‘Ein Engel!’-an angel-said Herr Kohler, the carpenter having momentarily switched into French.
‘The Fraulein Ekkehard often broke the rules,’ interjected Dorsche. ‘When my back was turned, or that of one of my men, she would leave food or drop bits of string.’
‘Or buttons, or a cigarette-even pieces of fruit leather. Black raspberry, red currant, apple or grape,’ said Savard. ‘She knew the Karneval so well, Inspektor. When Sophie … the Fraulein Schrijen wanted Raymond to draw her a map of the ruins and then make a scale model as it once was, Renee did a sketch map from memory. Raymond and Eugene then measured off the distances she had noted. I swear she knew that ruin like the palm of her hand. I’ll never forget her enthusiasm for what we were doing. Our lives were brightened. Ach, mein Gott, in this hellhole of ours, she was a saint, even if she did break the gottverdammt rules!’
‘Raymond Maillotte is the Textilfabrik’s test weaver and fabric designer,’ grunted Dorsche, pinching out his cigarette to save it for later. ‘Now please, Inspektor, your time is up with this one.’
Savard couldn’t leave it at that. ‘Eugene and Raymond were working on a new process, Inspektor. Viscose rayon has long filaments and when these are still in their plastic state, they can be chemically treated to produce a much tougher, more resilient fibre that withstands frictional heat, deformation and impact bruising far better than ordinary rayon.’
Dorsche looked about to bash the carpenter. ‘For rubber tyres?’ asked Kohler, stepping between them.
‘The synthetic ones, since no others can be made. Eugene called it high-tenacity rayon.’
‘And now he’s dead. …’
Dieu merci, sighed Savard inwardly, the detective had swallowed the bait and would understand, for sure, that the process was top secret and perhaps believe that Eugene, as a loyal Frenchman should have done, had dealt with the matter in the only way possible and had taken his own life.
‘Bitte, Herr Kohler, I really must insist,’ grumbled Dorsche. ‘Your visit here is already overextended.’
‘Then make sure I can interview this one again, eh? Otherwise Berlin … Well, you know how they are. Didn’t the OKW assign you to this posting?’
‘Of course they did, but they, too, know that accidents happen, especially when that same High Command has ordered myself and my men to get the maximum work out of our guests.’
And also what truths we can pry from them, said Dorsche silently. ‘Prisoner 220375, be sure to wear your goggles and gloves. Remember, too, that the floor can be very slippery when the caustic is squeezed from the cellulose sheets and that men have, unfortunately, accidentally slipped and fallen into the baths. A tragedy, of course.’
From one end of the shed to the other, the glazier, still with hat in hand, never ceased to look their way. Uncertain of what was to come-apprehensive, no doubt-he waited for them, but was he also watching what went on behind them? wondered Kohler. Was Prisoner 220372 seeing other workers leave their stations to skirt the roller presses and converge on the carpenter? Could the ‘accident’ not be stopped?
‘Herr Kohler, we haven’t time to look back,’ said Dorsche, hurrying on ahead.
Everyone behind them seemed busy, no notice being taken of them, yet notice taken all the same. Verdammt, the tension in the shed was everywhere. Had Dorsche organized one of his Spitzel to take care of the carpenter? If so, the camp’s mouth radio would have spread the alarm even as the Lagerfeldwebel had hauled these two in here to give them rubber suits. Dorsche wouldn’t be the only one with informants. The POWs would have their own among the guards, as well as a network of watchers among themselves. It was always like that. Always.
Savard had filled his buckets with water in case of a caustic spill and was now about to put his goggles on. Others had already done so. Hidden like that, who was to know who had pushed him? Wasn’t that really why the glazier watched?
When the scream came, the shrieks would follow until there were no more.
Prisoner 220372 was older than the others-maybe fifty-two and a veteran of both wars. A man who knew himself and could look life in the face, grim though that might be.
The hair-what there was of it-was reddish grey and crinkly, the balding head freckled and sun-blotched by childhood years, the stubbled, square-jawed chin and cheeks sagging prematurely, the nose that of a Walloon for sure, so from Lille or Roubaix just as Rasche had said.
There were cuts and scars on the big hands, the result of poor quality glass cutters. The lips were compressed, the moustache red-grey, the attention still very much focused on what was happening at the other end of the shed.
When a hand was politely extended to him, the one with the gauntlet refused to budge and to hell with Dorsche or any other Boche, even a Gestapo. Beneath the widely spaced, reddish brows of this defiant patriot, the eyes were decidedly greenish-brown and devoid of feeling.
‘Look, I’m here to help,’ said Kohler with a grin.
‘Help? There’s plenty needed.’
Offer nothing, eh, while still concentrating on the other end of the shed? One had best give him what he wants. ‘I gather Eugene Thomas was very depressed and suicidal.’
‘One could say that, yes.’
‘Listen, mein Lieber, I know that even the most hardened criminals can look down the tunnel of their sentences to see the end, whereas a POW can never know. He longs for word from home, takes out his snapshots several times a day if possible, and kisses those of his loved ones at lights out. I know what it’s like, mon ami. Bien sur, we’ll speak Deutsch as is required, but believe me, I have been behind the wire.’
‘But not, I think, required to work, or am I not speaking to a former officer?’
Touche. ‘I did ask to be sent out to the nearby farms but they wouldn’t allow it, though the widows there sure could have used the help. Kids as young as three were grubbing for potatoes at harvest. The cows were not being milked. That’s not good for cows. I used to worry about them.’
Herr Kohler had even learned to speak French but if he thought that this would make him more acceptable than others of his kind, he was sadly mistaken. ‘Eugene refused to be an NCO.’
Which, along with its consequent loss in pay, had made him a hero to his mates, for soldiers were always complaining about their officers and the combine must still have been blaming theirs for the Defeat, but was there no way to break the ice? ‘Did one of the Postzensuren tease him? Hitch up a garter belt to let him have a little look? Leave a photo mag’ of female flesh in that toilet for him to peruse while he was having a smoke?’
‘Keep his parcels from him when rations are so short those little boxes can mean the difference between starvation and life-is this what you are implying, Inspektor?’
‘Did she?’
Good for Henri and Martin. ‘We think so, but can, of course, have no proof, can we, Lagerfeldwebel?’
Dorsche didn’t answer. Was he waiting for that shriek, wondered Kohler, or did he just know that this one was the combine’s leader and would therefore have to watch him closely?
‘She teased Eugene mercilessly about his being too familiar with his lab assistants, Inspektor,’ said Leger. ‘Paulette was always his only love and the girl knew this. “A married man without a wedding ring?” she would taunt. Eugene’s was taken from him when he was captured, so he had Martin make him one to shut her up.’
Martin Caroff, the assistant machinist. ‘And when Thomas had been away working at the Karneval and came by for his mail?’