Henri had been working quietly in his office since 7 a.m. It had been his habit since he first took control of the family business some ten years ago to spend his Friday mornings clearing the paperwork that had accrued like sediment on his desk during the week. He would have translated a satisfying proportion of it into notes for his secretary, Mademoiselle Boyer, copies for filing, questions for his lawyers and accountants even before his men began to fill up the workshops which lay to the rear of the offices, and the silence of those first hours was slowly replaced by the ringing of telephones, padding footsteps and the rattle of trolleys in the corridors of the offices. It comforted him, that swelling noise of business being done.
So much of his business involved travel up and down the coast, meetings with other businessmen in hotels, factories, lawyers’ offices, that he clung to this quiet morning every week where any little problems could be thought out and smoothed over, so the wheels of industry could run uninterrupted. He saw no reason to do any differently in wartime, though, it was true, his wife was not free for lunch after his morning’s work as often as she had been before the fall of France.
It was unusual then to hear his secretary tapping at the door while his coffee was still warm and the paperwork unfinished. He called her in.
“Monsieur Fiocca,” she said. Her thin body, normally held ramrod straight, seemed to shake. She clutched the door handle as if for support.
He took off his reading glasses and smiled reassuringly. “What is it, Mademoiselle Boyer?”
“There are… men here.”
He stood up quickly and went to the window, breathing in sharply. Three large black cars had drawn up outside the building. One of the drivers was standing on the pavement, not taking his ease or smoking his cigarette like an ordinary soldier, but with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, staring ahead. Gestapo.
Mademoiselle Boyer was still clinging on to the door. “Monsieur Callan just came and told me. They are already questioning the men on the workshop floor. Others are going through the files in the contract room. What shall I do?”
Henri lifted his eyes from the cars and stared out over the port of Joliette, the steamers and docks, the great hazy blue of the Mediterranean beyond.
“Go back to work, Mademoiselle,” he said. “I’m sure they will get to us eventually.”
He returned to his desk and the young woman retreated, closing the door behind her. Henri finished reading the contract he had been examining and signed both copies, then examined his signature. No one would suspect his hand was shaking. He placed both copies on the pile for Mademoiselle Boyer.
Henri then began to read a request for some slight changes in an order from one of his suppliers to accommodate “unfortunate shortages in the present time.” He could feel the change in the rhythm of the building. A phone was ringing unanswered, the footsteps outside were hurried. The distant clangs and hisses which floated up from the workshop had stuttered. He waited, trying to read but seeing nothing. The door opened again and a tall German man in the gray-green tunic and collar patches of an SS major walked into the room. A captain followed respectfully in his wake. Behind them Henri could see Mademoiselle Boyer, on her feet, her mouth a little “oh” of shock.
Henri got to his feet again. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Boyer,” he said clearly, as if his guests had been properly introduced.
The major glanced over his shoulder, as if seeing the woman for the first time, then looked back at Henri with a smile. “My name is Böhm, Monsieur Fiocca,” he said in excellent French, but did not extend his hand. “This is Captain Heller. We are sorry to burst in on you unannounced.”
“Not at all,” Henri replied with a bow. “Do take a seat, gentlemen. How may I be of assistance to you today?”
Böhm ignored his offer of a seat and wandered over to the window, admiring the same view Henri had just been drinking in.
“No need, Monsieur Fiocca. And I shouldn’t bother sitting down yourself. We have few questions for you. Get your coat. We’d like you to be our guest in Rue Paradis for a little while.”
Henri straightened his back. “Ask any question you have. Talk to my secretary, my bookkeeper, but I am afraid I am too busy to waste my afternoon with you.”
Böhm was still studying the view. “We shall, of course, be talking to both of them. But I’m afraid I must insist you come with me now, Monsieur Fiocca.”
So quickly. How strange when something you’ve been expecting for months happens, and it still feels sudden. But surely his reputation, the reputation of his family still counted for something in Marseille? Henri stood his ground.
“Why come here yourself if you mean to question me at your headquarters? My understanding is that the Gestapo normally send a nameless group of thugs with a warrant card when they want to talk to someone. And normally at night.”
A pointless little flare of defiance. Henri breathed slowly. He would use the law, he would use his money and influence and if it came to it he would use his body to shield his people, and shield Nancy from these men. Major Böhm did not seem to take offense at his question. He finally turned from the window and approached the desk, glancing at the papers before replying with a polite nod.
“Like you, Monsieur Fiocca, I have been at my desk for some time. I needed to stretch my legs.” He was reading one of the letters that Henri had written that morning upside down on the table. “Have you ever studied psychology, Monsieur Fiocca? I did. In Cambridge before the war. I have often thought the skills I learned there, understanding men, their behavior and motivations, could have been of great use in business. I suppose you must have learned those skills too, to enjoy the success you have done even in these trying times. Yes, I think we shall have a great deal to talk about.”
Their eyes met and Henri felt something cold in his blood. He knew in that moment that the law, his money, his influence would not be shield enough.