‘Let me have a look at that hand.’
He even ran a forefinger gently over the stitches.
‘Maybe another day, maybe two, but when they’re ready, I’ll gladly tease them out and you won’t feel a thing.’
It was Frans who said, ‘That was touching but maybe he wants a little more.’
‘Leave it,’ said Etienne. ‘It’s almost time for the news.’
There was static, the Boche always trying to block reception, but Arie managed to tune things in and at once, having never heard it before in France, that call-sign of ‘Ici Londres,’ filled her with hope. But in the Aegean, the Germans had taken the island of Kos, the only Allied airbase in that area. In Russia, the Soviet advance had been stalled along what had to be the longest of fronts. And in Italy, while the British had taken Naples and their commandos had landed at Termoli and would soon link up with their Eighth Army, the American Fifth had reached the southern bank of the Volturno River fifteen miles to the north where a major battle was shaping up along what the Germans called their Gustav Line. The Sixteenth Panzer Division had been moved into position.
In the Battle for the Atlantic, after a respite due to losses, the U-boats were again attacking the convoys from America and Canada shy;. In September alone, twenty-nine merchant ships and escort shy; vessels had been sunk with a loss of 156,400 tonnes of badly shy; needed supplies and far too many lives. Worse still, the U-boats shy; were now concentrating on the escort vessels first, but nine of those submarines had been sent to the bottom, ‘And with good riddance,’ Mr. Churchill said. ‘Desperately needed air bases in the Azores will now be available, the Portugese having finally agreed to this.’
In the Far East, the Japanese had established a broad offensive in China, but on Kolombangara, in the Solomon Islands, American forces had found they had fled. Four airfields had been taken. Bougainville, the largest of those islands and last major Japanese stronghold there would now be next and difficult.
But in Corsica, after an armed civilian uprising on 8 September, French partisans, Morrocan Goumiers and American OSS agents had finally driven the Germans out.
‘Spring will come,’ said Arie as he switched off the set. ‘It’s just taking its time.’
Unfortunately the invasion of Europe would be far too late for them unless Frans could be stopped. ‘Bonne nuit,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow will come soon enough.’
‘Then don’t hurry it,’ he quipped, flicking cigarette ash her way. ‘Sleep tight. Don’t let the bugs bite.’
There was no hope. There could be no hope.
* On 29 September 1943, all but about 50 of the remaining 2,000 were taken.
* In April 1942, she rented a large apartment at 129 avenue Malakoff.
7
In bursts of collective emphasis, noise echoed, the Hotel George V resounding, felt St-Cyr. To the staid seventeenth- and eighteenth-century decor, art deco pieces from the Boeuf sur le Toit’s former location on the rue du Colisee clashed, but no one else seemed to care. At 2120 hours and late for their meeting with Heinrich Ludin, there was still no sign of Hermann. He’d not been in the lobby as agreed. Merde, what was one to do? Walk among the crowded tables and ask or simply withdraw?
Waiters hustled the heavy trays or took away the empties, while thick on the air and emphasized by the half-light, the tobacco smoke had all but overwhelmed all other scents. Ackerland was on tap, Spaten Dunkel too, and Dortmunder Union, each glass or stein overflowing.
‘There’s even Einbeck Dunkel, Louis, and a Bock and Double Bock I’d recommend. The Fuhrer may not like it that this brasserie of choice hasn’t been shut down as ordered, but he sure does know his boys like their beer. It’s flown in every day or sent by rail.’
‘Hermann …’
So popular had the Boeuf sur le Toit been to the avant-garde and Bohemian wealthy of the Roaring Twenties, its fame had spread and in the autumn of 1940 it had immediately been adopted by the Paris SD, SS and Gestapo.
‘You’re late,’ said Louis.
‘I was held up.’
‘Which table then?’
‘That one at the very back that has two empty chairs facing the life-size bronze nude from the former location.’
Svelte and on tiptoes with uplifted breasts, the nymph had one arm extended high above her to release a dove of peace.
‘The table with what look to be two Grosskotzkerls,’ said Hermann, ‘but don’t be fooled, not by those two.’
The big vomit boys, those who, like Reichsmarschall Goring, would eat and eat. Both sinister, and like him in that as well. ‘Berlin must have sent them.’
‘Kaltenbrunner, I think.’
‘God always frowns, Hermann, but our garde champetre is taking the soup as if a last meal. Ah bon, he’s afraid of what I might well do to him.’
‘Just don’t mention the shoes.’
‘The what?’
‘The ones he wanted for Evangeline.’
She of the plunging neckline, radiantly beatific and licentious smile, and the drenchings of one of Lanvin’s latest.
‘It’s called Mon Peche,’ said Hermann.
And on a first-name basis with her too. ‘Me, I think I understand.’
‘You’d better.’
Uniforms were everything to the Occupier, no matter how humble the station, felt St-Cyr. To the basic Luftwaffe blue of these two had been added the stiff-collared walking-out white shirt, black tie and vest, all of which indicated that they were Goring’s. One even wore the Deutsche Jagerschaft badge of the hunting association and medals to prove deer had been shot and killed at exceptional range, the other no doubt fiercely jealous. Both, however, wore the party’s golden badge of honour and red armband with white circle and gold-lined black swastika, indicating that Hitler also had a definite claim to them.
‘Uniforms tell you only so much, Louis. They may even hate each other.’
Party functionaries and dyed-in-the-wool Nazis.
Neither bothered to even look up from the oysters in the half, the pate, bread and wine. Indeed only Rocheleau seemed to have noticed their arrival and that of his wife. Having dropped his spoon and splashed his uniform, he had knocked over the glass of the red, which was now finding its way to his trousers. ‘Evangeline …’
‘Eugene, mon cher, mon brave.’
Kisses of repentance were necessary-was it really repentance? wondered St-Cyr. Joyously the woman trailed trembling hands over that husband of hers while Ludin, having quickly downed yet another shot of the stomach bitters, gazed leadenly at them and said, ‘Sit,’ but in Deutsch, of course.
It was Hermann who dragged from his coat pockets a pair of shoes to ask, ‘Would these be what you’re looking for, Kriminalrat?’
‘Eugene, mon cher, they’re a little tight but it was wonderful of you to have risked so much for me, the young girl you married fifteen years, seven months and four days ago.’
‘Those … Those, they are …’
‘Beautiful and me, I would love to have them anyway. Dancing will loosen them up. Dancing in Paris, Eugene.’
‘It’s not allowed. It’s against the law.’
‘But there are lots of places where it does happen. French musicians and their ensembles play nothing but the latest tunes. Hermann took me to one. “Douce Georgette” is by Joseph Reinhardt and his ensemble, but Hermann, he says the piece, it is really called “Sweet Georgia Brown.” “Irene,” it is terrific, too, and very dreamy. Andre Ekyan and his ensemble do it marvellously. “Palm Beach” as well, and Monsieur Hubert Rostaing’s clarinet, it is just as good as Monsieur Benny Goodman’s in the “Saint Louis Blues” or was it “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”? No, that one was Tommy Dorsey and his orchestra. A trombone, I think.’