IN THE COMING WEEKS, Pankratov and I set about enlarging our repertoire.
I quickly learned that I couldn’t just choose any painting and begin making works in that style. Many more artists lay beyond my reach than lay within it. I attempted paintings in the manner of Correggio and Hals, but never succeeded in making a passable copy. There was no set scale of technical difficulty from one artist to another. It was more a question of matching my own skills against the particular specialties of the painter whose style I wanted to copy. Because of this, I never even tried the styles of Rubens, Titian, Rembrandt or Boucher.
These days, I knew exactly what I was doing when I went out to Rocco’s, and a number of other places, to buy up more supplies. When I chose the subject matter, I did so with an eye to what might please the buyer, rather than what would challenge me most in the drawing.
For our first large sale to Abetz, we made two drawings. One was a brown ink drawing of a Greek warrior holding a spear and shield, which we attributed to Giovanni Barbieri and which we dated around 1660. We also made a Tiepolo of a centaur cuddling up to a half goat/half woman, which Fleury informed us was called a Satyress. It was done in brown ink and gray wash over black chalk. We signed this one, using the correct signature for Tiepolo at the time—dom. Tiepolo f.
Pankratov aged these by watering down the ink before I used it. This gave the sketches a faded look even as I drew them. He put wear on the edges by laying the ends on a table and scraping them with a blunted straight-edge razor. After this, he used the fluffy white insides of a baguette to rub down the paper on which the sketches had been made. This blurred the lines without smearing them too much. It also laid down the nap of the paper slightly, giving it the look of an older drawing that had been handled many times.
Pankratov wanted to make the drawings look as if they had been stolen from somebody’s collection, so he glued the sketches carefully into the blank pages of an old album. Then he cut out the pages with a penknife. Finally, he put his hand inside a wool sock and rubbed down the picture and the borders of the page.
He finished up by sandwiching the pages between sheets of damp and rotten paper and leaving them for a couple of days. This gave the sketches the right musty smell and faintly blotchy look of having been kept in a damp place. If the sketches had been stolen, he explained, it was more than likely that the thieves would have mishandled them.
The only painting we offered Abetz was of three musicians sitting around a table. It was a muted canvas, with creamy browns and washed-out blues for the musicians’ clothing and an unhealthy pallor in their faces. We deliberately mistook the painter as a man named J. Lopez-Rey, who was a student of Velázquez. We hoped that Abetz would recognize this as a variant of a known Velázquez, not something done by a student, and would believe that the work was done by Velázquez himself, making it worth thirty times what we were asking. One of the devices we used was to work in several pale green–brown stripes in the top left-hand corner of the canvas, which was otherwise blank, dark-painted space. Velázquez used to clean his brushes on the canvas while he worked. He would then paint on top of the marks but, over time, the smudges of his dirty brushmarks had come through. This was one of the accidental personal touches that earmarked a Velázquez.
When Pankratov decided the paint was dry, he removed the canvas from its stretcher, drawing each nail carefully from its hole and setting them on a clean white sheet of paper in the exact order that he had withdrawn them. He laid the canvas out on his worktable and slowly rolled it up. Then he unrolled it and rolled it up again. He rolled it in different directions and by the time he was done, the painting had across it a fine web of cracking, which we called a craquelure.
When we were ready, we called up Abetz and told him what we had.
He made an appointment that same day.
Fleury and I waited for him at Pankratov’s atelier. Pankratov stayed away, as he had done the time before.
Abetz brought with him several canvases for trade, but he kept them wrapped. He said he didn’t want to show us what they were until he knew we had something to trade. He paced back and forth in front of the works, pale hands knotted behind his black coat. He put his glasses on and then took them off again.
While I sat on the stage, Fleury and Abetz conferred in hushed voices. Fleury let Abetz do the talking. Abetz couldn’t help giving a lecture on the artists and their painting techniques. Even though Fleury knew all this, he followed Abetz around, mumbling in theatrical amazement. The more amazed Fleury pretended to be, the more confident Abetz became, raising his voice so that I could partake of his knowledge. In the course of Abetz’s speech, Fleury learned that the man had spent time at Oxford University. As soon as Abetz paused for breath, Fleury let slip that he had also been to Oxford. What he didn’t say, but told me later, was that he had only been there for two days while touring England with his parents years ago. Abetz jumped to the conclusion that Fleury had studied at the university and Fleury said nothing to dissuade him of this. Abetz became very nostalgic as he reminisced about his evenings at a place called the Turf Tavern and tea at the Randolph Hotel.
