B004U2USMY EBOK (17 page)

“And there are women, too, in France.”

“What? Loise—”

“Wait, don’t say anything, let me finish.”

“You don’t need to finish. There’s nothing
like that. Nobody shares my apartment and there are no women.”

“Helmut, I know that men at war have special.
. .challenges.”

“War is hell for everybody. Everybody has to
sacrifice. Why should I be any different?”

“You’re gone so long,” Loise continued. “And
when you’re back, it’s so very difficult, I know. Maybe if I could
see that doctor in Vienna, but he left for the Crimea, they say,
with the army. But after the war, maybe the surgery.”

“Of course. We’ll do whatever it takes, pay
whatever. Until then, there’s nothing we can do but try to endure
the situation as best we can.”

“Yes, endure,” she said.

“Then put this other stuff out of your head.
I’m not going to replace you, that’s just worried talk, it has
nothing to do with reality.”

“I know you’d never do that,” Loise said.
“You’re too good-hearted to ever walk away from your commitments,
maybe even when you should. I just want you to know I’m
understanding, too. Some women aren’t, but I am. If there were
ever an indiscretion or a moment of weakness, well, it wouldn’t
really matter, would it? It wouldn’t change anything.”

“That will never happen,” Helmut said firmly.

“But if it did, that would be okay. You
wouldn’t even need to tell me about it.”

And with that, they lapsed into silence. A
few minutes later and her breath turned heavy and regular, but he
couldn’t sleep.

He kept thinking about that day with
Marie-Élise in the chateau gardens. Her hair smelled like
lavender, her skin was soft. There was a light, warm breeze, and
the flowers were a bright smear of colors. The scene colored his
memories like a Monet. He ached with regret.

And wasn’t that its own kind of infidelity?

Chapter Thirteen:

The main flaw with employing Gabriela as a
spy—apart from her hatred for the man for whom she worked—was her
lack of German.

Over the next few days, she caught several
glimpses of papers and overheard conversations on Alfonse’s
private telephones. Once, a young man in uniform came late at
night and told Alfonse something that made him angry. He berated
the young man for a good twenty minutes while Gabriela and the
maid stayed out of the way.

It was all in German. She caught nothing.
Alfonse could have been either plotting the assassination of
Marshall Petain or arranging the world’s largest shipment of
feather dusters, for all she could decipher.

“What was that all about?” she asked after
the maid retreated to her quarters and Alfonse told her to get
ready for bed.

“That? Oh, that was nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“He was supposed to get me some bacon. I’m so
sick of eating chicken. Apparently, there is none to be had in
Paris at the moment. I don’t believe it. There’s plenty of bacon,
you just have to keep looking.”

“Oh, is that all?” She didn’t know whether to
believe him or not.

And for all his carelessness with his words,
Alfonse was careful with his documents. He kept them in envelopes
for the most part, and tucked some of them into a safe. Some days
Alfonse arrived with a bulging briefcase with paperwork to pour
over, which he scattered in a haphazard fashion over his desk, but
he always shoveled them back into his briefcase when he finished
and locked it. One morning he had a young soldier in the house and
spent the day dictating while the other man typed. Soldier,
paperwork, and typewriter disappeared that afternoon.

As for money, Alfonse spent liberally, but
kept a close eye on his billfold. She managed to pilfer a bit of
loose change, but she was afraid that he’d catch her if she went
to too much effort to take some money to replace what Colonel
Hoekman had stolen. She’d meant to give some of it to the
Demarais, but she’d have to find some other way to help the
elderly couple.

And nothing more about the
simple soldat.
He gossiped about this officer or that bureaucrat often enough to
ask prying questions, but rarely gave much time to the young men
who drove him, typed for him, or delivered telegrams and packages,
except to complain when they were late. It was a small piece of
information she needed, but she couldn’t seem to pry it out of
him. She dreaded going back to Hoekman with nothing.

Six days after her encounter with the
colonel, Alfonse announced over breakfast, “Helmut von Cratz is
back in Paris.”

“I didn’t know he’d left.”

“Neither did I, until I got word that he was
in Berlin. Something urgent, apparently.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“Oh, it’s always urgent with the government.
Probably nothing. Helmut mentioned you.”

