He shut his eyes, and back across the silk screen of memory ran the film of the inside of the synagogue, its altar and lamps smashed, the menorahs bent and twisted, the Torah unscrolled and defecated on and scorched, the stiff, leather-bound copy of the Talmud thrown into a corner to lie open amid the shower of prayer books, and the dark stained glass from the shattered windows above.
Some snow had crept in, and though one could look at it in any way one wanted, still there was a star-shaped pattern the child had drawn on the floor.
There were no footprints in its snow. None were easily definable elsewhere, but on a broken corner of the altar a battered lamp had been placed; on another, the glasses and the baby elephant.
Calling out, he had heard, and heard again in the temple of his mind, the echoing of ‘Nénette …? Nénette Vernet? Please don’t hide from me.’
Trust … How were they to gain her trust if she was still alive and free but afraid to go home?
A baby elephant the Reverend Mother had failed to mention, a pair of glasses Sister Céline had confiscated only to have them returned by the Reverend Mother … Nénette Vernet must have been wearing them.
The Lalique vial of perfume contained an old and superb scent ‘borrowed’, no doubt, from the aunt’s dressing table. The tiepin that had been stepped on was cheap and gaudy and not the sort of thing the industrialist would have worn. No, it wasn’t.
The gold fob from a first-communion ear-ring had definitely not been Liline Chambert’s, he felt, and could not help but see her in the cold hard light of memory, the girl lying on her back with her legs spread slackly and fists still clenched high up on her chest.
Five raisins, four of the gritty ersatz vitaminic biscuits, unfrosted and frosted marbles followed. Then the death’s-head cap badge, the two gold wound medals, the Polish Campaign medal and the silver tank battle badge, none of which he had before him since Hermann had confiscated them but all of which could never be forgotten. Ah no, of course not.
A spent tube of Mummy Brown. A toy giraffe. A crystal of clear quartz. A toy roulette wheel-he tried it and watched as he heard its little steel ball bearing bounce round and round until it settled on the three. Ah! he had never had any luck at gambling. Never! Was it an omen of more trouble to come? Should he have consulted the Tarot cards first?
‘I’m sadly deficient as a reader of them,’ he muttered. ‘Perhaps I ought really to consult an expert.’
The charm bracelet was missing one of its dogs. A poodle? he wondered. The poodle Pompon? Nénette Vernet must really hate that dog.
Back came the words of Madame Vernet in the freezing cold of the darkened garden. ‘I loved her as my own. We confided things in each other. She trusted me absolutely. The dog was hers … Actually, I have no love of dogs.’
And then, of Vernet, ‘I have to tell you how it was. He … he won’t let me say a thing. He’ll see that he does all the talking.’
In the change purse Hermann had recovered from the gamekeeper there were a few francs in tightly crumpled bills, perhaps two hundred in all, and several coins, both French and others. Some stray marks the heiress had picked up, a few pfennigs, a few lire, six guilders, four kroner, seven drachmas, a dinar and eight roubles-coins from all over Occupied Europe, and dropped or thrown away by the Occupier’s nomads, common soldiers and sailors mostly, on rest and recuperation. Some Austrian schillings as well …
A rubber condom … ‘The bordel, the house on the rue Chabanais?’ he breathed and, taking it out, saw it against the coins and the memory of the tank battle and cap badges.
The thing had been used some time ago and its contents had long since dried and become fast like glue. Regulation issue. Wehrmacht and a pale shade of flaccid and unbecoming grey but … but how had the child come by it? What meaning had it had for her? Was it something with which to taunt the good Sister Céline or to prove to classmates that the nun’s young sister Violette had fallen by the wayside?
Was Nénette Vernet the ringleader of the troubles at the school? She must have been.
Feeling decidedly uncomfortable, he tucked the thing back into the purse with the coins and suddenly remembered his tea. Ah! it was stone-cold.
The waitress came instantly with a fresh pot, and he knew then that he had been under constant surveillance. Not resisting the temptation to stare at the change purse, she said, ‘You’re a detective, aren’t you?’
‘It’s not hard to tell,’ he confessed, and, dragging out the carte d’identité, asked of its photograph, ‘Do you recall seeing this child?’
He had such large, moist brown eyes, this detective, and was so very worried. ‘That is Andrée Noireau, the child who … who was killed yesterday. It’s in all the papers. She often came here with her friend from school and … and sometimes with an older girl of about my age.’
The lights had come on but he hadn’t even noticed this until now. The black-out curtains had been drawn. ‘And the school friend?’ he asked guardedly. ‘Has that one been in today?’
Rapidly her head was shaken. An anxious glance was thrown at madame la patronne, who sat by her caisse leaving nothing to chance, including the talking to police officers who dangled used condoms above their teacups!
‘Please, you must tell me. It’s urgent.’
Again a worried glance was thrown at Madame. ‘But I’m not sure. I’m not!’ cried the girl.
Hastily she turned to leave, only to be stopped by the hand of the Sûreté. ‘Sure or not, mademoiselle, you must tell me now.’
It was his turn to look at Madame and he did it so fiercely Madame acquiesced with a curt nod.
‘I … I think I may have seen her up in the woods. She … she reminded me of a wolf that is afraid and half-starved, monsieur. One moment she was there, looking down towards the cage of doves, the next she was gone.’
‘When?’
‘Today at … at about two p.m. We’re never very busy on Mondays. I took a half-hour without pay for my lunch. I had to see where it had … had happened.’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘A red overcoat and beret.’
‘And was there anyone with her?’ he hazarded.
‘I … I think so. I do! But … but he was well behind her and … and I think she … she must have been running from him.’
‘A man in a black overcoat?’
‘Yes.’
Ah nom de Jésus-Christ, Hermann! he cried inwardly. Why are we not together when that is most needed?
From a block away, the bell of the Bibliothèque Nationale gloomily shattered the frost and brought the night down. It was 5.00 p.m. Berlin Time and the narrow pavement next to the house on the rue Chabanais was awash with a constant tide of battle-weary men fresh in for release. They did not joke or laugh or even grumble like soldiers and sailors on leave. Stolidly they smoked their cigarettes and waited, two by two in line, patrolled by tough Feldgendarmen with chains and miniature breastplates clinking softly against coat buttons and batons beating into mailed leather gloves.
Nur für Deutsche-Only for Germans, read the Gothic letters on a white signboard under a pale blue electric bulb that was caged in wire above a door that was now absolutely dark.
Several coughed. One nervous boy panicked and left the line. Immediately his place was taken by another.
Kohler was impressed by the control the Military Police exerted, but were they stationed inside as well? Were they standing on the staircase that must rise six storeys up the central well to attic dormers, no bed unused for more than a few moments? The girls ate, slept and lived most of their tiny lives in there, often doubled up for comfort and consolation in their off hours, sharing their tears, their colds and coughs or dreams and only going out now and then to see their pimps for an hour or two of coaxing or a beating, depending on the need to produce.