In the end, Abetz didn’t question any of our works. “I’ll take them all,” he said. He removed the wrappings from the paintings he had brought, revealing a study by Ingres for the figure of Stratonice, an oil on canvas by Manet of a woman in a blue dress sitting in a rocking chair, another pastel, this one by Millet, of a man sowing grain in a field, and a Degas pastel of a ballerina in a white dress doing a kick step, which Abetz called a pas battu.
While Fleury inspected the work that Abetz had brought, Abetz sat down beside me on the stage. He smoked a small cigar through a black holder. From his pocket, he took a small silver dish which he balanced on his knee and used as an ashtray.
“I hear you didn’t like my arrangement,” said Abetz.
I knew he was talking about what had happened to Fleury. “I think this way will work out better for everyone,” I told him.
He jerked his chin at the work we had for sale. “You’ve been doing well for yourselves.”
“There are a few things out there,” I said, “if you know where to find them.”
Abetz nodded. “I’m sure there are many families who have fallen on hard times.”
“Times are hard for all of us,” I said.
Abetz gave a quiet laugh at this. “Really,” he said. “I expect that there are some families who have even gone into hiding.”
“I expect so,” I replied, not really knowing what he meant.
“And I’d imagine they’d do anything to stay in hiding, including parting with their works of art.” He tapped ash from his cigarette. “Just postulating.”
Abetz got up and walked over to Fleury. He left his silver dish beside me, as if daring me to steal it. In the course of an hour of bargaining, Fleury managed to acquire everything Abetz brought. After he had left, Fleury sat down beside me and lit himself a cigarette. “What are you looking so gloomy about?” he asked.
“Why haven’t we been caught yet?” I asked him. “We may be good, but it’s just as Pankratov said. There’s no such thing as perfection.”
Fleury sipped at the smoke, then breathed it out through his nose in two gray streams. “For a start, Abetz isn’t as much of an expert as he thinks he is. And secondly, from what I’ve seen, he’s in too much of a hurry to check the work as thoroughly as he could. Almost everything he gets from France is immediately crated up, sent back to Germany and put in warehouses. He doesn’t have time to do X-rays and so on.”
“I hate having to let Abetz think we strong-arm our stuff off Jewish families. It’s bad enough that people at the Dimitri think we’re collaborators.”
“Let Abetz think whatever he wants,” said Fleury. “The worst thing would be for him not to know, or not to think he knows, where our material comes from.”
I sat back and sighed. “I was hoping we could avoid being total sons of bitches.”
“Safest thing to be,” he told me.
That evening, the paintings from Abetz were handed over to Madame Pontier.
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, ON a brilliant early summer day, Dietrich’s limousine rumbled up to the curb outside our apartment building.
I had been sorting through some old art catalogues, trying to figure out what pieces to do next. I knew the car just from the sound of the engine and I went over to the open window and looked down. I thought—Here comes the competition. I had guessed correctly that Abetz wouldn’t be able to keep from bragging about his latest acquisitions.
It wasn’t Dietrich who showed up at the door, just his driver, Grimm, whom Dietrich had acquired after firing a series of French chauffeurs. Grimm was a tall man, with a big jaw and a sleepy expression. He wore the black uniform of an Allgemeine SS man. “Mr. Dietrich would like to see you,” he said, uncomfortable and stiff-backed as he stood in the doorway.
“Where?” I asked.
“Mr. Dietrich would like to keep it a surprise,” said Grimm. His feet in heavy hobnailed boots stirred nervously on the bare wood floor, as if he were standing on a sheet of glass.
On the way downstairs we picked up Fleury, who appeared, as usual, in his red smoking jacket. “Is this another black tie party for me to show off my threadbare tuxedo?” he asked.
“No,” said Grimm. “No, sir.” The sight of Fleury’s garish clothes appeared to unsettle Grimm. He straightened the already straight cap on his head. He seemed determined to deny himself any of the minute deviations from regulation dress by which a soldier can claim his individuality.
Dietrich wasn’t in the limousine. Instinctively, I slouched down on the smooth leather seats, since the car drew as many stares as Tombeau’s ridiculous scooter. When I realized we were heading out of the city, I leaned forward and asked Grimm, “Are you stopping for Pankratov?”
