Light of the Moon, page 38
The pain in Paul’s back became apparent when he was getting dressed. Then it struck him hard under the shoulder blades. He sat down on the mattress. Something was wrong, but he said nothing to Ingrid.
The pain accompanied him to the Tirpitzufer, hovered in his back for a while, moved to his chest and mounted an assault on his head. Paul’s grasp of enemy activity in France loosened and he found himself fumbling for words. Von Bentivegni stared at Paul in some surprise. ‘You don’t look well.’ Paul regarded his mentor with a glassy look and repressed the overwhelming desire to close his eyes and to slump back into the chair. ‘You know our friends in the SD want to have another word with you soon,’ said von Bentivegni. ‘Are you prepared?’
Paul sat up. ‘I don’t know why they want to see me again.’
‘Of course you do.’ Von Bentivegni crossed one polished boot over the other and his monocle enlarged one eye to savage proportions. ‘They’ve got their hooks into us, Paul, and you know it.’ He pressed the monocle deeper into his eye socket. ‘Now Paul, take care. This is likely to be the beginning of an open campaign against us. The Führer is not pleased with the Admiral.’
‘The Führer is not pleased.’ Sturmbannführer Siegfried Gehrbrandt – newly promoted – echoed von Bentivegni. They were sitting in Gehrbrandt’s office in the SD headquarters in Wilhelmstrasse, where Paul had been summoned that afternoon.
‘With me?’ Paul asked flippantly. He had drunk a lot of brandy to get rid of the headache and it was making him reckless.
‘With the Abwehr,’ said Gehrbrandt. ‘However, I imagine you have nothing to worry about, von Hoch. Or do you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘The Abwehr let the Führer down badly over the question of how many divisions the Russians could put into the field. He always trusted the Admiral.’
In the corner of the room, a blonde-plaited clerk sat taking down a record of their conversation. Paul glanced at her blank face and was reminded of his secretary Fräulein Mitter. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but it was unlikely to have made any difference in the end.’
‘What do you mean?’ Gehrbrandt scented his chance to bring down a charge of treason. He leant forward over his desk. ‘Do you mean the German people are incapable of victory?’
How thoroughly he had changed from a boring, importunate young man into a zealot – a jackbooted copy of Hitler’s Aryan prototype.
‘Gehrbrandt. It is obvious you are no soldier.’ It was an unwise remark and Gehrbrandt flushed with chagrin. ‘To keep such a front open is a huge task at the best of times. Unreliable supplies – I gather one division had women’s brassières delivered to it instead of boots – no roads to speak of, a different railway gauge and the Arctic winter. Add to that a bottomless well of Russian troops for Stalin to use as cannon fodder, and we have problems.’
‘Are you criticising the Führer’s judgement?’
‘Merely laying the facts before him, Gehrbrandt.’
‘What about the Dieppe incident?’ Gehrbrandt threw in a reference to the inadequate intelligence supplied by the Abwehr to Hitler in August 1942.
‘Look,’ said Paul, who reckoned he had about ten minutes before he fainted and he was damned if he was going to give Gehrbrandt the pleasure of seeing him collapse, ‘the Allied raid on Dieppe was launched by the British to appease Stalin. They knew perfectly well it wasn’t going to succeed. So did we and we can learn from their folly. The enemy used new guerrilla tactics in their advance party and they are bound to have obtained information on our coastal fortifications. We should work from there.’
Gehrbrandt returned to the subject of Russia. ‘Did you know Admiral Canaris informed the Führer that in his opinion the invasion of Russia was a mistake?’
‘Did he now?’ The Admiral had struck Paul on occasion as over-cautious. Although in this case perhaps the timing had been wrong, Paul silently applauded his leader’s courage. Gehrbrandt came round the desk, shifted the miniature Nazi flag that did service as a paperweight and leant back against the desk in front of Paul.
‘Herr Major. There are those who think that all is not well in the Abwehr. There are suspicions – more than suspicions – that there may be traitors in the organisation. Do you know anything about this?’
Paul’s contempt for Gehrbrandt kept him silent. ‘Ah, you do know something?’
