The French Baker's War, page 11
“Now Venice was a very hospitable posting. They complain about the smells, but...” He shrugs and turns back to them. “I took many snapshots. I met this lovely couple—glass blowers. They welcomed me into their home as a long-lost cousin. I acquired quite the collection of their work.” He pauses for effect. “It’s a shame what happened.”
Egger almost seems genuinely forlorn. But then he brightens again. “Next I hope to visit North Africa. Perhaps England. America even.” He laughs and looks to André to join in. Not a chance. The Nazi’s smile fades to a scowl that hangs limply on his bulbous face. He stamps a foot, and looking down, spots his dirty footprints. “Oh! What have I stepped in now?” Egger scrapes his boots as he carries on talking, seemingly more concerned with that than what he says next. “So, you must be aware of what Herr Doktor Durand was doing last night?”
André watches him scuff the wooden floorboards and fights his revulsion with decreasing success. This German will turn their shop into a feed trough, and he’ll be back to root in it every day.
“Then let me tell you, shall I?” Egger stops scraping and looks up. His right eye narrows. “Your friend was helping a Jewess escape.” He taps a glove against his wrist.
André gives nothing away, but Émilie stiffens and slowly turns to him. Egger raises an eyebrow.
“I find that difficult to believe, Monsieur.” André speaks in a plain tone, although his insides are a tempest. How does the Nazi know? Has Monsieur Durand told him?
Émilie stares at the alley door. André catches a quiver in her lips as though she’s counting the steps. She won’t get far. He can’t remember if the door’s unlocked.
“So he says. So he says.” The German is perplexed, or pretends to be. “But I have my doubts. He was terminated from his teaching position for his politics, ja? And there were—rumours. Sordid rumours I’ve heard. I won’t elaborate on them given there’s a lady present.”
Egger bows to Émilie, but she’s still staring at the door. He gives the top of the display case a solid whack with the palm of his hand as if he’s slapping a friend on the back who’s just shared good news.
Émilie jumps. André’s mouth curls when he sees the man lick his lips like a thirsty mastiff.
All at once, Egger is bright and airy again. “How’s trade, Herr Albert? I imagine ingredients are hard to come by.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll have some delivered first thing.”
“Pardon, Monsieur?”
“No need to thank me. It’s what friends do. I’ll expect an occasional treat, but that’s understandable, ja?”
“No. I mean, yes. But I can’t accept...” André’s voice peters out as he has the sudden urge to slash the man’s throat. Satisfying as this would be, it sickens him such an impulse exists in him. He’s not a violent man. He’s not. He knows a desire like this will suffocate him, but even worse, he doesn’t care if it does.
Egger pulls on the glove and saunters to the door. Just when they’re about to be free of him, he twists back.
“Oh, Madame. I’d like to see your papers, if that doesn’t trouble you. You as well, Monsieur.”
André drives his hands into his pockets, withdraws his identification card, and stomps up to the German. He knows who André is. Doesn’t he have better things to do?
Egger takes the card and examines it. “Fine. Fine. As expected.” He hands it back. He turns to Émilie and taps his foot with mock impatience. “Frau Albert?” He sing-songs the name.
Émilie plunges her hand into her apron, pulls out Mireille’s birth certificate, and holds it out to him. The Nazi eyes it from where he’s standing with a smirk, but doesn’t move. Émilie has to bring it to him. Standing so near to him, his face shiny with sweat, she casts her eyes down.
André’s throat dries to dust.
Egger reads the document out loud, “Mireille Madeleine Pellegrin, at birth.” He hands it back. “An exquisite name. And your identity card?”
“I misplaced it, Monsieur.”
“Misplaced it? In here?” Egger sweeps his head from one side of the room to the other searching for it.
“Or upstairs. I’ll look again if you’d like?” Émilie moves towards the stairs.
“No, no,” Egger says. Émilie stops and remains facing the other way. “But you do appreciate it’s an offense to be without one?” He flagrantly leers at her body, then looks to make sure André saw.