“Only you, sir, and Monsieur Fleury,” said Grimm. He held up a piece of paper, on which his orders had been typed. Dietrich’s signature was at the bottom, the letters jagged like a scribble of a mountain range.
Grimm brought us to the warehouse of the Schneider Transport Company. The place had high brick walls around it and a large iron gate at the front.
Dietrich was there to meet us. He was standing outside the main office building, a small wooden structure dwarfed by the huge warehouse that rose up behind it. Dietrich was wearing a long brown leather coat. It was raining, and he stood outside without an umbrella. Droplets beaded down the length of his coat. He flashed us a confident smile. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” he said. The rain plipped on his leathered back. He turned to Fleury. “I trust you have recovered from your ordeal.”
“Yes,” said Fleury. “I am quite fine.”
“Well, you know who to blame for your discomfort,” Dietrich told him.
“Yes,” said Fleury. “I do.”
“And I trust you know who to thank for your release.”
“I know,” replied Fleury, “and I am grateful.”
“Indeed,” said Dietrich. He motioned for us to follow him and strode toward the warehouse, whose large doors were open. A stony-faced man in a dark three-piece suit was waiting there, hands folded in front of his waist and a signet ring baubled on his pinky.
We reached the entrance to the warehouse. Inside, it was cool. The summer heat hadn’t yet forced itself through the brick walls and arching roof.
“This is Monsieur Touchard.” Dietrich nodded to the slope-shouldered man in the suit. “He is the French art appraiser for the ERR. Let’s have the lights on, Touchard.”
Touchard obeyed without a word. There was a series of clunks as he hit the switches and the lights came on, one row after another.
The place was even bigger than I had imagined. Every foot of it apart from a walkway down the middle was crowded with antiques. There were statues of all types. Hands rose in the air, some holding bunches of grapes, others reaching their pale marble fingers toward bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling. I saw furniture—tables and chairs with plush red seats and cabinets with impossibly ornate carvings coiled like snakes around the legs. There were shelves of crystal, books, mirrors, candlesticks, cigar boxes and splintery wood crates which had been nailed shut and had large red crosses painted on the sides.
Dietrich held up his hands, like the ringmaster of a circus. “We used to have a little storage space in a garage on the Rue Richelieu. But that became a little too small for our collection.”
I heard Touchard snuffle out a laugh behind me.
Fleury and I said nothing. The scale of it, the rows and rows and the vastness of creativity and wealth crammed into this warehouse defied any possible comment.
It made Dietrich happy to see our amazement. He swaggered over to a table and picked up a heavy silver candlestick. “I am inviting you along on a shopping trip,” he said. “You see, these things belong to various French people. They have been confiscated, but they are still technically under the protection of the French government. The German government has established an organization called the Kunstschutz. It means the Art Protection Agency. It’s run by Count Franz Wolff-Metternich. He makes sure that all of these treasures don’t simply disappear in acts of looting. However, if the French government should opt to sell them, in the best interests of their owners, it is our duty to make sure that a fair price has been paid and that the necessary paperwork has been filled out.” He flashed a smile at Touchard.
“Around here,” Touchard snuffled again, “I am the French government.”
“Exactly,” Dietrich confirmed. “A price for these items is established by the French government, represented here by Monsieur Touchard, and we agree on the amount. That way Count Wolff-Metternich can’t complain. For example.” He spun on his heel. “Today I have been instructed by Reichsmarschall Göring to buy this statue.” He indicated a small statue, about two feet tall, of a man with long hair and a beard, a cape slung over his shoulder and striding forward, arms held out to his sides, as if clearing his way through a crowd. His face was young and fierce. His hands were strong but slightly effeminate. They reminded me of Valya’s. The statue was made of reddish marble or some other stone, almost brick-colored, and its surface was dull. “What would you say this is worth, Monsieur Fleury?” asked Dietrich.
“I don’t know,” said Fleury. He brought his face close to it, raising his glasses. “It looks very fine.”
“Oh, it is. Would it help you if I told you it was made by the Italian sculptor Camillo Rusioni around 1720? It is St. Jacques le Majeur and is a study for a much larger statue in the basilica of St. Jean de Latra or something like that. Anyway, the statue is in Rome and it is very big and important.”