“What did he say?” she asked warily, prepared
to fend off any denunciation.

“He wants your help with something, didn’t
say what.” Alfonse winked. “I hope it’s not a problem with a
certain shipment of German sausage.”

“Well, with no bacon in the house, maybe I’ll
order some.”

“Hah. Well, if I thought there were any risk
of his seducing you, I wouldn’t let you out of the house. But
there’s no risk. Poor man is devoted to his crippled up wife back
in Germany. I’ve told him a million times to get a mistress, so
long as he doesn’t try to take mine.”

“What happened to his wife?”

“He’s vague on the details, but apparently
some sort of growth in the nether regions.” Alfonse let out a
visible shudder.

“A growth? Like cancer?”

“How would I know? Apparently it’s not
life-threatening, just debilitating. Imagine catching something
like that. You know, every day I thank god I’m a man. Disgusting.”

He slathered butter on his toast and took an
enormous bite. “You know what would taste good with this toast?”

“You want me to get the marmalade?”

“Bacon. A big, fatty, salty piece, right
here. When you’re out with Helmut, keep an eye out, will you? I’ll
pay whatever.”

She spotted her opportunity. “How much should
I pay? And do you want to give me a little money so I’ll be
prepared?”

“Don’t worry about that, they probably
wouldn’t sell it to you anyway. Just tell me where you saw it and
I’ll send a German. Dammit, you know I drove past a farm yesterday
and the farmer had at least half a dozen pigs. He wouldn’t sell me
any bacon, said it was impossible. Said the requisitioning officer
had already inventoried the meat for slaughter. ’Goddammit,’ I
said. ’I
am
the requisitioning officer.’” Alfonse snorted.
“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to tell Colonel Hoekman
to arrest the bastard.”

“You can’t do that. He was just afraid.”

“He wasn’t afraid, he was a greedy old
peasant. Fatter than Goering’s hound dogs. I’m serious, his belly
was hanging over his belt like this. And some people claim the
French don’t have enough to eat.” He patted her hand. “Come on,
Gaby, don’t get alarmed, I’m not serious. I wouldn’t tell Hoekman
if his pants were on fire. I’m sure as hell not going to send him
after some farmer with too many pigs.”

“You promise?”
“I promise.” Alfonse stood up. “Helmut will be here in an hour.
You’d better go get prettied up. Not too prettied up, though.”

#

Alfonse was gone by the time Helmut arrived.
The man was smartly dressed in a freshly pressed suit and polished
black shoes. He removed his hat and his blonde hair was gelled,
combed into perfection. With his sharp features and blue eyes, he
looked the epitome of Aryan supremacy. His Nazi masters would be
proud.

“You look very nice today
mademoiselle
.
Thank you for agreeing to assist me.”

“You’re welcome, I suppose.”

“Your particular talents will be
indispensable.”

She looked at him with irritation. “Are you
setting me up for another cruel insult?”

“Not at all. I’m genuinely grateful, as you
will see.”

“After the other day, formality sounds like
condescension to my ears.”

“I was out of line. Please accept my
apology.”

That deflated her. “Oh, well thank you. I let
my temper get the better of me.”

“No, you were right to be angry. Come on, the
car is ready.”

It was a bright day, with the sunlight
melting the frost that glistened on the metal grating outside the
building. Smartly dressed women clicked by and men in uniform or
suits hustled to and from private automobiles. Few animals or
bicycles. Just a few blocks away, the scene would be entirely
different.

Helmut drove his own car, which he’d left
running. With gendarmes patrolling on foot, he apparently felt no
risk leaving it temptingly at the curb. Gabriela remembered the
scramble for Alfonse’s discarded cigarette. It had taken the
scavenger just seconds to lose his bicycle. This was a different
neighborhood entirely.

“Where are we going, anyway?” she asked as
Helmut pulled away from the curb.

“To my office. I have some papers I need you
to look at.”

“Me? Whatever for?”

“It’s a translation problem.”

“You don’t need a translator, your French is
perfect.”

