The Collaborators

‘At least there’s someone out there not giving up,’ said Valois.

He finished his tea and stood up. Janine saw his gaze drift round the room coming to rest on the large silver menorah on the window sill.

‘Are the other apartments still occupied?’ he asked casually.

Sophie said, ‘A lot went. Soon they’ll be back when they see it’s safe, no doubt. Madame Nomary, the concierge, is still in the basement. Like me, too old to run. And Monsieur Melchior is still upstairs.’

‘Melchior?’

‘You must have seen him,’ said Janine. ‘The writer. Or artist. Or something like that. At least he dresses that way, you know, flamboyantly. I think he’s…’

‘He likes the men more than the ladies is what she doesn’t care to say in front of silly old Bubbah,’ mocked Sophie. ‘But he’s a gentleman and very quiet, especially since the war. I think he’s been hiding up there, poor soul. Why so interested in my neighbours, Christian?’

‘No reason. I must go, Madame Sophie. Take care.’

‘I’d better go too and rescue maman from the kids,’ said Janine, jumping up. ‘Bye, Bubbah. I’ll bring Pauli and Céci next time.’

‘Be sure you do, child. God go with you both.’

Outside in the steepsided canyon of the Rue de Thorigny they walked in silence for a little way.

Finally Janine said, ‘What’s worrying you about Sophie, Christian?’

He shot her a surprised glance then said, ‘I thought I was a better actor! It’s nothing. I was just wondering how I could suggest that it might be politic not to, well, advertise her Jewishness…’

‘In the Marais? Don’t be silly. And why would you say such a thing?’

‘You must have heard how the Boche treat Jews. Some of the stories…’

‘But that’s in Germany,’ protested Janine. ‘They wouldn’t dare do anything here, not to Frenchmen. The people wouldn’t let it happen!’

‘You think not? I hope so,’ he said doubtfully.

‘I’m glad you didn’t say anything, though. It would really have worried Bubbah.’

‘It wasn’t just her I was concerned about,’ said Christian gently.

‘Me? Why should it worry…oh my God. Jean-Paul, you mean? If they capture Jean-Paul…’

She stood stricken.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It probably won’t happen. And he’ll be a prisoner-of-war in any case, under the Geneva Convention…where are you going?’

She’d set off at a pace that was more of a trot than a walk. Looking back over her shoulder she cried, ‘I’ve got to get back to the children, see they’re all right. Goodbye, Christian.’

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’ll call…’

Already she was out of earshot. He headed west, frowning, and in a little while turned on to the Rue de Rivoli. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his head down, and did not see, or at least did not acknowledge seeing, the huge red and black swastika banners which fluttered everywhere like prospectors’ flags to mark out what the Germans were claiming for their own.

3

‘Hey kid, what’s your name?’

Pauli looked up at the man who’d just appeared in the doorway of the little courtyard behind the baker’s. He was a big man with long red hair, a longer beard and a strong curved nose. He looked as if he’d been living rough and as he moved nearer, Pauli realized he smelt that way too.

‘Pauli,’ he said. ‘Well, Jean-Paul, really. But maman calls me Pauli.’

‘Pauli, eh? Maman, you say? Would that be Janine?’

‘Yes, that’s maman’s name,’ said the boy.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed. And look at the size of you! Little Janine’s boy! Well, I’m your Uncle Miche, Pauli. Not really your uncle, more your half-cousin, but uncle will do nicely till I’ve stood out in the rain long enough to shrink to your size.’

This reversal of the usual adult clichés about growing up into a big boy amused and reassured Pauli. He stood his ground as the big man moved forward and rested a hand on his head. He noticed with interest that this new and fascinating uncle did indeed seem to have been standing out in the rain. His shapeless grey trousers and black workman’s jacket were damp with the moisture which the morning sun was just beginning to suck up from the high roofs. Here in the confined yard, it was still shadowy and chill. Michel Boucher shivered but with a controlled shiver like an animal vibrating its flesh for warmth.

‘Why don’t we go inside and surprise Uncle Claude?’ he said. ‘I bet it’s nice and warm in the bakehouse!’

It was. There were two huge ovens, one down either side of the vaulted ochre-bricked building and both were going full blast. Claude Crozier was removing a trayful of loaves from one of them to add to the morning’s bake already cooling on the long central table. Boucher looked at the regiments of bread with covetous eyes and said, ‘Morning, Uncle Claude. How’s it been with you? Christ, there’s a grand smell in here!’

The baker almost dropped his tray in surprise.

‘Who’s that? Michel, is that you? What the blazes are you doing here?’

‘Just passing, uncle, and I thought I’d pay my respects.’

‘Kind of you, but just keep on passing, eh? Before your aunt sees you.’

Crozier was not a hard man but his nephew was an old battle, long since lost. The baker had been more than generous in the help he gave his widowed sister to bring up her two children. But when within the space of a year, their mother had died of TB, Mireille had married a farmer on holiday and gone to live in the Ain region, and Miche had got two years’ juvenile detention for aggravated burglary, Louise broke her disapproving silence and said, ‘Enough’s enough. Not a penny more of our hard-earned money goes to that ne’er-do-well. He’ll never be more than a crook, you’ll see.’

Now here he was again.

‘You can’t stay,’ said Crozier urgently.

‘Oh I won’t stay, uncle,’ said Boucher. ‘Just long enough for a bite of breakfast, eh?’

The baker’s consternation at this prospect changed to terror as the door to the shop opened and his wife came in.

She stopped dead at the sight of Boucher.

‘Morning, Auntie Lou,’ he called cheerfully. ‘Just dropped in to pay my respects. And have a bite of breakfast.’

He took a couple of steps nearer the tray of new-baked bread as he spoke.

‘My God!’ cried the woman, peering closely at him. ‘You’re wet! You’re dirty! You’re unshaven! And you smell!’

Her tone was triumphant as well as indignant. There were few pleasures dearer to her bourgeois heart than being justified in a fit of moral indignation.

‘Yes, well, I’ve been down on my luck a bit,’ said Boucher.