The Collaborators

A crowd had gathered earlier in the Rue de Lille to see the notables arrive, but as midnight approached, despite a rumoured assurance that the curfew would be suspended for this night, most of the watchers had drifted away to their own houses and their own meditations on the dying year.

A few remained, however. Among them was Janine Simonian. She had felt compelled to get out of Sophie’s tiny flat that night. She’d let herself drift but hadn’t been surprised to find herself in the University quarter. She had been brought here first by Jean-Paul. It was here that her eyes had been opened to a world outside the bakery, a world of ideas and imagination, of criticism and curiosity. Finally the memories had become too much and to escape them she joined the watchers in the Rue de Lille.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked someone.

‘It’s a ball, just like the old days,’ was the reply.

At that moment the curtain was drawn back and the spectators could see right into the reception hall. Music drifted out, and laughter. Elegant women in expensive clothes were drinking with attentive men in formal evening dress or colourful dress uniforms. It was a scene of assurance and power; it stated more forcibly than marching troops or rumbling gun carriages that we, here, inside, are the conquerors and will be for ever; while you, outside, are for ever the conquered.

A flurry of snow passed overhead, leaving flakes on her cheeks like tears. The last watchers began to depart. Someone said, ‘Happy New Year,’ but no one replied.

Janine said, ‘Jean-Paul, wherever you are, Happy New Year, my love.’

Then she too turned and walked slowly away from the light.

PART THREE

February—December 1941

Dans une telle situation, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte.

Madame du Deffand

1

If it wasn’t the coldest February in years, to most Frenchmen it felt like it.

Monsieur Édouard Scheffer of Strasbourg sat in the Café Balzac near the Quai de Grenelle métro station and shivered. Not even two thicknesses of overcoat, a Homburg hat and frequent additions to his vile coffee from a gun-metal hip flask could keep him warm. The patron, who valued his custom, was apologetic. He and Monsieur Scheffer had done a few small blackmarket deals in the couple of months since Miche the Butcher had introduced them, so he was sure that Monsieur would appreciate the problem of fuel shortage.

The seated man nodded and thought of his beautifully warm room at the Lutétia. Bruno Zeller would never undertake assignments which involved freezing to death. In fairness it was difficult to imagine Zeller being able to pass himself off as anything other than a German officer, but just now Günter Mai didn’t feel like being fair.

The door opened. Two figures entered. One was Boucher, the other was the girl. Boucher peered down the long shadowy room in search of him. He always sat at the furthermost end near the kitchen door, partly for security, partly to avoid the draught.

Now Boucher saw him. Spoke to the girl. Pointed.

She looked, saw, recognized.

In that instant he could see she’d had no idea who she was going to meet. He’d assumed Boucher would have told her, and he’d been surprised when nevertheless the redhead had confirmed the meet was on. But all that he’d read into this was that the girl was desperate, and desperate people made easy recruits.

She was trying to leave but her cousin was hanging on to her arm. Mai willed him to let her go. If she was forced to confront him now, his cover could be blown and he found Édouard Scheffer very useful.

She was coming. Damn. He signalled the patron to bring more coffee. The girl arrived and glowered down at him.

‘Darling, how good to see you. Not still angry with me, are you?’

She was taken aback. The patron, arriving with the coffee, grinned lecherously, scenting a lovers’ quarrel. Angrily she sat in the chair he ostentatiously pulled out for her.

Mai took out his flask and poured an ounce of liquor into her glass.

‘I don’t like schnapps,’ she said. But he noted with approval that she waited till the patron retired out of earshot.

‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘That’s why I carry cognac.’

She drank, enjoyed, didn’t try to hide it. Or perhaps couldn’t. Not the best quality of a prospective agent, an inability to hide your feelings, thought Mai. Still he wasn’t really thinking of her as a Mata Hari.

‘I didn’t know it was you,’ said Janine.

‘You wouldn’t have come?’ asked Mai.

She shook her head then added, ‘Not because of the shop, what happened that time, but…’

‘Because I’m not a general, someone important? I take your point.’

She was much calmer now. It didn’t surprise him. This was what he was noted for - baiting, hooking, playing, and not so much landing the little fish as persuading it to jump out of the water.

He produced his pipe, held it up in a token request for permission, and lit it. Women often found a pipe reassuring.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Someone important.’

He studied her through his pipe smoke. On her entry to the café he had thought she was plumper than he remembered. Now he realized that like himself she was just wearing several layers of clothes against the cold and was in fact rather thinner than he recalled. It was a good face, not beautiful but intriguing, full of life and mobility despite the wasting effects of this long winter.

‘Don’t you even want to talk about your problem?’ he asked.

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

‘Oh? You’ve managed to track down Corporal Jean-Paul Simonian of the Light Infantry then?’

She went red with shock and anger.

‘He shouldn’t have told you,’ she said. ‘He had no right.’

‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ said Mai. ‘I got the details elsewhere.’

For a moment she looked puzzled then it dawned.

‘Maman!’ she said. ‘She’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?’

He was right. She was no fool. He nodded.

‘Mothers like to talk about their children,’ he said. ‘Even when they quarrel. She doesn’t blame you. She told me you were on edge because you’d no idea what had happened to your husband. So when Miche said you had a problem, I guessed.’

‘Very clever,’ said Janine. ‘What else did maman say? That I’d be better off if Jean-Paul never came back?’

Mai shrugged, a good French shrug.

‘He mightn’t, you know that? In fact it’s the likeliest explanation.’

‘Of course I know that.’