‘No, of course I don’t.’
‘May I remind you, von Hoch, you do have certain responsibilities – and, of course, your family to think of.’
Paul rose to his feet. ‘If that was meant to be a veiled threat, Gehrbrandt, it was less than subtle.’
‘I haven’t finished the interview yet,’ Gehrbrandt warned Paul.
‘But I have. I don’t know anything about traitors, Gehrbrandt. Nor should you concern yourself with my responsibilities.’
Gehrbrandt had been wanting to needle Paul over Ingrid for a long time. ‘As an officer and a gentleman, you should be aware—’
Paul did not allow him to finish. ‘Spare me the innuendo, Gehrbrandt. Ingrid is a grown woman and she is at liberty to make her own choices. Do you understand?’ He put on his gloves and picked up his cap. Gehrbrandt came close and thrust his face into Paul’s. ‘If you discover traitors in the Abwehr, it would be wise to let me know their names, von Hoch.’
Paul stepped back, fever shuddering through him. ‘If I did, I promise you would be the first person to hear.’ He adjusted his gloves. ‘By the way, Ingrid asked me to send her regards.’
Gehrbrandt stiffened and turned his back. On his way out of the room, Paul thought he heard a stifled giggle from the clerk.
When he returned to the flat, he received a scolding from Ingrid for having gone out when he felt ill. ‘Don’t,’ he begged. ‘Just leave me.’
It was so unlike him that Ingrid was silenced. She felt his forehead and reached for the phone. Her movements danced along the line of Paul’s vision. Then he fainted.
CHAPTER TWO
‘SO,’ SAID FLEISCHER WITH DISTASTE. ‘YOU SLEPT WITH A French girl. Is she Aryan?’
His question flustered Werner as it had not occurred to him to ask Mariette if she was Jewish and he realised he had been deficient in his duty. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure she is.’
‘You realise that under the relevant sections of the 1942 decrees you would be committing a major crime?’
‘Sturmbannführer,’ interjected Werner desperately. ‘I am sure Madame Maisson is not a Jew.’ He was regretting the impulse that had prompted him to request an interview with Fleischer.
They were in Fleischer’s office at the mairie in Ribérac. Hitler’s photograph now had a large Nazi flag draped under it, and there had been several additions to the china collection. Otherwise the room was the same as on the day of Evelyn’s interrogations. Fleischer was enjoying himself – as he did frequently these days – especially since unoccupied France had fallen like a ripe plum the previous November and he was anticipating promotion. He had grown much plumper and less seedy-looking. His uniform was immaculate and the highly polished boots almost managed to hide that his feet were too small for his height. Fleischer opened a file and pulled a plate of tarte aux amandes towards him. Since Christmas the weather had been very cold indeed, and a blast of bitter air streamed in through the open window. ‘Shut the window,’ he ordered his aide.
Outside in the street a couple of women were shouting to each other and their conversation was truncated as the window closed. Fleischer opened the file, scrutinised the tarte and decided to hold out. He glanced up at Werner. ‘Are you nervous about something, corporal?’ Fleischer’s hand edged towards the plate and then folded across the file. ‘Why have you come to me? Did you think I would enjoy hearing about your amatory adventures?’ He inflected the word ‘amatory’ as if he was discussing the latrine arrangements.
The colour in Werner’s face deepened. ‘No, Sturmbannführer. I merely thought I could be of use to you. The girl works at the Château Belle-Place and I thought—’
‘Oh. Now why do you think I would want to know about the château?’
‘Major von Hoch, sir, wanted to keep an eye . . . if you see what I mean, sir.’
Fleischer’s interest was aroused but he hid it. After the promising leads he thought he had obtained the night of the failed terrorist attack on the factory and the shooting dead of a clandestine radio operator, he had congratulated himself on smashing the underground cell known to be operating in the area. Recently, however, reports were coming in of a new transmitter starting up. ‘If Major von Hoch was keeping an eye on the château, I’m sure he would have told me,’ he said. The thought of Paul von Hoch being onto something he had missed was highly annoying.