André shakes his head. Disgusting pig. Again, terrible thoughts fill his mind. It feels as if everything awful that’s happened recently has taken the form of this maggot of a man.
“Yes, Monsieur,” Émilie mumbles.
The Nazi ogles her for a moment more, then crisply marches to the door where he glances at them over his shoulder. “Tomorrow morning expect a delivery,” he tells André. Then to Émilie: “And I’ll expect you and your card first thing tomorrow at the gendarmerie.”
At last Egger departs, shutting the door in his wake with a solid thud.
André lurches over and turns the key. He watches Egger get into the motorcar and drive away. He wants to breathe out in relief, but can’t. It’s not the last of that arrogant prick. Next time the German won’t ask for what he wants.
“I have to leave.” Émilie’s voice jangles on the edge of panic. She stumbles to the alley door and opens it. It wasn’t locked after all.
“You can’t now,” André tells her with a brusque, almost vindictive tone. If only it were so easy. “If you don’t show up, he’ll be back. And when he finds you gone...”
What he doesn’t finish saying hangs there, its enormous weight poised to crash down on them.
•
Émilie untangles more of her hair at the armoire as André stands over her watching her in the mirror. She pulls on one large knot with force and doesn’t flinch. It hurts, but she’s determined not to show it. No one will forgive weakness. It’ll be seen as an opportunity.
“Go to a gendarme,” André tells her, “not Egger. Avoid him at all costs. A gendarme might not bother to examine the photo closely.”
“And if he does?”
André’s expression curdles. He can’t bear thinking about it either. Émilie is moved. If there are any gute mentshn left, he might just be one of them.
She works the comb through again, and a clump of hair comes out in her hand. She glances at André to see if he notices. He does. “They didn’t feed us,” she explains, and hides it in her pocket. This remnant of vanity bothers her. How can she think herself so important? What a hollow emotion. It causes a twinge of recollection of when she worked in fashion where being vain was a badge of honour.
André draws the blackout curtain, then joins Frédéric at the table and hangs his head. Émilie watches him in the mirror, careful not to let him catch her. When he moves to hand another biscuit to his son, she turns back to her reflection. Witnessing the smallest affection between them will end her.
She examines the bruise under her eye—it’s barely noticeable now. What questions will it evoke? She runs the comb through her hair to another knot.
André looks over. “There isn’t time. Just keep your head covered.”
Émilie pulls the comb out, as André tenderly brushes biscuit crumbs from his son’s chin. Her stomach heaves like she’s swallowed one of those squalls that come out of nowhere to capsize everything in its path. He has no idea of the possible ramifications.
“Monsieur... Tomorrow... If I don’t come back in an hour, you and— You and the boy should leave.”
TWELVE
Wednesday, October 27, 1943
A military truck noisily idles while German soldiers unload it. Neighbours are at their doors gawping, each face leaching judgement.
André watches with building resentment as one soldier carries in a large bag of flour and drops it on the floor. On the work-table sit blocks of butter and packets of sugar, even some chocolate—more ingredients than he’s seen in a long while. His thirty pieces of silver.
In the past, when there were plenty of supplies, Mireille had countless ideas of what to bake. They hadn’t made a gâteau opéra since André’s parents visited the first Noël after Frédéric was born. For what that was worth. André remembers his nerves feeling scraped along their lengths when his father proclaiming loudly he preferred a simple gâteaux renversés, another one of his rebukes made more stinging since André had just mastered the challenging dessert. Every bite André took of his work tasted more acrid until there was nothing in his mouth but ashes.
Still, maybe it’s time to make another one. This thought delivers an unexpected pang of joy. André pushes it away, preferring the wretched realization each bag and block and packet is a reminder Mireille isn’t here to bake anything, and how much he loathes Egger.
The soldier gives a crisp click of his heels.
André slams the door after him.
•
Émilie walks into the gendarmerie with all the bonhomie of someone mounting stairs to the gallows. She’s wearing Mireille’s coat, another of her dresses, and one of her flowered kerchiefs tied at the neck. It still holds perfume, mild and sweet.
