The Collaborators

But now as quickly as it had come, his joy faded as a sense of revulsion swept over him. What the hell was he doing? Giving this to Bruno meant hundreds of youngsters could be walking into a trap. And the Boche wouldn’t be gentle, that was sure. No! He wouldn’t do it. Bruno could go jump in the Seine!

He walked on, feeling incredibly noble.

Then he heard the sound of breaking glass. He turned a corner and saw a tobacconist’s with its window shattered. Pasted on the door was a now familiar sign saying JEWISH BUSINESS. Two youths with the armbands of the Parti Populaire Français were standing laughing on the pavement. They fell silent as he walked past. Then he heard their footsteps coming after him. Faster and faster he walked till he was almost running.

Finally, exhausted by effort and fear, he stopped and turned.

He was alone. But he had left his feeling of nobility far behind.

7

Every year on November 11th, Sophie Simonian went to the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior to leave some flowers and make her own personal thanksgiving.

‘Bubbah, this year say thanks at home or in the synagogue,’ urged Janine.

Sophie looked at her in surprise and said, ‘Why should I change the habit of twenty years, child? I owe it to Iakov for his safe return.’

Realizing she had no hope of winning the argument, Janine insisted on accompanying her, leaving the children in the care of a neighbour.

As their train pulled into l’Étoile métro station, she saw that the platforms were crowded and the crush of people getting into the carriage prevented the two women from getting out. When Sophie began to grow agitated, a middle-aged man who’d just entered said, ‘Take it easy, old lady. You’re better off down here than up there. You’d not be let out of the station anyway!’

‘What’s going on?’ demanded Janine.

‘Chaos,’ he said. ‘There’s been demonstrations, students mainly. The Boche are clearing the streets, and not being too gentle about how they do it.’

They managed to get off at the next station. Janine wanted to cross platforms and head straight home, but Sophie ignored her pleas and, clutching her small posy of Michaelmas daisies, marched out of the station and turned up the avenue towards l’Étoile.

Janine half-expected to find a howling mob. Instead what she saw was a lot of people, scattered enough for passage among them to be relatively easy, and not making a great deal of mob-noise. But the atmosphere felt electric.

‘Janine! Madame Simonian! What are you doing here?’

It was Valois, his sallow face flushed with excitement.

Janine told him and Sophie flourished her posy.

‘I’d get rid of those,’ said Valois. ‘The Boche seem allergic to flowers. Oh Christ, here they come!’

An armoured car was moving steadily down the centre of the avenue with soldiers fanning out on either side. They held their rifles at the port and their trotting feet kept perfect time so that the thud of the boots was a powerful heartbeat under the panicking cries of the crowd.

People started to scatter and run.

‘Come on!’ urged Valois.

But Sophie had neither the strength nor the inclination to flee and the best Janine could manage was to pull her behind an advertising stand which would at least part the advancing line.

The soldiers broke, re-formed, passed on. Except one, a cadaverous, pock-faced man who looked frightened enough to be brutal.

‘Go on,’ he snarled. ‘Fuck off out of it quick! Run! Run! Run!’

He thrust at them with his rifle as he spoke. Janine and Valois tried to protect Sophie but she pushed between them.

‘I’m going to the tomb,’ she said clearly. ‘To lay these flowers.’

She held out the posy. The soldier looked at it in puzzlement as if imagining it was being offered to him. Then he struck it from her grasp and said, ‘Get off out of it, you old bag. I won’t tell you again.’

‘You bastard!’ cried Valois. Before he could move, Janine flung her arms round him. She could see the soldier was keyed up enough to shoot.

‘We must get Sophie away,’ she urged.

Valois’s tense body relaxed. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘There’ll be time for that.’

They hurried the old lady to the station. A sergeant and two privates were lounging there, cheerfully waving back anyone still trying to emerge. When they saw that the newcomers wanted to go in, they politely stood aside.

‘That’s right, darling,’ said the sergeant. ‘Home’s best today. I wish I was coming with you!’

And the soldiers’ mocking laughter followed them down the stairs.

Half a mile away, a German corporal was growing very irritated. He’d been up since before midnight, first of all lying in wait to quell an assault on the Embassy which never happened. Then, when at last he was stood down, he’d just had time to have some breakfast and stretch himself out on his bunk before he was ordered out again to deal with some real demonstrations. All was quiet now, and he could be thinking of getting back to that bunk if this funny little twerp would stop babbling at him in broken German.

Maurice Melchior had woken up to a terrifying silence. No one was talking about midnight marches and torchlight processions and assaults on the Embassy. He was supposed to meet Zeller early to collect Émile’s pay-off, but he had the sense not to keep that appointment. He did go to the Orangerie, however, and hung around in growing despair till news of the disturbances at l’Étoile had brought him hurrying here, hoping against hope that somehow his disturbances had moved on in space and time.

The corporal grew angry. The little fairy was apparently taking the piss about last night’s abortive ambush! Only his eagerness to get to bed stopped him from arresting him. He turned away. The Frenchie grasped his shoulder! That did it. He turned and hit him in the gut. Melchior sank to the ground. The corporal swung back his foot.

‘No,’ said a voice from a staff-car which had drawn up alongside.

Through tear-clouded eyes, Melchior recognized a face. No. Two faces. One, looking at him through the window, was Colonel Fiebelkorn’s. The other, less frightening but more incredible, belonged to a man getting out of the car. He looked at Melchior and smiled as he walked past. It was Émile.

‘Monsieur Melchior,’ said Fiebelkorn opening the door. ‘Won’t you join me?’

For days there were rumours of pitched battles, hundreds killed, thousands arrested. The truth was less dramatic. No deaths, a few injuries, and only one arrest on a serious charge.

‘Some poor devil miles away from the demos got jostled by a drunken Boche and jostled back. Now he’s facing the death penalty for violence against the German Army! At least it’ll show people what kind of monsters we’re up against.’

‘Isn’t that a big price to pay for an illustration?’ wondered Janine.

‘Don’t give me that bourgeois sentimental crap,’ retorted Valois.

‘All I mean is a man’s life seems more important to me than anything else.’

‘Oh yes? And to get Jean-Paul home safe and sound, how many death-warrants would you be prepared to sign? One? Two? Three? A hundred?’

‘I don’t know. That’s different. It would depend…I don’t know!’

‘It’s a question of objectives and priorities, isn’t it?’ said Valois bleakly.

‘Christian, are you a communist?’ asked Janine.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he replied, suddenly gay. ‘Didn’t you know, the communists are Herr Hitler’s friends, bound to him by formal agreement? They’re finding it even harder to be consistent than you are!’