The Cafe Girl Page 7

  'And so if the war were to end tomorrow, prices normalized, supplies normalized... you would be content to merely be a deputy divisional superintendent?'

  'If such was my lot in life,' Giraud said. But he knew from Levesque's expression that the editor did not believe him.

  Then he castigated himself; Levesque was just an intellectual, and like all intellectuals, prone to living in the abstract. The editor's ideological inclinations were no reflection on how most in the community saw him, and his role.

  When they could not get chocolate or sugar and they had not had any in a month? They did not go to Anton Levesque for a lecture.

  9...

  Giraud had small pockets of business to attend to at the office, but knew that they could wait until the following day. And so he bicycled home to his small three-room apartment to spend his evening with a good book and some wine.

  It was a quiet evening. The apartment was brighter than most inside, lit by several brass oil lamps, a luxury for most people compared to the cost of candlelight but nothing to a man of Giraud's means, and a fine replacement for electricity during the many hours that there was none to be had. He sat on the crimson-and-gold patterned sofa and read Rimbaud's 'A Season in Hell', marveling that he could be so entranced by lyricism and yet have so little understanding of the author's intent. His eyes flitted cross each page as the grandfather clock against the opposite wall of the pale green room ticked solemnly.

  After an hour, he took a short break to pour himself another glass of Bordeaux, and to cut a slice of cheese to eat with some crackers. He sat on the sofa and munched methodically. How was it that Rimbaud was able to to feel such loss in the first place? To be tortured by one's own inabilities was surely worse than even a trip to Hell itself; but to create a mythological damnation for oneself before actually dying was to ascribe value to a life never achieved. And so was Rimbaud's poeticism not merely vanity? Rather than being the tortured plea for a righteous man beset by life, was it not the thinly disguised lament of the vainglorious, the man who could not achieve the status or security he desired?

  He could almost hear the nattering condemnation of his literature teacher, Monsieur Laurent. 'You cannot write from the heart if cynicism chokes your every breath, Giraud,' he would say. 'If all that you see is purpose and never passion -- a mean's to an end, and never the route that takes you there -- you will live a very drab and pointless existence, indeed.'

  A sharp triple knock on the door of his flat broke him from his introspection. He waited a moment, his breath staggered by the sudden tension of the unknown, expecting a demand in German or heavily accented French.

  Instead, it was a woman's voice. 'Hello? Deputy, are you home?' She sounded slightly tired and hoarse.

  Giraud spoke up to be heard through the door. 'One moment, please!' He placed his glass of wine and book on the rosewood end table then went to the door. He placed the chain on first, though it was unlikely anyone would be foolish enough to rob a policeman. Then he opened it a crack. 'Yes?'

  The woman was older, perhaps sixty, with a small, lined face and bulbous pale blue eyes behind black-rimmed spectacles. Her silver hair was unkempt, but her earrings were nice, gold with small pearls. Probably the real thing, Giraud thought, suggesting that -- at one time, at least -- she had social stature. She managed to look elegant despite her undressed hair, with stylish leather heels in a faded red and a wool overcoat that before the war would have cost several weeks' pay.

  'Deputy divisional superintendent Giraud?'

  'Yes?'

  'I am sorry to disturb you, sir, at this time of night...'

  'The curfew will be underway in less than one hour.'

  'Yes... I...'

  'Madame... it is late and my work hours...'

  'Yes, deputy. It is about my husband, Monsieur Bernard Distin.' She had an urgent tone, restrained but definitely there.

  The name was vaguely familiar. 'Yes?'

  'He has disappeared. I believe he was taken by the Na... by the German authorities. I... I have heard that you have certain contacts with them, and it was my hope that you could appeal...'

  Giraud interrupted her. He needed details if he was to understand and help. 'And you believe this because...?'

  'You may have heard about the death of my son Kristof, monsieur; he was shot last week when they arrested his wife Claire for conspiring to conceal her Jewish ancestry. He would not let her wear the star, you see, and so he felt guilty...

  It was more than he needed. 'Yes, yes, I understand. But about your husband...' He did not wish to seem cold, but so many Parisians had lost someone of late that it became a repeating theme: the foible that irritated the Nazis, the defiance that exacerbated it, the guilt of loved ones that arose from the inevitable.

  'My son was shot when he confronted a soldier,' she said. 'My husband hoped to get back her belongings for safe keeping while she is detained, including her jewelry; and so he visited a local commander, the senior group leader in administration, Werner Best. We had some money and influence before the war, you see, and he felt they would allow him to see this man.'

  'And instead, they arrested him, you believe?'

  'Exactly. And now I do not know where they have taken him. I am already mourning my son, deputy divisional superintendent, and have had my daughter-in-law taken from me, with her daughter -- my granddaughter -- my only solace. Now, my husband... it is too much to take.'

  Giraud felt for the woman; she had had more difficulty than most, it was true. But he was unsure of what he could do to help. 'Madame, although I am sure it will be difficult to hear, there is very little that I could offer...'

  'You could speak with him...'

  'Speak with Obergruppenführer Werner Best about a missing man? But, certainly not madam! Like your husband, I might quickly disappear as a result.'