A miserable-looking gendarme is listening to a woman who’s waving her arms wildly. Émilie hopes if there’s a scene, they won’t pay much attention to her.
The walls start crushing her, but Émilie purses her lips and takes a step forward. She spots Egger at a desk in the back, speaking on the telephone. She quickly leaves.
On the street, she wants to run. Momentarily freed from the clouds, the sun beats down on her, and she covers her eyes with a hand. Breathe. Breathe. After a few long moments straining for air, she braces herself, turns, and looks at the police station.
She starts backing away, stops, snatches at the courage she lacks, and somehow manages to grab hold. With a deep gulp like she’s about to wade into frigid water, Émilie goes back in.
The gendarme is alone now—Egger is nowhere in sight. Émilie approaches the policeman so quietly that when she says, “I was told to present my papers,” he jumps. There’s a jagged edge in her voice giving away how nervous she is about the lies she’s about to tell. It’s so pronounced, he must hear it, too.
The man scowls at her and puts out a jaded hand. Émilie digs in her coat pocket and produces Mireille’s identification card, but hesitates before handing it over. The policeman gives her a look, of impatience or suspicion, she isn’t sure. He looks at the card and hands it back. She shoves it into her pocket and turns to leave.
“Remove that,” the gendarme tells her.
Émilie looks back and he’s wagging a finger at her kerchief. She laments her luck—he’s one of those gendarmes who’s maddeningly officious. Like everything they say is in triplicate.
Hauptsturmführer Egger enters the room, and seeing Émilie, gives her a plump smile. “Frau Albert!” He practically skips over as her mind goes blank.
“The kerchief,” the gendarme repeats.
“Oh! You’re here to present your identification. May I see it?” Egger extends a hand.
She stares at his palm for a moment as if it’s wrapped in barbed wire before passing the card over, irrevocably surrendering herself to fate, something she had vowed never to do again without a battle. But here she is, flailing like a beached trout.
Egger examines the card with great drama: he holds it close, reading it carefully, then shoves it out to arm’s length and squints from Émilie to the card and back again.
“I can attest unequivocally that it’s her,” the Nazi announces to the gendarme in a pompous manner that would make all the kings of France blush.
“She should remove the kerchief,” the gendarme persists. “Rules.”
“Now what have we become if we can’t trust an upstanding shopkeeper like Madame Albert?” Egger hands back the identification card to Émilie with a flourish. She pockets it and hurries out.
Trembling, Émilie walks briskly along the street, trying to distance herself from that revolting man fast as her feet will allow. Instead of celebrating another escape, she bites her lip to scold herself for having to submit to a despicable lump like Egger. She feels blood draining from every artery, every vein. Just as she thinks she’s rising from her knees, she finds herself prostrate in the dirt.
She calms down enough to smell the moist, earthy air of the coming rain, when behind her a voice with a German accent calls, “Frau Albert!”
Émilie pretends she doesn’t hear it. She imagines herself a mare with blinkers and stays on her path back to the pâtisserie.
Footsteps overtake her and the voice says, “Mireille!”
Émilie half-turns to see Egger with a whisper of a smile on his pasty face. He impales her with his deep-set green eyes. “Now you’re in compliance with the law.” His jaw protrudes with moral superiority.
She knows he wants her to say something, most likely for her to lavish him with gratitude. For what? Enforcing their tyrannical laws? All Émilie can manage is a thin smile as she moves to leave. It’s imperative she keeps walking.
“But a word...” The German raises his hand. He keeps it there for seconds longer than natural, as if commanding silence, before letting it drift down like a leaf.
Émilie opens her mouth to tell him she has to go, she’s late getting back for Frédéric, but Egger manoeuvres in front of her, uncomfortably close. A familiar dankness reaches her—as offensive and aggressive as them. She once thought it was their uniforms, but unfortunately learned that even when they’re out of them, the stink clings to their skin like a curse. She squirms and swallows her disgust.
