Butcher and Bolt Page 11

  After the German had left, Bernard turned on Hortense.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing getting me involved in this?’ he hissed.

  ‘Giving you a chance to make a lot of money, what else?’ said Hortense, ‘I know what you’ve been up to since you stopped painting me, why else do you think I brought this man to you? And by the way,’ she said, taking a sip of cheap Sancerre, ‘I expect fifty per cent of what you make.’

  ‘Fifty per cent?’ spluttered Bernard, ‘for what? I’ll be the one taking all the risks!’

  ‘For giving you the prime contact in Paris,’ said Hortense. ‘Now stop foaming at the mouth and listen. I know you can’t provide all these things, but I know someone who has the things that you don’t, and I can get them for you.’

  ‘Who? How do you know them?’ said Bernard.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Hortense, looking around the café, ‘the less you know the better. Suffice it to say it’s someone I met at the club you sent me to. Sophie Legrande as good as sold me to him. He’s a well-connected man, but he’s not going to dirty his hands actually handing goods over to the Germans. He needs someone who can provide fresh produce to round out his offer, someone who can arrange delivery and hand over the money.’

  ‘Suppose I agree, what’s in it for me?’ asked Bernard.

  ‘He’s prepared to pay you thirty per cent of the prices on that list for the goods he provides, and seventy per cent for the goods you provide.’

  ‘So I lose thirty per cent on my own goods?’ said Bernard throwing up his hands, ‘what sort of deal is that?’

  ‘A good one. Listen Bernard,’ she said, grasping his arm and leaning in close, ‘the Germans aren’t going anywhere fast, they’ll be here for years, possibly forever. Do you want to be a penniless artist for the duration of the occupation, however long that might be? You have to make a choice and this is your only chance to make yourself a comfortable living. Once you prove that you’re a reliable supplier, both the Germans and my contact will rely on you, you’ll be an important man. And besides, I’ve gone out on a limb for you here, it won’t go well for either of us if you refuse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Bernard looking at her in sudden fear.

  ‘This man we’re doing business with is a sophisticated criminal,’ said Hortense. ‘He’s been running a gang for years on the Right Bank, selling opium, running prostitutes, blackmailing people, extorting money, the lot. I thought you knew that when you took me to that club.’

  ‘I thought you could make some money dancing is all,’ Bernard protested, ‘I had no idea it was a front for a gang.’

  ‘Sometimes Bernard, you are dangerously naive,’ said Hortense, lighting a Gauloise, ‘something we’re going to have to shake out of you fast if you’re going to survive in this town. Now, can you get the farm goods here by Friday?”

  ‘Yes of course,’ Bernard dismissed the question, ‘but what about all these other things on the list? Caviar for God’s sake!’

  ‘Leave those to me,’ she replied, ‘I’ll bring them on Thursday night an hour before curfew. Make sure you’re here.’

  She got up and walked out of the café, attracting admiring glances from the men at the tables outside. Bernard nervously scanned the list, his trembling hand making the German’s handwriting blur.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Aah, Paris!’ said Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter as he strode through the Tuileries. The leaves above him were showing the faintest hints of autumn, but beneath them the shadows were delightfully cool and green on an unseasonably hot day.

  ‘Ja, it is unquestionably a spectacular city,’ said the man beside him whose shoulder tabs carried the four pips of an Obersturmbannfuhrer, ‘and now it is ours Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter, to do with as we please.’

  ‘How long do you think I will be here, Obersturmbannfuhrer Schneider?’ said Richter.

  ‘At least a month I would say. Your men need a rest, and the Fuhrer has not yet given up on Operation Sealowe, although from what I hear it won’t be long until he does: the Luftwaffe is taking a beating from the RAF and is nowhere close to gaining air superiority; as for the Kriegsmarine, they couldn’t hope to beat the British fleet on their own. I fear that taking the English out of the war is going to prove more difficult than we thought.’

