War and Resistance, page 12
But all the time she was speaking, he was turning things over, as a plan began forming in his mind.
‘I think it’s unlikely they were there to arrest him. Best to wait and see.’ Grandfather had said this more than once. Everyone had been shocked by Sasha’s news when she burst in through the door, and her mother had wanted to rush out at once to see what was happening, but had been persuaded by Grandpapa that would only draw attention. Grandmama, meanwhile, had unexpectedly brought out the big samovar and made tea, and they all sat around discussing what was to be done now with the camera that Sasha hadn’t been able to deliver to her father as planned. It was better not to go to the shop on the promenade where Sasha normally delivered messages, because who knew if it was compromised or not? But leaving it in the apartment also might prove dangerous, especially if, God forbid, the worst came to the worst and Sasha’s father was arrested. Then the apartment would be searched, and if the camera was found with the film in it, then all would be up. No matter whether the papers they’d photographed were of any use or not, they would still indicate that a German official’s documents had been copied. The camera itself might at a pinch be explained – though it was very rare, the fact that a few had been made before the war in Latvia, which the Kozlovs had once visited, might help to explain its presence. But not the film. And taking it out of the camera was impossible without exposing and ruining it, unless you were in a photographer’s darkroom – or had experience of improvising such things, like Louis. Who wasn’t there.
So round and round in circles they talked till Sasha got tired of it. She went to her room, lay on her bed and tried to think of a way around the problem. But doing that only made her feel more worried about her father and what might be happening to him, so instead she got a book from the shelf and began to read. Or rather, to reread, because Michel Strogoff by Jules Verne was one of her favourite books and she’d read it a few times.
Plunged once more into the daring adventures of the young Siberian messenger and his friends as they battled to get past enemy forces in wartime, she felt as though this time she understood even more what Michel and Nadia and Marfa had gone through. Of course, she had nothing like their bravery and the Russian steppes last century were not like the streets of Biarritz today, but like those people in the book, she’d had to use deception and cunning to stay one step ahead of the enemy. They didn’t mind lying if it was in a good cause, or pretending to be someone they weren’t if it helped them accomplish their mission. But on the other hand, neither did the villain, the traitor Ivan Ogareff. Maybe he thought his was a good cause too. But how could he, when he was betraying his country to the invaders? Just like there are people right now right here who are doing just that, Sasha thought. But then, maybe our neighbours think that’s what we’re doing. When we are only pretending, in a good cause! It was all so complicated.
Maybe it was all the stress of the day, but she was suddenly feeling rather tired. She put the book down and closed her eyes. She only intended to doze for a few minutes but woke more than an hour later to the sound of raised voices. One of them was her father’s. He was back. Jumping up, she hurried to the sitting room where she found her parents alone, arguing. They stopped when she came in. ‘Papa!’ Sasha cried. ‘I am so glad ... I thought ... but you are safe?’
‘As you see,’ he said, smiling. ‘They weren’t there for me. They just wanted to know if anyone had come in recently offering to sell certain black market goods. Apparently there’s a new gang around.’
‘But you never deal with those kinds of people,’ Sasha said.
‘Exactly. That’s what I told them. I even suggested they searched the store, and they did.’ He shrugged. ‘They found nothing suspicious of course. And I promised that if somebody does try and sell me something like that, I will be sure to let them know immediately. They told me I was a good citizen and departed satisfied. I didn’t leave till closing time though – just in case.’
‘But would you really tell them?’ Sasha asked.
‘Well, I can’t say I like those black-market gangs. They are enriching themselves off people’s need, and are not to be trusted under any circumstances. Plus it’s French police we’re dealing with, not Germans. On the other hand ...’
‘On the other hand, you’d get a reputation as an informer,’ Marina finished for him, ‘and I think it’s quite enough that the neighbours think we are sucking up to the Germans.’
‘Quite. Now then, Sasha,’ he went on, turning to her, ‘you did a good job today. But it was a big risk. If the boy had seen you ...’