“Well,” said Fleury, his voice drifting with uncertainty, “I saw an early eighteenth-century Italian statue go at Christie’s the other year for what would be about four hundred thousand francs.”
Touchard pursed his lips and nodded. “Close,” he said. “Very close.”
Dietrich, too, was nodding. “Fair,” he said. “And under normal circumstances, I’d say this might be worth about half as much again.”
“Normal circumstances,” repeated Touchard.
“But these are not normal circumstances, are they, Monsieur Touchard?”
“No, Herr Dietrich,” came the reply.
“So, Monsieur Touchard, what would be your best price on the Rusioni sculpture?”
Touchard walked up to it. He reached one finger out and touched it against the statue’s upper lip, as if the man had been about to break from his dusty red shell and speak and declare his own worth, and Touchard committed him again to silence. “Perhaps a hundred thousand?” He asked it. He did not say it.
Even I who had no idea what this statue was worth knew that Dietrich would not pay this price if the man deciding it had spoken so hesitantly.
“It’s worth more than a hundred thousand!” said Fleury. His protest vanished into the huge space of the warehouse.
“I might pay fifty thousand,” said Dietrich casually.
“Done,” barked Touchard.
Fleury turned on him. “What do you mean, ‘done’? You know damn well it’s worth ten times that!”
Touchard shrugged. “I am the government,” he said.
“Who else can make offers on all this?” demanded Fleury. “Is it open to the public?”
“No,” said Touchard. “Only Mr. Dietrich.”
“But look here!” Dietrich called out. “The sculpture is damaged.”
The three of us stepped forward to see where this damage might be.
“Where?” asked Fleury. “I can’t see any damage.”
Then we all watched as Dietrich raised the candlestick over his shoulder and brought it down hard across one of the statue’s delicate hands. He smashed off the fingers. Fragments cartwheeled through the air and rattled to the floor, breaking into even more pieces. “There,” said Dietrich. The candlestick hung heavy in his grip.
Even Touchard looked shocked at this.
“You’re insane,” said Fleury.
Dietrich chose to ignore this. “It’s not worth much of anything now,” he said with mock sadness.
“No, sir.” Touchard’s voice was choked.
“I couldn’t pay more than five thousand francs now.”
“Done,” said Touchard.
“There might even be more damage.” Dietrich’s knuckles grew white as he clenched his fist around the candlestick.
“No!” Touchard called out, raising his hands out to the statue.
Dietrich lowered the candlestick, grinning.
“I’ll draw up the paperwork now.” Touchard set off toward the office.
Dietrich bent down and picked up the fragments of the fingers. Then he put them in the pocket of his coat and stood to face us. “I’ll have this repaired. You’d never know the difference. I brought you here,” he said, “because I have a particular interest in you. You’re both young, capable. That’s what I need. New faces for a new marketplace.”
We walked back out into the rain, heading for the office, where Touchard would be typing up the documents of sale.
Over and over in my mind, I saw the statue’s delicate fingers shattering on the concrete floor of the warehouse.
“What I would like,” said Dietrich, “is for you both to work exclusively for me from now on. I saw that Cranach you found for Abetz. He gloated about it for an entire week. Cranach happens to be a particular favorite of the Reichsmarschall. You obviously have the means to satisfy a discerning palate.” He set his hand on Fleury’s shoulder and squeezed. “This is your great opportunity. You should take it. Besides, considering what Abetz tried to do with you, and considering that I am the only reason you’re still here, I’d have thought you might show me a little consideration for my trouble.”
“And what would you have us do about Abetz?” asked Fleury.
“I’m glad you asked about Abetz. He can be very persuasive in a bullying sort of way. He’s an ambitious man. This is the greatest moment of his diplomatic career and he’s chosen to add to his laurels a collection of the finest art in France. But it’s really just a hobby for him. He’s got too much else on his plate. He has to run the embassy, after all. And what with Hitler’s visit to Paris in June and other dignitaries flooding in, it’s all he can do to get any sleep at night. That’s why he’s palmed you off with that man Behr, who shouldn’t even be on the embassy staff.”
“Well, why is he there?” I asked.
“His mother had an affair with a man who is now one of the regional governors of Austria. A Gauleiter. I expect she reminded him of their past, and probably offered to remind everyone else as well, unless her son found himself out of harm’s way. Of course, Behr has no idea about this. He just thinks it’s all some bureaucratic foul-up.”