  ‘That is rather defeatist talk is it not Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer?’ said Richter, admiring an elegant Frenchwoman passing by.

  ‘Ach, Richter! We’ve seen enough of this war together already to know reality from fantasy. Last week I was taken on a tour of the Channel ports, and sure enough, there are many boats being collected to ferry the army across, but what did I see every day as we drove from one port to the next? Squadron after squadron of bombers returning from England, with engines on fire, riddled with bullet holes, some barely flying. One morning we saw a flight of twenty-four Heinkels take off and cross the Channel. An hour later while we were having lunch we saw them come back: I counted thirteen planes. That’s not a sustainable loss rate, no matter how many airfields they succeed in bombing.’

  ‘Indeed Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, but surely der Fuhrer has a plan?’ said Richter indignantly.

  ‘No doubt, but as usual it all depends on the weather. Once we reach October it will be impossible. Half the boats I saw were barges, hopelessly unsuitable for anything but a canal or a millpond, they wouldn’t last ten minutes in the Channel. Nein, I think we would need at least six months to prepare properly. Enjoy your stay in Paris Hauptsturmfuhrer, I doubt you’ll be seeing London anytime soon.’

  ‘Where do you think we will go next if not England?’ said Richter, who had every intention of enjoying his stay in the French capital and had already planned his entertainment for this evening.

  ‘Where else but Russia?’ said Schneider, ‘the Fuhrer made that plain enough in Mein Kampf after all. I think he was shocked that the British honoured their treaty with the Poles. He was hoping they would join us in some sort of anti-Communist crusade; now he is stuck with them in his rear when he invades Russia. At least the Americans are staying out of it.’

  ‘So Russia then, in the summer of 1941. That gives us seven or eight months without active service,’ said Richter.

  ‘As I recall, your company was left up north to refit because you took such heavy casualties in Belgium,’ said Schneider, ‘while the rest of the Totenkopf division went right through France and is still down near the Spanish border. They’ll probably stay there until next year, but we’ve found something here to keep you employed during the next few months, fear not.’

  He paused to admire the architecture of a particularly fine Napoleonic era building.

  ‘Yes, there are Jews all over this city to be rooted out, and your company has been chosen for this duty before you return to your training school. Most of your men came from concentration camp garrisons did they not? They have the ideal credentials for the task.’

  ‘Ja Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, my veterans are mostly from the Oberbayern Standarten of the Dachau camp,’ said Richter, ‘but the replacements we are receiving have never been exposed to that kind of work, they may find it difficult.’

  ‘Ach, it will toughen them up Richter,’ said Schneider, ‘a lot easier to kill people when they’re not shooting back at you eh? Then by the time they take on the Bolsheviks they won’t think twice about shooting commissars in the back of the head. Remember what the Fuhrer said, “Bolshevism is just the Jews trying achieve world domination”. Your men will understand why they need to obey your orders if you explain this to them.’

  ‘Sehr gut Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, of course you are right,’ said Richter, ‘personally I would sooner spare a cockroach than a Jew, I shall see to it that the new recruits are suitably inducted when they arrive here from Calais.’

  ‘Have you arranged their billets yet?’ asked Schneider.

  ‘Well Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer, I was thinking of simply commandeering one of
the smaller hotels,’ said Richter, ‘it is only a company of men after all, and as we’re receiving replacements I’d sooner keep them all in the same place rather than distributing them among houses.’

  ‘Ja, sensible. Ask my adjutant to suggest somewhere suitable. It does not pay to be too far from the centre of the city, two enlisted men were murdered in the red light district in the last month. The Gestapo believe they were simply robbed by criminals, as you know there are many gangs in that area. They haven’t found any evidence of any organised resistance behind the killings, even so, if it continues we shall have to arrange some reprisals.’