‘But he didn’t,’ Sasha broke in.
Her father frowned at the interruption. ‘You were lucky. Next time, you might not be. He might be Hans’ son, but from what your mother tells me, he was in the Hitler Youth, in Germany. And you know what that means.’
‘She does, Louis,’ Marina said, before Sasha, a little stung, could answer. Her eyes were flashing. ‘Don’t scold her. We had to take the chance. And it worked, that one time. Even if it never works again.’
‘Where’s everyone else?’ Sasha asked, hastily, not wanting an argument to start up again.
‘Your grandparents have gone out with the boys,’ her mother answered. ‘It’s still nice down at the beach and they needed some air.’
‘And the camera?’
‘Let us handle that, darling,’ said her father, much more gently. ‘But we wont be using it again at the Spenglers.’
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
BIARRITZ, 18 JUNE 1941
Two weeks had gone by since Dieter had begun putting his plan in operation, and so far it had yielded strictly nothing. He was sure Sasha had no idea she was being followed, but in any case, she and her family only did ordinary things, nothing he could really regard as suspicious. It had been very hot in the last couple of weeks and the family spent a lot of time in the cool of the indoors, but also went swimming, and shopping, and so on.
Madame Jullian had telephoned to ask after Herr Spengler and had visited once, last week, by herself, bringing an unexpected gift, a small religious icon. She said it came from Russia and was for protection of the sick. Spengler was still suffering from the effects of the massive stroke: he could not speak more than a few slurred words, hadn’t regained the full use of his limbs and had to be helped to do most things. The doctors shook their heads and said there had been serious brain damage, and he might recover, or he might not. So Dieter’s mother had tears in her eyes when she took the icon. ‘You are so thoughtful,’ she said. ‘So kind. We are lucky to have you as friends. Aren’t we, Dieter?’
Dieter had been able to nod and smile, all the time watching Madame Jullian for any sign of unease. But there was none. She seemed just the same as ever, and she certainly made no attempt to go anywhere near the study or pump Dieter’s mother for any information that might be useful for a spy. But she did not say anything about Sasha, or ask Dieter if he wanted to come over to see the twins. Was that unusual, different from before? Perhaps. But it wasn’t much to go on. And it could simply mean that she was being tactful about intruding in a difficult period. He was beginning to feel that maybe he had read far too much in that one glimpse he’d caught, the day of his birthday. But he wasn’t ready to give up yet. If the Jullians were false, then the mask would slip, sooner or later. He just had to wait.
But in the meantime, despite the heat, he spent as much time out of the house as he could, even when he wasn’t on the Jullians’ trail. Though he tried to help his mother where he could, he just had to get away from the sickroom atmosphere that pervaded the apartment.
His stepfather was a pathetic figure, and his mother a tired shadow. And the crisis had revealed all too clearly just how few friendships his stepfather had made. Only a few of his colleagues had done more than briefly enquire after his health, though one of them had kindly brought back Spengler’s things – his briefcase and jacket – from the office. And his boss’ secretary had helped a great deal by finding a nurse for him. This had mixed blessings, for Toinette and the live-in nurse, a steely-eyed Basque woman named Igone Etcheverry, did not get on. Toinette muttered about being ‘ordered around’ by ‘that woman’, while the nurse clearly thought Toinette was incompetent. She hardly deigned to notice Dieter, patronised his mother, and gave the general impression that all of them in the apartment were fairly poor specimens. But she was a highly skilled and competent nurse and Dieter’s mother depended on her. Without Madame Etcheverry, she would never have been able to cope with her husband’s condition, for he was still in much too weak a condition to be sent back to Germany. So Toinette might mutter, but there was nothing she could do. Aside from give notice, of course, and given that jobs were not so easy to come by in times like this, that was unlikely.
