroll along the boulevards and look in the shop windows. Everything had gone. Ration coupons had been introduced the previous month. And the forecast was for a long, hard winter. The only people who had any cause for complacency were the black-marketeers.
I must make some contacts, thought Melchior. But not today. Today he had more immediate and personal worries.
Bruno was close to dumping him, that was the brutal truth. A couple of nights earlier they’d visited the Deux Magots where Melchior, rather full of Bruno’s excellent brandy, had spotted Cocteau in a corner.
‘Do I know him? Blood-brothers, dear boy! Of course I’ll introduce you.’ And he’d set off across the room, big smile, outstretched hand, with Bruno in close formation. The Great Man (pretentious shit!) had thrust an empty bottle into the outstretched hand and said, ‘Another of the same, waiter. A bit colder this time,’ and all his arse-licking cronies had set up a jeering bray.
Zeller turned on his heel and stormed out of the door. By the time Melchior got out, he was in his car. The engine drowned Maurice’s attempts at explanation and apology, and as he grasped the door handle, the car accelerated away, pulling him to his knees in the gutter.
Perhaps it was the supplicatory pose; or perhaps Zeller was reminded of the circumstances of their first meeting. He stopped the car, reversed and opened the door.
‘Get in,’ he said.