  'I don't...'

  Giraud caught himself. He had been insensitive, after everything this woman had been through. He softened his tone. 'Madame Distin...' he took her hands in his and held them in as comforting a manner as he could manage, 'Madame, I doubt greatly that I can help you, but I will try. However, at least part of this problem arises from attempting to approach Best at all. Despite his rather drab title, you see, he is a high-ranking member of the Gestapo, and, assuming I could command some of his time, any such approach would have to be of a matter of the greatest public urgency...'

  'I see,' she said, downcast. She pulled her hands away.

  'However, as I said, I will inquire through the proper channels and see if I can petition for his release. As I said before, the Nazis do not listen to us on these matters, nor do I expect them to start. That is why you must instruct your remaining family to use the greatest caution and discretion in their dealings...'

  'That should not be difficult, monsieur, as my granddaughter is just a child, and the only person I have left, until my husband and daughter-in-law are returned to me. Please...' Her desperation seemed to be growing, and she began to take off her expensive earrings, '...if it will change your mind about speaking with this Gestapo man, Best...'

  She tried to press them into his hands but Giraud pushed them back at her. 'I cannot, madame, absolutely not. I realize how deeply this must hurt you...'

  'Please, monsieur,' she pleaded, continuing to push the earrings on him, '... they are real pearls and eighteen-carat gold, made by Cartier...'

  'No! Absolutely not!' He pushed them back to her again. 'Madame, what you ask is too much. Now please, I will make what inquiries I can. Go home. There is nothing more you can do right now.'

  'I beg that you will reconsider...'

  'I will not. Please. Go.'

  She half-turned to leave. At the top of the stairs, her frustration was evident, despite her tact. 'I am sorry to have taken up your time, deputy divisional superintendent.'

  Giraud shook his head. 'It's nothing,' he consoled. 'I would like to help you, but...'

  'Your hands are tied. I understand.'


  'To go into a meeting of even the gravest content with a man like Best is to come out smelling of firs...'

  'You allude to the construction of coffins, monsieur,' she said quietly. 'I know the expression because my brother served in the Great War, you see. He described a great deal of death to us in his letters, before his own passing. But from what I understand to have happened in Czechoslovakia, the Nazis don't very much like coffins. They prefer to save money by digging a large pit; then they line up their captives along the edge and dispose of as many at one time as they can. It is ... most efficient.'

  She turned and walked down the stairs. From the landing, Giraud watched her figure descend until her head bobbed out of sight. Then he heard the front door below open and close.

  Surely she saw his position, the difficulty she could cause him, the outright risk, even? And if he were unsuccessful, she might even be taken herself, for the sheer impudence of it all. Was he not then doing her a favor by protecting her, shielding her with realism?

  And, after all, was that not the proper role of a policeman?

  He retreated to the security of his apartment, locking the heavy wooden door behind him. He intended to rediscover his place on the sofa and relax, and to try not to think about the conversation. After Rimbaud, he planned to begin an excellent history of the Legion and try a glass of Harvey's Bristol Cream sherry, smuggled in from England. He had customers to meet early in the morning, before work, and there was no profit to be had in dwelling on the abstractly cruel way the Nazis went about their business. Giraud expected cruelty from bullies; he had been raised in it, marked and scarred by it, sometimes even elevated by it. He knew it was a most human expression, to affirm one's own security by taking it away from another. He no longer appreciated or hated it; he just knew that it was.

  10...

  The American sat behind his desk with the statuette in one hand, staring at it with a mystified expression, his light brown eyebrows creeping north. It was only about eight inches long, a female form, twisting gently around the base of a tree, cast in bronze.

  'What is it?' he asked.

  'It's a statue,' Giraud said, slightly uncertain what Granger had meant by the question.

  'Not what is it physically; I mean, what is it supposed to be?' Granger turned it around several times and considered its shape.

  'It's a woman,' Giraud said, hiding his irritation.

  'I get that too. But what is she... I mean, is she connected to a tree trunk or something?'

  'It's by Edgar Degas, one of our greatest artists. It's incredibly valuable. Some might even say priceless.'

  'Huh.' Granger seemed to weigh the statuette in his hand. 'This little thing? Still, I'm betting the wife'll think it looks great in the den.'

  Giraud winced internally, which came out as a grim, pained smile. The American car plant manager was irritating beyond belief and more than a little boorish, but he could get goods into the country that others could not, which made him a companion by necessity.

  Despite surrender terms that included leaving the nation's masterpieces alone, the Nazis had begun to round up personal collections of paintings and statues, and though many had been smuggled to Switzerland prior to the Germans' arrival, anything left that was not bolted down seemed fair game to them. But that meant hundreds of thousands of items, and that, in turn, meant a bureaucracy would be needed to secure and catalog it all.

  With many seizures being made by either the SD or the local authorities, each station needed someone in charge of ensuring items were turned over or otherwise accounted for. When a policeman north of central Paris found something valuable or seized cash, it was logged and its storage destination chosen by none other than deputy divisional superintendent Damien Giraud.