We had reached the office. Dietrich opened the door for us and we filed in.
Inside, Touchard was typing out the documents. His glasses were balanced on the tip of his hooked, Roman nose and his lips moved as he spelled out the words.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” Dietrich asked.
“Almost.” Touchard did not look up from his typing.
In the room adjacent to Touchard’s office was a man with short dark hair combed straight back on his head. He had his back to us and was brandishing an antique sword around a coat stand, on which hung a gabardine raincoat and a soft hat. The man was pretending to sword-fight with the coat, flicking up the arms with the end of the sword. He shuffled around on his feet as if the empty coat were fighting back and he were dodging sword thrusts.
“Hey!” Touchard called out. “Be careful with my coat!”
The young man turned and grinned.
My eyes widened with surprise. It was Tombeau. “Oh,” I said.
He caught my eye, warning me. Then he looked away.
“What is it?” asked Dietrich.
I choked a little before I came up with a reply. “That sword he’s playing with. It’s an antique, isn’t it?”
“Christ almighty! So it is. You!” bellowed Dietrich, his shout boxing our ears in the cramped space of the office.
Tombeau stopped dueling with the coat. “It’s just a blade,” he said.
Dietrich strode across the space between them. He snatched the sword out of Tombeau’s hand and turned to us, smiling. “This is one of my associates. From the firm of Fabry et Georges.”
Tombeau made a short, sarcastic bow.
I remembered what Pankratov had said about the Fabry-Georges hiring themselves out for any dirty jobs that paid good money. It made perfect sense to me that Dietrich and the Fabry-Georges would find themselves working together.
Dietrich turned back to Tombeau. “Do you know what this is?” He held the sword blade up between them and glared past the damascus-patterned iron at Tombeau’s insolent smile.
“Of course I know,” replied Tombeau.
“No, you don’t,” Dietrich snapped. “This is a seventeenth-century French saber, made by Ferdinand de Thézy for the comte de Barzilay. It’s worth a lot of money, and I don’t want you chipping the blade.”
“Sorry,” said Tombeau, without sincerity.
“Besides,” said Dietrich, “if you’re going to use the thing, use it properly.” Dietrich balanced himself in a swordsman’s pose. Then with a movement so fast and precise that I barely saw it, he sliced off one of the sleeves of Touchard’s coat. The sleeve fell to the floor and lay there in a heap.
“My coat!” shouted Touchard.
Dietrich handed the sword back to Tombeau, who peered at the blade with new respect.
“What about my coat?” asked Touchard, his voice high-pitched with frustration.
“Get a new one,” said Dietrich. “Or lose an arm. Or something.”
Touchard shook his head slowly and went back to his typing. He jabbed at the keys with his bony fingers, muttering to himself.
“I want that sculpture on the train to Germany tonight,” said Dietrich.
Touchard stopped typing. His face twitched. “Tonight? There’s no one here but me. How am I supposed to crate it up and get it to the station?”
“Make some calls. Get some Fabry-Georges people to do it. They don’t mind hard work.”
“You’d trust one of those thugs with that statue?” asked Touchard.
“It’s already broken,” said Dietrich. Then he turned to me and Fleury. “The car will take you home.”
The car was out there in the rain, Grimm at the wheel, engine running, exhaust leaking silver from its tailpipe.
“What are we supposed to do when Abetz calls?” I asked. “Because he is going to call, sooner or later.”
“If he gives you any trouble,” said Dietrich, “just let me know. You’ll only have to do it once, I guarantee.”
On the ride back, I was afraid to say anything to Fleury because I worried that Grimm would eavesdrop. I asked Grimm to drop us off a block away from the apartment, so that no one would see the car pull up in front of our place. Grimm nodded at my request, no expression on his face, the way a person does who has made a life’s work out of following orders.
* * *
WHEN I REACHED MY apartment, I found Pankratov sitting at my kitchen table. He was hunched like an old circus bear over a loaf of bread, a slab of white-flecked salami and the remains of a bottle of red wine.
“How did you get in here,” I asked, “and where did you get all that stuff to eat?”
Pankratov’s mouth was too full to talk. He held something up between his thumb and first two fingers. It was a straightened-out paper clip. Then he dropped the clip, picked up the bottle, the muscles in his neck straining as he forced a mouthful down his throat. He shook his head and finally spoke. “Valya. Came to see me. Brought food.”