Then, one hot bright morning, Dieter was sketching on the cliff tops above the beach known as la Cote des Basques, when he suddenly saw Sasha appear up the road. She didn’t see him because she’d been stopped by a well-dressed, dark-haired man and from the tense way in which she held herself, it did not look like a welcome encounter. Dieter had not intended to follow her today so he’d had no idea where she was. Now he’d seen her, though, he couldn’t help wondering what she was up to. But he would not have done anything about it if the man hadn’t grabbed her arm just as she was trying to walk away.
He didn’t think twice. Hurrying to them he snapped at the man, ‘What are you doing? Leave her alone!’
The man dropped Sasha’s arm in surprise. Now he could see him properly, Dieter realised he was younger than he looked from a distance, maybe twenty or so. But with his slicked-back hair, sharp clothes and hard, bright eyes, he looked like the type of person that it was best to avoid. Dieter shot a glance at Sasha. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
But before she could speak, the man broke in, with a sneer. ‘Well, Sasha, it seems you have interesting new friends now!’
‘Are you all right?’ Dieter repeated, ignoring him.
She nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.’
But she was pale and he could see she wasn’t fine at all. Before he could speak again, however, the man said, ‘Don’t worry. We are old friends.’
‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Dieter growled.
The man’s mouth twisted. ‘Appearances can be deceptive, mein Herr. He laid the emphasis on the German words. ‘Isn’t that right, Sasha?’
‘Yes, Hubert.’ Her voice was as expressionless as her eyes but Dieter could sense the mix of fury and fear in her.
‘I can walk you home,’ he said.
‘That is kind. But there’s no need.’
The man she’d called Hubert had been looking from one to the other with that nasty little smile on his face. Now he said, softly, ‘Well, now, time I was going, anyway. Busy, that’s me! But do give my fondest regards to your parents, Sasha.’
She looked at him with a face like stone, and said nothing. Not seeming in the least put out, he doffed his hat to them and walked away.
‘I wish you hadn’t,’ Sasha burst out, as soon as Hubert was out of earshot. Her stomach was churning. ‘He really is someone we know.’
A bewildered expression crossed Dieter’s face, then it went blank. ‘Then I apologise,’ he said, stiffly, ‘for my mistake and my intrusion.’ He turned to go, but impulsively, she stopped him. ‘Please. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I ... It was just a surprise, seeing him.’
‘It doesn’t sound like a good one.’ He sounded a little mollified.
‘No. It wasn’t. We had no idea he was here.’ She was trying hard to keep her voice steady. The shock of what Hubert had said to her, before Dieter had appeared on the scene, was still spreading through her. She must of course not breathe a word of it to Dieter but she knew she had to expand in some way, so added, ‘He was a neighbour. In Paris. He . caused trouble.’ She knew Dieter was aware they’d lived in Paris before, so it was safe enough to say that.
She thought he’d ask more questions then, but he didn’t. Nodding, he said, ‘Bad neighbours are a curse. Especially when they return.’
‘Exactly,’ she said, and smiled, getting a smile in return. How different he seemed when his face lightened! Actually, she thought, a little confusedly, he is handsome when he smiles. She hadn’t really seen that before. And it had been very kind of him to come to her aid like that. If only he wasn’t one of them, she thought, troubled, perhaps we might really have become friends. But it was impossible. ‘I have to go now,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need. I understand,’ he said, and their eyes met, for a moment.
As she walked away, Sasha could still feel his gaze following her. What a strange person he was, she thought. Such a mix of things! Kind and cold, quiet and impulsive, perceptive and fanatical. You would not know which way he’d react to things. He was unpredictable. And that was interesting but it was also dangerous. In all sorts of ways.
But Dieter wasn’t the problem. Hubert Rousselle was. A big problem. Her heart thumped. What on earth were they going to do? She had just gone out for a walk on the cliff tops to clear her head and work off some serious frustration. In the last two weeks, there had been very little secret activity – at least none she was allowed to be involved with – and because Mama had decided it was best if they did not visit the Spenglers together for a while, there was nothing to be done there either. As usual she had to do her lessons but those were over in no time because she was so far ahead now, much further than if she’d actually been in school. Not so the twins, who were still grumpily doing their sums when she had slipped out of the apartment. She’d walked a long way, even further than the Cote des Basques, before finally turning back and running right into Hubert. She had the strong suspicion he had been following her but then waited at that spot till she turned back. How he’d known where she was, she had no idea and didn’t care to ask. She had not spared one thought for him since they had left Paris and had no notion of what might have happened to him and his mother. But any small sympathy she might have felt for him as a fellow refugee had evaporated immediately when he told her what he wanted.