  His oblivious boss paid little-to-no attention to the goings on under his watch. The Chief Superintendent was a blithering fool much of the time and a Nazi sympathizer from an old right-wing family, without the respect of his charges or the average man on the street. And thus many an item disappeared.

  Funneled to the proper supplier, like Francois, an important artwork could provide a month's worth of real coffee, not chicory substitute. A statuette could land a pair of leather shoes or a carton of cigarettes. Fine jewelry went for a penny on the dollar, compared to its pre-war value, and there was much of it to be found.

  Given to a man like the American, Degas' Seated Woman would likely go unappreciated. But it would keep Granger happy, as he'd wanted a gift for his wife. And Granger had access to cigarettes. Giraud rather suspected he was Francois' source as well.

  'As long as your charming wife is happy, I am happy,' Giraud enthused.

  Granger put the statuette down on his desk. 'I think we can do some business, Damien,' he said. 'You need something you think I can get? You give me a call.'

  'And I may have a few things I can find while you are in our fair country that you cannot.'

  'Well that'd be swell, just swell,' Granger said. 'You just let me know.'

  Giraud smiled. 'I have a list.'

  Each week, Giraud took orders from dozens of desperate customers, sometimes so disconcerted by their life in war-time that they would give a week's wages for a bar of real soap, or a small can of real coffee. And then, over the course of the following week, he would spend a few hours each day fulfilling those requests. He did not need hundreds of customers, merely dozens, because the markups were so severe. He would stop by a secretary's desk at a factory in Aubervilliers and a brown paper box would be left behind; he would pick up a magazine in the office of a dentist's office on Rue Ste. Marthe in the Nineteenth, and return it to that office with an envelope in the center spread; he would stop at the lawn tennis courts in the First and drop of a small bag of tennis balls.

  And at each location, he would briefly pause along the route to pick up an envelope or, in rare and special circumstances, small valise. And whether it was a few pounds of steak, a carton of cigarettes or a bar of Belgian Cote D'Or chocolate, they would pay handsomely. He even had some of the less intellectually gifted officers delivering for him, without realizing what they were carrying.

  Often, he did not even see the items being traded, merely acting as a go-between between two suppliers willing to exchange. When cash or securities were seized, they were deposited in an account at the Comptoir National d'Escompte de Paris, or CNEP, one of the large banks still operating in the city and with branches always close by. At some point, Giraud knew, the Nazis would drain the account. But until then, he was the only person with authority over it, and if a deposit were a few thousand francs short, who would be the wiser?

  And so while his instructions to underlings did help to keep the peace in the rough Paris suburb, in point of fact, Giraud's role at the Saint Denis station was rife with opportunities for self-enrichment.

  It was not by accident. While his colleagues wasted their time before the war socializing and drinking, he was a fastidious student of world politics; he had seen Germany's illicit military growth and, after encountering the fascists in Spain, realized what was probably coming. He planned his career accordingly.

  All of it, he knew, was somewhat distasteful. But there was a war on; and Giraud was damned if he would sit it out in misery, huddling in the dark with an empty belly like some gypsy vagrant.

  It was also exciting. It gave him a sense of purpose beyond the ordinary.

  Eventually, however, he had to return to work. And so after making the rounds to his Saint Denis contacts, he sat in his plain, drab office behind his nearly empty desk, underneath the light without the long-ago requisitioned shade, signing investigative and budgetary requests, and keeping the daily seizure log.

  It was hard to concentrate. He'd been an officer for thirteen years, beginning with the Gendarme Nacional and then the Surete de Saint Denis. The war found the police nationalized as one force, and Giraud promoted, pushed up the ranks at least in part due to politics, and in part because of a supervisory shortage. Initially, his new
role received some attention from higher-ups in Paris and the Germans, and he was careful. He took only the most minor advantages, the most forgivable of gifts and graft: a meal here, a theater ticket there.

  But war changes everything. Few paid attention anymore to the fine details of bureaucracy, the paperwork necessary to make things go missing. Distraction was at its peak and Giraud felt in his element. It was about developing confidence from his employers, an advantageous position. He had decided early in his career that the ability to elevate one's status would always depend more upon relationships than productivity, more upon guile than hard work.

  When the lights went out at nine o'clock, guile was of great value.

  The Franc and prices were revalued to one-twentieth of the Reichs Mark, taking once middle-class families and plunging them into poverty. Black market operations sprung up in every back alley and warehouse. For a man like Giraud, whose authority afforded him some protection, the profit potential was significant.

  For the general public, positive sentiments were much harder to express; the Germans became worse by the day, not better. Three internment camps comprised of tents, shacks and barbed wire had opened in the country. Roundups began: communists, foreigners, intellectuals, Freemasons, Jews; almost anyone who was not from the far-right or of privileged family extraction had learned to fear simply disappearing.

  In turn, those same friends and supporters began to fight back: a German officer assassinated in a crowded metro station, another shot at a sidewalk cafe while singing the "Horst Wessel Song." Vehicles sabotaged, supplies stolen, general strikes by the unions that slowed production, political meetings for dissident groups.