  ‘You can count on me for that sir,’ replied Richter enthusiastically as they walked out of the last of the trees and into the sun of the Avenue de l’Opera, ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Schneider threw a casual salute and turned left towards the Rue de Rivoli. Richter turned right and crossed over the Pont du Carrousel. Once he left the river, the distinctive Parisian buildings with their iron roofs and garret windows clustered in around him. A momentary shiver ran up his spine as he thought about the two men murdered in the Pigalle, but that was at night in a rough part of town, here he was in daylight and there was a German patrol on the next street corner. He was in no danger, after all, he was the conqueror, and the Parisians fell silent and avoided his eye as they passed him.

  His black market contact had promised him a bottle of Pommery, a box of Belgian chocolates and a black lace corset complete with a pair of fine silk stockings. The dancer at the officer’s nightclub he had his eye on would certainly fall to his charms tonight when he presented her with these gifts, along with the kilogram of fresh pork he’d requested. He wondered for a moment whether she’d be more interested in the champagne or the pork, but then dismissed this thought as he realised that he didn’t care either way as long as she was prepared to put on the corset and do her best in his bed. The black marketeer was not what he’d expected. Far from being the expected criminal type he was a highly-educated artist with connections to what had been Parisian high society.

  The occupation had clearly levelled things out, thought Richter. No doubt having to rely on shopkeepers was causing a lot of embarrassment for the upper classes. He smirked quietly to himself at the thought of haughty aristocrats having to beg for a piece of meat like everyone else. They had failed to defend their way of life, and the price of failure was high.

  ~ ~ ~

  In his studio on the Rue de Saints-Peres, Bernard Thiebaud wrapped the bloody pork steaks in a canvas bag soaked in vinegar, and placed it in a box with the other items the German had requested. Hortense was going to have the pressure applied tonight, he thought to himself, but he guessed that was better than being raped at gunpoint. Before he closed the door to his storeroom, he checked that the pistol he’d acquired from his brother was loaded.

  He had no illusions about the danger of what he was doing. After taking on the supply of the governor’s man, another SS officer, “Hauptsturmfuhrer something or other” had come to visit him in his studio, requesting what Bernard loosely termed ‘sex goods’. The man was willing to pay top prices for them, unfortunately, they were mostly things Bernard couldn’t get himself. He was adding items to the list he gave to Hortense every Sunday at church, selling them on to this officer at inflated prices and keeping the profit for himself. Hortense and her source got paid the list price for everything he sold, and no-one was ripped off. At least that’s what he told himself as he counted the franc notes and military scrip mounting up in the safe in his storeroom.

  The first time the SS man had come, Bernard had thought it was all up. The man at the door in his black uniform with the death’s head insignia had the sort of stare that seemed to look right through you as if you weren’t there. Pale blue eyes with no expression; it was as if Bernard were some sort of inconsequential animal or insect, and it was beneath this man to have to speak to him.

  Nevertheless, he had some specific requests and Bernard had been able to meet them. Now he had come twice, both visits at the same time of day. Bernard knew this was risky: if the German decided to betray him to the police he would be in prison for years; if the gang found out he was peddling their goods without paying them a cut they would break his elbows and kneecaps with sledgehammers. God only knew what Hortense would do. Since she’d been working for this gangster fellow who owned the club she’d started smoking opium, and when she was deprived of her supply she could be extremely unpredictable and violent.

  What had started out as a simple money-making venture selling his brother’s farm goods had, in the space of just a few weeks, swollen uncontrollably into a monster.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Joe followed the German officer across the platform to the ticket office.

  ‘You see here mein herr,’ said the lieutenant, pointing at a page in Joe’s travel permit documents, ‘you don’t have the required stamp from the Burgomeister allowing you to leave the Northern department. This stamp was only introduced last week, but I see from this other stamp that your permit was issued before then, ja?’

  Don’t look at the damned thing too closely, thought Joe, as his pounding heart calmed itself slightly and his nerves untwined a fraction.

  ‘Oui, I understand. Can I still catch the train?’ Joe said, remembering to speak French just as he opened his mouth, and trying to control his wavering voice.