“Who said anything about French?” They turned
off Rue Dupont. The gendarmes, in full collaboration mode, touched
their hats as they drove past.

A tickle of doubt. “I don’t understand. How
could I possibly translate into German, I don’t speak any of it.”

“You’ve forgotten your native tongue? I find
that hard to believe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We didn’t get a very good start the other
night, but I want to start over,” Helmut said. “To do that, we
need to be honest with each other.”

“Paris is not the sort of place for honesty.
You start being honest, the Nazis line you against the wall and
shoot you.”

“I’m not a Nazi.”

“You look like a Nazi, you act like a Nazi.
You steal for the Nazis.”

“I told you before, I don’t steal anything. I
buy and I sell.”

“You forced us to ruin our currency at the
exchange rate you set,” she said, “and you force us to sell at the
price you agreed would give you maximum profits. That’s just a
clever way of stealing.”

They’d crossed over the Seine to the Left
Bank and instantly there was a line halfway around the block of
people waiting for one thing or another. “Look, a food queue. Do
you think those people would agree with my definition of theft or
yours?”

He was silent at this for several long
seconds. “Who told you all that?”

“I’m not blind, I can see what’s in front of
my eyes. Look, there’s another queue, and another one right
there.”

“I mean, who told you about the exchange
rates and the system of commerce?”

“Because I’m not bright enough to figure it
out on my own? I’m just a whore, you mean?”

“You’re not a whore, I know that now.”

“Helmut, what do you want? A quick lay in
your apartment? I work on contract, not by the hour.”

“I’m not interested in that.”

“Sure you’re not.”

“Soon as I figure out how, I’m going to prove
it to you,” he said.

If it wasn’t sex, then what? If he was
working for Colonel Hoekman, it would explain how he seemed to
know she wasn’t French. His French was good, but not so good he
would have picked up on minor quirks in her pronunciation. Even
when the rare Frenchman caught her accent, he usually guessed that
she was from Langue d’Oc, where she’d spent some of her childhood,
not from a foreign country.

But if Hoekman had sent him, why not just say
it?

They were edging their way through the
bicycle and cart traffic of the Quartier Latin
now and she
got a sudden idea. “Okay, if you’re sincere, turn back toward the
Sorbonne, then take a left on Rue St. Jaques.”

“Whatever for?”

“You asked, but if you’re not sincere, go
ahead and forget it. Let’s get your so-called work out of the way
and then you can take me home.”

Helmut nodded. “Fine. Tell me where to go.”

He balked again when she directed him down
the actual street in question. “This isn’t safe. Maybe for you,
but I’m German.”

“Pull over right here.”

“Gaby. . .”

There were people in the streets, ragged,
lean-faced people, and many of them stopped whatever they were
doing and stared at the car. But it was daylight. In any event,
she was enjoying his discomfort. Let him see what it was like.

“You’ve got a pistol, don’t you? Take it out
if you don’t feel safe. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Okay, but hurry.”

“One other thing. I need some money.”

“Money? Whatever for? You’re not doing
anything illegal, are you?”

“I just need some money. I’ve got to help
some poor people, that’s all.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“You have some money,” she said. “Let’s have
it.”

“Some pocket change, that’s all. A couple of
coins.”

“I can’t believe it. Well, hand it over.”

“Why?” he asked, his tone belligerent.

“There’s an old couple up there living on dry
crusts and rotten potatoes. Even a few coins would help.”

“Who are these people? How do you know them?”

“It’s where I used to live. Yes, here, in
this rat hole. You don’t think I’m screwing your friend because
I’m bored with my daddy’s mansion in the 7
^th
, do you?”

He looked up to the decrepit, soot-stained
building with a frown.

“They’re my former landlords,” she continued,
“and it was a blow when I moved out. My pitiful rent was all they
had.”

Helmut fished a few coins from his pocket.
“This is really all I have, but hold on one second.” He got out of
the car, lifted the trunk a few inches, then slipped something out
and underneath his coat. He gave her a bag. There were two
baguettes and a big wedge of cheese, quite hard from the cold.
“Give them this. Tell them to let the Beaufort soften at room
temperature before eating. Never mind, they’re French, they’ll
know that already.”