Too late, Werner realised that he had exposed Major von Hoch in an incriminating light and felt more muddled than ever. ‘Perhaps it’s in the files, sir?’
‘Perhaps,’ commented Fleischer, his curiosity threatening to cancel out his appetite. ‘I will look into it. Meanwhile,’ Fleischer had spent too much time plotting his own advancement not to recognise the signs in someone else, ‘where do you come from, corporal?’ Werner told him.
‘Aha, a forester. Large family?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’ Fleischer saw very well. ‘We would rather like a promotion, wouldn’t we? Or a citation, a mention in dispatches to send back to your family who can then boast about you to the village. The local hero. Am I right?’
Werner blinked nervously. That was precisely what he wanted. Like many of his fellow soldiers, he considered it his duty to carry out the Führer’s wishes – indeed, he was proud to do so. But it was very difficult to make your mark as a member of the occupying force – much easier by far to win glory in combat on one of the front lines. Werner, however, was irretrievably in France, running around like a glorified errand boy. Having puzzled at the problem, he had concluded that by offering to obtain information from Mariette he would be put in line for promotion. ‘That would be nice, yes, sir.’
‘Was this your own idea?’ Fleischer flicked up a questioning eyebrow.
Although Werner respected the accretion of power that Sturmbannführer Fleischer wore these days like a flashy insignia, he distrusted him. Now all he wanted was to get away. What a mistake, he thought, feeling out of his depth. And, far from encouraging him, the portrait of his Führer on the wall was an intimidating presence. ‘Sir, perhaps . . .’
‘You will bring this girl in for questioning.’
Werner had been anticipating a few pleasant trips to Mariette’s cottage, not a demand from Fleischer to bring Mariette in for interrogation. ‘Sir, must I?’
‘Why not? You told me about her. Or were you planning to keep it a little secret between us two?’
‘Sir, if I bring her in, she won’t trust me.’
The almond cake did look extraordinarily good and Fleischer could resist it no longer. He picked up a piece. ‘Trust, Schwarz? What on earth are you talking about? Trust has nothing to do with it.’ A spray of crumbs spattered onto the papers on Fleischer’s desk. He chewed and the almond cake disappeared.
Werner swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Mariette asked Werner several hours later. ‘Didn’t you like it?’ Her tone was modulated with a hint of martyrdom. ‘Are you worried about something? Or have you gone off me?’
Werner sat on the edge of Mariette’s bed and bent to lace up his boots. ‘It was fine,’ he said. ‘It always is.’
Mariette lay back and ran her hand over her stomach. At least that was hard and flat again. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ Seeing that Werner had brought the coffee beans, she felt obliged to offer.
‘Ja. If you please.’
‘It’s nice to see you.’ Mariette sounded rather sarcastic. ‘I thought you had given me up. The last time must have been before Christmas.’
‘Well . . .’ Werner seemed uneasy and embarrassed. ‘I have been busy.’ He straightened up. ‘But I often think about you, and about . . . you know.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You mean the baby.’ Mariette rolled out of bed, stood up and reached for her wrapper. ‘That was over months ago. It was a good thing,’ she added, and tried to pretend that she meant it.
Werner started on his tunic buttons. ‘I do like you, you know, Mariette.’
She giggled at that, and a ripple of something like affection went through her. It seemed a long time since Mariette had felt anything but apathy – a long time since Guy Myers had used her and then told her to go away. A long time since Werner had first rolled up on his pampered motorcycle and lifted the children onto the saddle. Even Werner’s temporary absence had not bothered her. She had learnt not to expect too much. Even so, she reached over and touched Werner’s mouth with her finger, enjoying his clean-cut boyish blondness. Werner was not Guy Myers, but he was nice. Comforting and somehow safe. She knew where she was with him. ‘Right, soldier boy. Coffee’s coming. But you’ll have to hurry. My mother and the children will be back soon.’