“A woman such as you could make a man quite happy.” Egger’s tone is awash with insinuation. “Especially someone without friends, family, companionship, so far from the Fatherland.” He attempts an ingratiating smile that more resembles a snarl. He steps closer and asks, low and gravely, his rank breath all over her ear, “May I call you Mireille?”
Émilie becomes rigid and she tastes rust. The glint in the Nazi’s eyes is both lewd and condemning and only reminds her to some men she’s ugly.
“Monsieur?” She throws up her hands to ward him off. She can hear his breathing rumbling like an overworked furnace.
Egger should be insulted, but he’s distracted by her bandages. He takes Émilie’s hand in his before she can object. His touch is clammy, sticky as the grease used on her sewing machine at the atelier. Sticky as blood.
“Oh, dear! What have you done? Too often the world is unkind, ja?” Egger lifts her hand to his face as though trying to see it better. “Much too unkind. And surprisingly so to some of us more than others, even someone as captivating as—”
“Émilie!” Monsieur Durand shuffles towards them, looking exhausted and disheveled, although still holding his head upright.
Just in time.
She pulls her hand away from Egger and resists the urge to wipe it on her coat. When Monsieur Durand reaches them, she hugs him. There’s the sour odour on him of the sweat only fear can produce.
The bookseller glares at the Nazi while telling her, “They’ve released me.”
Egger gives out a laugh, jarringly good-humoured. “It seems we may have a case of mistaken identity.”
“I must take my friend home.” Émilie links arms with Monsieur Durand, and they turn away and continue down the street. The shiver she’s been repressing surfaces. If she begins to shake again, she’ll be knocked to the ground.
The German doesn’t hide his displeasure at Émilie’s abrupt departure.
The old man walks with effort; he leans heavily against her so as not to fall. It takes all her strength to keep from toppling over with him. She looks down. Monsieur Durand’s shoes and the hems of his trousers are bloody. She could ask what they’ve done to him, but she has a good idea.
From up the street, André limps towards them carrying Frédéric. Émilie’s lips part, pleased to see him. André spots the Nazi behind her, and his mouth squeezes shut.
The baker makes a point of kissing Émilie on the cheek, much to her surprise, though she does her best not to let it show. It’s part of the charade. He’s only doing what a husband would do when greeting his wife.
Still, she looks away as her face warms.
They head home. André puts Frédéric down, and the boy runs up ahead. André and Émilie walk on, supporting Monsieur Durand, knowing the German is still watching them.
Egger’s biding his time. If she turns around, his expression will be openly mocking her for thinking they’ve got away with deceiving him.
By force of will, she keeps her steps even and her eyes focused straight ahead.
“He said my name,” she tells André. She’s trembling again.
She turns to the bewildered old bookseller.
“You called me ‘Émilie.’”
THIRTEEN
Thursday, October 28, 1943
A nun in her flowing habit, beaming like a celestial revelation, floats out from the pâtisserie carrying a box stuffed with milles feuilles. The plaintive sound of Josephine Baker gently flows onto the street, and passersby slow their pace to take in the luscious, rich smells wafting out with the music. It’s been too long since such scents have filled the shop.
The shelves of the display case overflow with brightly coloured treats, sugar wonders in an assortment of shapes and sizes. One gâteau after another jostles for space on the bottom shelf. Straining the middle shelf are plates of petits fours, straight lines of macarons, and a varied collection of other pastries and biscuits. In its place of honour on the top shelf, an impressive gâteau opéra reigns. André succumbed to impulse this morning and made it, although when he was finished his throat filled with longing.
He serves two indecisive girls who giggle at him, probably thinking this makes them coquettish when he only finds such tactics grating. A woman waiting impatiently behind them rolls her eyes. André forces a smile and asks them for their selection.
Madame Monchamp breezes in, her heavy, fox collar coat especially unnecessary this unseasonably warm day. She pushes past the other customers to inspect the contents of the display case. Her eyes widen, then narrow.