I walked to the window and looked at the windows of the Postillon. These days, I always had the feeling I was being watched.
“There’s no one out there,” said Pankratov, forcing down a mouthful of sausage, bread and cheese which he had stacked one on top of the other and then compressed with the flat of his hand before packing it into his mouth.
“I don’t understand why they don’t follow us everywhere we go,” I said.
“So they could find out our sources and grab them for themselves?” he asked.
“Exactly.” I leaned forward and breathed on the glass, fogging it with condensation.
Pankratov knocked back some wine, swished it through his teeth, then swallowed. “Because there is no single source. At least not as far as they know. Half of the great paintings in France are tucked away in root cellars, chicken coops, and behind walls three feet thick. The Germans know perfectly well that they’d have no hope of tracking them down. Sure, they could grab us and dig out whatever little treasure trove we happened to be raiding, but what about the thousand other hiding places? They know that the best thing for them is to leave us be. As long as we keep handing them paintings, and since they’re trading what they don’t want for what they do, how can they lose?”
“They can lose because what we’re giving them is a lie.”
Pankratov held up one finger, commanding me to silence. “It’s not a lie if they don’t think it’s a lie. Besides, I’ve persuaded Madame Pontier to part with some originals to make us more credible,” he said. “I told her she owed us that much.”
* * *
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, MADAME Pontier delivered to us an original drawing of a kneeling angel by Gianfrancesco Penni.
“Take it,” she said, her teeth gritted, “and don’t expect me do to this very often.”
Each time I met her, I became more convinced that she wouldn’t lift a finger to help us if we were caught. In everything she did, the way she looked and spoke and in the doll’s-eye flatness of her gaze, she was the coldest person I had ever met.
That same day, we brought the drawing to Dietrich.
Dietrich was no great lover of art. He had been chosen for this job because he was a businessman. He was not particularly pleased with the drawing. The irony of this did not escape me, seeing as it was original. Penni, who worked in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, was not high on Dietrich’s procurement list. Dietrich knew as well as we did that if the artist was not a huge name, the subject matter needed, at least, to be appealing. An angel was not as choice as a picture of a young woman, or a cat or a dog, or a classical Greek or Roman location, all of which moved very quickly through Dietrich’s warehouse on the outskirts of Paris. The main problem with this angel was that the drawing had been perforated, or “pounced,” along most of the lines. This was so that the drawing could be laid out over a blank piece of paper and, if sprinkled with charcoal dust, would provide the layout of an identical drawing underneath. After several uses, the original drawing would start to get a little dirty. The one we gave Dietrich had been used several times.
The next day, a call came through to the atelier, where Pankratov and I were mixing paints. Fleury was there, too. He lay flat on his back on the stage, silently puffing a corn-silk cigarette. He let the smoke leak from his mouth. It wound in gray ribbons up toward the rafters.
Pankratov picked up the receiver.
I could hear someone shouting over the phone.
Pankratov’s eyes were wide with surprise. He held the receiver away from his ear.
When the person on the other end paused for breath, Pankratov tried to speak. “But,” he said, “how were we to know?”
The shouting started up again, this time even louder.
Pankratov looked at Fleury and me. He shook his head wearily. “Yes,” he said to the receiver. “Yes, I understand.” Then he hung up. He stood there in silence, still dazed from the barrage of insults. “That was Abetz. He’s furious that we let Dietrich have the Penni drawing. He says we promised him all Italian drawings.”
“No, we didn’t,” said Fleury. These were the first words he had spoken in almost an hour.
Pankratov and I looked at each other and shrugged. Neither of us had made that promise, either.
“He just wants an excuse to get mad at us,” I said.
“He had demanded that one of you meet him at a restaurant in Montmartre tonight,” said Pankratov. “It’s a place called La Mère Cathérine. It’s up on the Place du Tertre in the old part of town.”
I walked over to the phone. “I’m calling Dietrich,” I said.
“Why?” asked Fleury, still staring at the ceiling.
“He told us to ring him if Abetz ever gave us any trouble. Personally, I don’t feel like going up against Abetz, when the man’s worked himself into a frenzy.” There was no protest from Fleury or Pankratov, so I dialed Dietrich’s number.
“Moment.” It was Grimm’s voice.