While Mariette busied herself in the kitchen, Werner wrestled with the remainder of the fastenings and stared out of the window. He had never imagined that he would miss his forests so much. He enjoyed the Périgord countryside, but he wanted to be back in his forest. He missed the scents of leaf mould and pine. He missed walking through the trees, counting the beeches and chestnuts and watching for chamois, elk, martens and hares. In short, he was homesick.
Sighing, he pulled the quilted cotton coverlet over the sheets, patted ineffectually at the bolster and went downstairs.
Mariette always made good coffee. Werner sat facing her across the table and drank it slowly while he worked out the next move. Mariette’s cotton wrapper had fallen open across her thighs, and when she leant forward Werner caught a glimpse of the v between her breasts. He looked away, hating what he was going to have to do.
When he told Mariette that Fleischer wanted to see her, Mariette did not like it either. The relaxed, almost trusting, expression fled and she threw Werner a look of utter bewilderment. ‘I thought all that had come to an end when the other man left.’ It had been such a relief when Paul had gone and she did not have to tell Werner about the goings on at Belle-Place. Not that Mariette had ever found out anything she thought really interesting. ‘Have you got me into trouble?’
‘Please don’t ask questions,’ Werner said. ‘Just come with me to Ribérac.’
She pushed away her coffee and stood up. ‘What have you done, Werner?’ Her voice rose in pitch.
‘Mariette, I wouldn’t do anything to harm you. How could you think such a thing?’
‘You tell me.’
‘It’s no use, you’ve got to come. Otherwise they will pick you up. Please believe me.’
She could see he was very serious, and after a minute Mariette went upstairs and got dressed. He helped her put on her coat, to which Mariette submitted without a word. Without a word she allowed him to help her onto the motorcycle.
Once she would have enjoyed the thrill of roaring down the road, clinging to the broad back of her lover. It would have been an exciting, giddy diversion. Instead, the cold wind drove ice into her heart where it crystallised into dread.
When they reached the mairie, Werner handed her down, guilty and unable to look her in the face. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ he whispered.
Mariette did not reply. He tried to squeeze her hand but she pulled away, and he was left with the feel of her frozen skin, surprised by how much he minded her contempt.
The écrevisses he had eaten the previous evening had disagreed with Fleischer and the effect had been violent and unpleasant. Consequently he was in a vile temper. Nevertheless, Fleischer could not permit himself to stay in bed; he did not like to think of what might go on behind his back. He sipped at a glass of peppermint tea and wondered if the shellfish had been deliberately doctored and whether he should call the restaurant’s chef in for questioning. The announcement of Mariette’s arrival did nothing to lighten his mood. Another French slut.
When she was ushered in, he did not ask Mariette to sit down but launched straight into his attack. ‘Your children. How old are they? Where is their father?’
Mariette felt so angry with Werner that she forgot to be intimidated by the uniform with the notorious SS flashes. She stared Fleischer straight in the eye and answered his questions without hesitation. ‘Yes,’ he interjected a couple of times. Then he changed tack. ‘What a shame you have no husband to support you.’ He observed with a shudder the darned socks and the goose pimples running up her arm under her cheap coat. Surely Schwarz – in Fleischer’s view a good-looking young man with silky bronze skin and thick bright gold hair – could have done better. Still, at least she was evidently not Jewish.
‘You want to know why you are here,’ Fleischer snapped as his stomach twinged warningly. ‘I will get to the point. I want some intelligence – information, you know – and you appear to be the person to provide me with it.’
The girl’s mouth drew into a sullen pout. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she said quickly.
Fleischer observed her cynically and pushed a packet of cigarettes towards her over the top of the desk. ‘Go on,’ he invited, and watched her light up. ‘You work at the Château Belle-Place. I have reason to think that certain terrorists are using it as their base. I want you to ask a few questions, keep your eyes open for anything unusual going on, that sort of thing. I’m sure you know what I mean. Corporal Schwarz will relay the information to me.’
‘I haven’t been up there for months,’ Mariette said defensively. ‘Since . . .’ she broke off. She was not going to tell this man that she had not been up to Belle-Place since the episode with Guy.
‘You will arrange to return to work there, Madame, and you will report back via your friend, Corporal Schwarz.’
