There were no civilian cars. Bicycles lined the avenue in front of the town hall, and I wondered what we’d all do when winter came. Walk, I supposed. Ma foi, I’ll say this of the Occupation, it sure toned up the legs. But contrary to popular opinion, some women grew fat because whenever possible, they ate like bears awaiting hibernation. The cinemas brought this out. Always the most popular films were those in which there was a meal-a banquet preferably, and I thought, I’ll wager the war will set a new style in French films. From now on, they will always show people eating and enjoying their food. Whole stories will be centred around the dining table or out in the garden over coffee and cakes. Some people used to dream about those scenes in the camps. People went crazy dreaming like that.
An army lorry passed by me, then a black Citroën with two men in the back. What might have been a busy street had the look of desolation. Still it wasn’t so bad there, not yet. There was plenty of food, if not the variety one wanted, and not too much interference, not really.
I chained my bicycle to a tree and crossed the road. To apply for a travel permit, it was necessary to fill out a form and submit one’s papers. These were then checked by the mayor and, if acceptable, given the forwarding stamp of approval.
Since most applications were unacceptable, you would have thought the process would have been fast. Long before I got there, the benches had all been filled and a line had formed down one side of the corridor. People coughed, wheezed, blew their noses, or puffed on their fags. Everywhere there was the odour of bad tobacco, stale sweat, garlic, onions, anise, and cheap perfume. Wine, too.
They shuffled, grumbled, talked of the weather, the harvest, of anything but the war and its Occupation. While some acknowledged me with a nod, others viewed me with suspicion-after all, hadn’t the British run away at Dunkerque to protect their little island and self-interest?
Most knew of my husband and his mistress, of my rebellious infidelity, so there was this to contend with as well. Others who had been jealous of the house gloated smugly because now I was just like everyone else.
It was almost noon when I finally sat down in front of the mayor. Alphonse Picard was brusque. Shoving some papers aside, he looked across the cluttered desk. I’d be difficult, he knew. ‘Madame, the Germans, they do not want you to go to Paris.’
‘Am I under some sort of house arrest?’
‘Ah, no. It’s just that they would prefer …’
‘But I must see a doctor.’
‘Why not Dr. Rivard?’
I shook my head. ‘I need to see Dr. André de Verville.’
He raised his bushy eyebrows, tugged at his moustache, gave a massive shrug at the futility of trying to deal with unreasonable women who should count themselves lucky, then said, complainingly, ‘But why? Rivard is very good, n’est-ce pas? You take your children … excuse me, madame, your son to him.’
‘I have a problem. For this, I need a specialist.’
‘But … but what sort of problem? Ah, mon Dieu, madame, the Germans …’ He cast anxious eyes towards the door and leaned a little forward. ‘The Germans have said you’re to be discouraged from attempting to leave the district.’
‘Then I must go to see them.’
‘No! Ah, no, madame.’ He ducked his head to one side and dragged out his handkerchief. ‘Please, what sort of problem?’
He blew his nose.
‘Must I discuss it with you?’
‘Oui, in confidence, of course.’ Again, he lowered his voice. ‘Madame de St-Germain, I’m responsible for the conduct of everyone in the district. Please, you must understand, your sister …’
‘Janine? What’s she done?’
Picard shrugged. ‘Nothing, I think. They simply can’t find her. She has “disappeared” like so many and that is reason enough to cause suspicion.’ He cleared his throat, stuffed the handkerchief away, reached for his anise-flavoured lozenges, and got right back to business. ‘Your problem, madame?’
Nini missing … Dmitry not showing up … I would have to bluff my way through and get into Paris to find out what had happened to her and if she was mixed up in anything. ‘I’m still bleeding. As you know, I lost a child during the Exodus. André de Verville is a specialist in such things.’
Picard expressed sympathy but remained adamant. ‘Well, why not see Dr. Bilodeau in Nemours? It’s much closer.’
‘His fingers wander.’
‘His what? Ah, I see.’ Pour l’amour de Dieu, was I making it up? he wondered. Bilodeau … Danielle Anjou, Josianne le Belle … other young girls, his own daughters perhaps? Fingers … Paris … Why did I have to choose Paris? ‘Very well, but I must warn you, madame. You are English. One false step and …’ He clenched a fist.
As he signed the permit, I hesitated, then asked, ‘Are our friends watching my house for someone?’
Picard’s mouse-brown eyes were filled with sadness. It would have been much better had I not asked. ‘I didn’t hear you, madame. Please, you are to take this along to the Feldkommandant’s office. The colonel will have gone to lunch, but his assistant will stamp and sign it for you. Two days, that’s all I can give you. Please don’t try to smuggle food into Paris. It’s against the rationing. They’ll only think you intend to sell it on the black market.’
He walked me to the door, but kept me a moment. ‘My regards to your husband, madame. Perhaps if … if you were to ask him to explain how things are, Monsieur Jules could make you understand. Please don’t give the Germans any reason to arrest you. They would only blame me and then … Ah, what could I do for all the others?’
I knew that what he had said was perfectly true and happening throughout the Occupied Zone, yet it still angered me, and I said, ‘Besides, there’s the loss of your pension. We wouldn’t wish the family Picard to go without.’
The threat of losing their pensions is what encouraged so many civil servants to cooperate with the Nazis.
‘Talk tough, if you like, madame, but face reality. For the moment, the Germans have chosen to be kind.’
‘But not to the Poles, the Czechs, or anyone else?’
‘I’m sorry you lost your little girl, but please don’t let that tragedy make you foolish. Talk to your husband. Don’t do anything in Paris until you have first spoken to him.’
Paris, through the hush of what was the busiest time of day, was somewhat surreal. Bicycles-vélos-were everywhere, their crazy vélo-taxis, too. So few cars and lorries were about, to see one was to experience a moment profound. That one sat lost and alone, far along the Champs-Élysées beneath the chestnut trees like a bank robber’s car with the streams of bicycles passing by or parked side by side in endless rows.
Here and there, a vélo-taxi nudged out into the silent stream. There were Germans everywhere around Place de la Concorde-all types of uniforms. ‘Tourists’ mostly, for the High Command must have been using Paris for rest and recuperation, but businessmen, too. Lots of French girls fraternizing. Lots of laughter, lipstick, makeup, short skirts even in the cold, silk stockings … Could they still buy those? Later, the girls painted on a beige wash, drew lines up the backs of their legs, or went without. The shoes hadn’t yet become difficult. Later, those things, with their hinged wooden soles, would make them sound like frisky, two-legged fillies if they didn’t fall apart or jam. All the barges had disappeared from the Seine, most of the statues from the streets. The circular cast-iron sheeting of a vespasienne, however, still revealed the boots, shoes, and trouser legs of men standing shoulder to shoulder as they urinated. Some things never changed, but the signboard of its posters exhorted the public to be wary of strangers, to report suspicious things, to save, conserve, and be grateful for the protection of the German soldier. England is the enemy. There were ordinances about the blackout. The curfew now began at midnight, the last trains of the métro were at eleven. Most of the theatres and restaurants closed at ten thirty, otherwise people must stay the night until five a.m. when the curfew ended.*