Then I heard Dietrich’s brassy voice. I explained about Abetz. When I gave the name of the restaurant, I heard Dietrich snap his fingers at someone in the room and then I heard the scrabble of him writing down the information. “We never did agree to give him old Italian drawings,” I told him.
“Of course not.” Dietrich’s voice was soothing and comradely. “The man’s out of his mind. Listen, I want you to go to the meeting. Be as friendly as you can. Tell him what he wants to hear. If he wants you to promise him Italian drawings, then make the promise. Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” I said uncertainly.
“No harm will come to you,” said Dietrich. “You’re going to have to trust me. David, I will not let you down.” This was the first time he called me by my Christian name. I didn’t know what to make of it.
Afterwards, I explained to the others what Dietrich had said.
By now, Fleury had lit himself another cigarette. He remained on his back, staring at the ceiling as if in a trance. The only movement was the regular sweep of his hand to his mouth and then down to his side. Lately, he was often like this.
I thought it would probably have been a better idea if Fleury went to the meeting. He would do a better job of sweet-talking Abetz than I ever could, and sending Pankratov to make small talk was out of the question. But Fleury didn’t offer to go, and in the shape he was in just then, I didn’t want to ask.
La Mère Cathérine was in a small park, at the top of Rue Norvin. The park lay in the shadow of the church of Sacré-Cœur and little tables were set out amongst the trees. Each tree was girdled by tall metal railings. The tables were busy, and tended by waiters from a café called Au Cadet de Gascogne, which had musicians playing inside. La Mère Cathérine was a few buildings down the cobbled street, with a few of its own tables set out on the sidewalk. The front of the building was glossy black and lace curtains hung in the lower half of the two front windows. The ceiling inside was hammered tin, painted white, and the walls were painted red. It was a lively place, and I wished I’d known about it before the price of a good meal had gone through the roof.
I looked through the window for Abetz, but couldn’t see him. Then I felt a hand against my arm.
It was Lieutenant Behr. He was sitting at one of the outside tables, wearing civilian clothes. “I saved us a place,” he said.
There were two more chairs at the small table, and three places set for dinner.
I told him about Fleury not being able to make it. Behr shrugged to show it didn’t matter. “Where’s Abetz?” I asked.
“He’ll come for a drink in an hour or so. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.” He seemed genuinely apologetic about this.
“I guess you’re stuck with me, too,” I said.
“Not for long.” He grinned and looked like a kid. “I got a transfer. I’ve been putting in for one practically every month. I think I must have worn them down. Or maybe they felt bad for me that my mother died a few weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I said. But then I knew why he had got his transfer, and I was happy and sad for him at the same time.
“I’m going to be part of the Sixth Army,” he said.
The waiter appeared, long apron and short black jacket and the seriousness of a man expecting a big tip.
“Do you like coffee?” Behr asked me.
“Monsieur,” said the waiter with a slight bow, “there is only Café National.”
“I like real coffee,” said Behr. “And I like it at the beginning of a meal. It’s a strange habit, I know.”
“Monsieur,” said the waiter. He was about to explain again that there was no real coffee when Behr pulled a screwcap Bakelite box from his pocket. It was round and about an inch tall, just small enough to fit into my outstretched hand, and the Bakelite was orangey-yellow.
When he unscrewed the cap, I could smell the coffee inside.
The waiter was watching him. There was a gentleness behind his deep-set eyes and frowning, dark mustache.
“Bring us two cafetières of boiling water,” Behr said to the waiter.
The waiter disappeared back through the crowded restaurant into the kitchen. People shuffled by in the dark, silhouettes trailing cigarette smoke.
“Mr. Abetz thought you might appreciate not being in the stuffy surroundings where you normally meet him. He can be unstuffy, too.”
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked.
“First of all, Ambassador Abetz would like to apologize for his outburst earlier today. He would like you to know that he can match any favorable treatment you are receiving from Dietrich. Abetz means what he says, too.” Behr spoke as if he had memorized what he was going to say. “You could be a great asset to him, you and Monsieur Fleury, and believe me, a German ambassador is a good friend to have these…”
At that moment, everything seemed to stop moving. A huge crashing explosion surrounded me. Muscles clenched in bands across my chest. It sounded as if a truck had smashed into the restaurant directly behind me. I heard breaking glass. Then the explosion was gone. In its place came a ringing that blanketed all other sounds. It flashed through my head that I might be having a heart attack. I seemed to be falling over. Then I realized that it was Behr who was falling.