Dieter tried to return to his sketching, in vain. He couldn’t shake off the notion that something bad had happened to Sasha, or was about to, and that he should try and help her. Yet even if that was true, she had made it quite clear she didn’t want him involved.
She’d said that man was a troublemaking neighbour from Paris, and that was why she’d been unpleasantly surprised to see him. He certainly looked like the kind of fellow you’d not want to mix with. But Dieter was sure there was more to it than that. He’d seen the anger and fear in her eyes. It was clear she hated the man, what was his name, Hubert somebody – but it wasn’t just about something in the past, it was about something here and now. The man had threatened her in some way, or made unwelcome advances, or both. Dieter clenched his fists as a hot emotion surged through him. He should have challenged the man with more than just words. He should have punched him, sent him reeling down the road with a bloody nose. And he shouldn’t just have meekly let Sasha walk away. He should have insisted he come with her, to protect her in case that creature turned up again. What kind of man will I be, Dieter thought, if I just stand by and let bad things happen to someone I care about?
Someone he cared about. The shock of the idea jolted through him. He had not known it till that moment, what he really felt about Sasha. Yes, she was very pretty, he had seen that from the start, but he had always thought that he saw her quite objectively. She was French. She was enemy. She wasn’t to be trusted, especially since he’d seen her come out of the study. And she disliked him. She’d made that quite plain. Even today, when he’d tried to help, she’d made sure he understood it wasn’t his place to act like a friend. Or had she? He wasn’t sure any more. He wasn’t sure of anything. And least of all himself.
But there was no point in imagining that any kind of true relationship between himself and Sasha was possible, even if she did like him. They were on opposite sides. His mother and hers might like to pretend that friendship was possible, each for her own reasons, but they must know inside themselves that it wasn’t based on anything solid, and that any warm human feelings that might exist would blow away at the first challenge. The twins were so young that they just accepted him at present, but that would change soon enough. The longer this war went on, the less likely it was that anything remotely normal was likely to exist between people on the two sides.
I hate it, he thought. I love my country, but I hate this war. It was another shocking thought, but he knew it was true. He hated being here, where lies and pretence about Franco-German friendship masked the reality that should be clear. He hated having to live in constant suspicion of everyone and everything. But that wasn’t even the worse thing. Back in Berlin, when he was with his friends in the Hitler Youth, he had felt he truly belonged. But none of them had bothered to send him even a line. None of them missed him or even cared if he lived or died. He had been forgotten. That shouldn’t matter, because a true warrior would fight on alone even if all his friends were gone. But I’m not a true warrior, Dieter thought, sadly. I’m a boy who spends his time drawing and dreaming. What good am I to the Fatherland? None at all.
He drew himself up. Self-pity was no way to strength. He had to master himself, or he would finish up like his father, wasting his life, running away from everything difficult and with only regrets at the end. But that did not mean he was not like his father, in some ways. That was not a bad thing, or a good thing. It was just what it was.
He should not pretend to himself that he was just like his former friends in the Youth. He shouldn’t pretend to himself that he belonged there, or here, or anywhere. He had to find his own way, hard as it might be. A line from his father’s last letter came to him then, with painful yet exhilarating clarity. He had wished his son a life of true courage and of understanding that there are no easy answers, no matter what anyone tells you. It was something, he wrote, that he hadn’t known, at Dieter’s age. And in that moment, Dieter understood that his father, despite everything, had handed him a precious gift in those words. And he knew it was something he must honour, if he was ever to be the man he wanted to become.