  ‘Normally no,’ the officer replied, ‘but as it is only a recent regulation and your wife is pregnant. I will make an exception and ask my adjutant to counter-sign it. Here he is now, Gunther! Kommen sie hier!’

  A small bespectacled German corporal with a clipboard took Joe’s permit, scrawled something in it with a pen and handed it back.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Joe approaching the train again as the five-man squad climbed down from one carriage and up into the next.

  ‘Oh a prisoner has escaped from Calais gaol,’ said the lieutenant, ‘he’s a British soldier, so he won’t get far, this search is just a precaution. Guten tag.’

  ‘Merci,’ said Joe, taking his permit and climbing into the carriage, incredulous at the difference between one German and the next.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Joe as he sat down beside Yvette and wiped his brow. She clasped his hand firmly and kissed him on the cheek as if nothing had happened and they were just a happily married couple.

  A few nervous minutes later the whistle blew and the carriage jolted into motion. By the time the sweat was cooling on Joe’s forehead and his hands had stopped shaking, the train had cleared the edge of the town and was speeding up as it headed across the first fields.

  ‘Bon,’ said Yvette, ‘now for Paris.’

  ~ ~ ~

  Before being posted to Calais, Hagan Schmidt had spent the months since the French surrender in the basement of Number 76 Tirpitzufer in Berlin re-training in counter-espionage. As an agent of Section Two of the Abwehr, he was expected to carry out any kind of penetration, sabotage or assassination mission handed to him, but after reviewing his case his superiors had concluded that the loss of his right eye and his limp made him too conspicuous to survive as an undercover agent. They agreed that his obvious talents and predilection for what they euphemistically referred to as ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ instead made him a natural choice as a man who could extract whatever information was needed out of captured spies and members of the French resistance. Normally this would be the preserve of the GeheimStaatzPolizei, or Gestapo as they were known, but the rivalry between the Nazi organisations was fierce and Schmidt’s superiors had no intention of letting him go. At the end of his training, Oberst Huber summoned him to his office.

  ‘We have what you might call a practice assignment for you Hagan,’ said Huber, ‘something I think you will enjoy. You are going to Paris and your mission has three aspects. First, you will be posing as a new recruit to the Gestapo. We need a man on the inside of that organisation to keep tabs on what they are up to, and you have
been chosen. Congratulations. Second, you are to devote a few weeks to interrogating Jews who have turned themselves in. No doubt there will be many in hiding, and we must find them all, but there will be no shortage of their compatriots willing to inform on them if you offer the right persuasions. May I make a small aside here Hagan to note that sometimes, especially in a period of tight rationing, that a small gratuity in the form of food is often more effective than threats?’

  Hagan grunted and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The prospect of posing as Gestapo agent and grubby-ing his hands with Jewish informants made him uneasy at best.

  ‘I understand that this is not your ideal line of work Hagan, ‘ said Gruber soothingly, ‘but once you have a network of subordinated Jews reporting to you in the mistaken belief that they are protected from deportation, you will have the whole city at your feet. These people know everyone and everything at all levels of society. It is an excellent place to start.’

  ‘Ja Herr Oberst,’ replied Schmidt disdainfully, barely able to conceal his contempt for this plan.

  ‘Patience Hagan, patience. We have plenty of time. Now, once you have your network in operation you can start the third part of your mission, which is to identify and round up any French fools who believe they can resist us. There will no doubt be criminal gangs you can employ to help you do this, as they will be serving only their self-interest and so will be easily bought with money and favours. They will seek only to continue their petty black-market operations, and you can use them cheaply. There is one man in particular we are aware of who fashions himself as l‘Hydre, presumably because he believes he has an eye on everything. In fact he is a small-time hood, but he has taken advantage of the war to eliminate most of his rivals, so from our perspective he is the best prospect.’

  ‘Prospect, mein herr?’ asked Schmidt, beginning to show some interest.