He tipped against the window. His head struck the glass so hard that the pane broke in bright lightning bolts up into the shiny black frame. His chair collapsed underneath him. He rolled onto the sidewalk.
The place where his head had struck the glass was bloody. Blood in the silver lines. There was more blood on the tablecloth and on the cutlery and the glasses.
I couldn’t understand where it had come from. I looked down at my chest, expecting to see some great gaping wound, but there was nothing except flecks of red on my white shirt.
People inside the restaurant were looking out into the dark, to see where the noise had come from. A woman pointed to the broken glass where Behr’s head had struck. Her husband jumped up, his chair flipping over. He grabbed the woman and pushed her down on the floor and then got down on the floor himself. Somebody shouted. Then somebody screamed.
I turned around to see a man standing in the street, almost on top of me.
It was Tombeau. His eyes were wild. He was holding a large revolver. Smoke drifted from the barrel and the chamber of the gun.
Only then did I realize that he had shot Behr.
Tombeau looked down at me. The gun was aimed right in my face.
I just sat there, staring back at him, too confused to be terrified.
“Courtesy of Mr. Dietrich.” Tombeau’s voice was thick and slow. “You’d better get out of here, before the police arrive.” He turned around and walked away into the dark, across the little park, right by the tables where people were eating their dinner. The gun was still in his hand and he made no move to put it away. No one tried to stop him. Some people dove under their tables. One man put his hands in front of his eyes. Others sat there in shock, watching him go by.
I stood, feeling shaky, and stepped around to the other side of the table.
Behr lay on his side. His mouth and eyes were half open and his head was wreathed in shadow. Beside him lay a white ashtray, which must have fallen off the table.
The waiter pushed his way through the crowd that had begun to gather at the door. He stepped carefully over Behr’s body. “Who did this?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. I had just realized that the ashtray was not an ashtray, but the top of Behr’s skull. In the lamplight by the door, it looked strange and pink and rippled, like the inside of an oyster shell. Blood spread out thick and dark as tar from under his body. It fanned out across the pavement, as if it knew where it was going.
The restaurant customers piled into the street. Others came over from the park. They all stared down at the body. A man in a bowtie caught sight of the Bakelite box of coffee, still open on the table. He leaned past me, avoiding my glance, carefully screwed the top back on the box, and put it in his pocket and walked away down the street.
I ran. I sprinted down the Rue Berthe and crossed over onto Rue des Trois Frères and across the Boulevard Rochechouart, and after that, I had no idea what streets I took except it was almost an hour later that I reached the river at the Pont Neuf. I stopped running then. My throat was raw and my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat. I forced myself to walk across the bridge onto the Isle de la Cité. Then I went down to the point that juts out into the Seine, the Place du Vert Galant, which in the daytime was usually crowded with people fishing. The place was deserted now. My watch had steamed up and stopped. I had no idea what time it was, except that it was long after curfew. I sat down by the water. I wrapped my arms around my knees and started shaking and when I finished shaking I wept for the first time in as long as I could remember.
I didn’t know if I was crying for Behr, or for myself, or the breaking strain of always wondering whether the paintings I did were good enough, trying not to think about what would happen if we were caught, and how if we were caught it would be my fault and Madame Pontier with her crumpled, unsmiling lips would say she had known all along that I would fail them. Fleury and Pankratov and I were just as likely to be killed by the French for doing our job well as we were to be killed by the Germans for not doing it well enough. Until this moment, I thought I had it all safely battened down inside me. The weight and measurement of risk. But I was wrong.
I remembered the dream I’d had of how Paris would be before I arrived. The picture-postcard views, soft-focused with the hope of what my time here would bring me. I glimpsed and felt it all suddenly and clearly, like remembering a dream from the night before as you fall asleep.
“Look at you now,” I said to myself.
The blood-dark river rushed by. The water seemed to pulse against the pale stone banks, as if threatening to flood and drown the city in its endless arterial flow.
* * *
IN THE NEWS TWO days later was a report about the shooting of Albrecht Behr, age twenty-two, holder of the Iron Cross first class. The blame was laid on a Communist group called the Front Populaire. In reprisal, twenty suspected Communists were shot up at Mont Válerin.
A bottle of champagne arrived from Dietrich, along with a note telling us not to worry.
There was nothing to do but get on with the work.
We never did hear from Abetz again.