TWENTY-FOUR

‘Remain in your houses. Curfew is now in place. Disorder will be met with deadly force.’ A German truck was patrolling the streets, the loudspeaker in its back playing a recorded message in French. The driver’s eyes darted across the street, to the rooftops, towards blind corners, seeming to take in everything and nothing.

Even so, Duchene kept himself hidden, tucked into a doorway in an alleyway. The evening was upon him, still an hour from twilight, and every minute felt like an hour. The distance between him and Marienne was all he could feel, but he ground down on his fears. He had a single objective, and completing it was all that mattered.

As the truck passed by, he glanced out again. He could see the soldiers sitting under its tarpaulin, their expressions a mirror of his own: fear, anxiety, concern.

He waited for the truck to turn off before he returned to the road. He’d seen a barricade ahead, so he jogged over to resume his search.

This barricade was shored up with stolen German sandbags, and filled mostly with old furniture and scrap metal. But mounted on top, in a gesture of defiance of the curfew, was what he’d been looking for: a bike.

Precious minutes passed as he struggled to pull it down. To his dismay, the front wheel was bent. He spent more time hammering it into a position where it would at least rotate while he peddled.

As the pain in his legs grew as he rode home, he knew he would regret this journey tomorrow. If tomorrow came.

***

Relief changed quickly to fear as Duchene turned onto his street. He dropped the bike and moved to the opposite side of the road, looking up at his apartment for signs of – well, anything.

Instead, he found nothing. No German convoy was parked on the road, and there were no soldiers, no signs of the Gestapo. By now they must have realised that something had happened to Stahl. But what would they do in response?

They have torture rooms. They’re quick to kill.

Again, Duchene pushed these thoughts aside and focused on Marienne.

Marienne.

He crossed the road and went to remove his keys from his pocket. But they were useless – the building’s front door had been broken open, its glass smashed.

His hands started to shake. His heart began to pound.

He walked inside, the glass on the foyer floor crunching under his feet. It was dark. The power was still out.

The door to the Junets’ place opened slightly. Monsieur Junet stared back at him, eyes wild, jaw stiff with apprehension.

Duchene pointed a finger upwards, in the direction of his apartment. Junet nodded.

‘Who?’ Duchene mouthed.

Junet opened his door a little wider, raised his right hand and gave a Nazi salute. Duchene nodded back.

His stomach turned, and adrenaline flooded in.

Gestapo.

Motioning for Junet to close the door, he started up the stairs. Each careful tread made the wood beneath the carpet groan, but he had no choice but to keep walking, even though the sound would alert whoever was inside his apartment.

Light was streaming from the open door as Duchene stepped onto the landing.

‘You can stop creeping around. You’re embarrassing yourself.’ The voice spoke French, was slurred and had a faint Swiss accent.

He walked forward. ‘Major Faber,’ he said, summoning the courage to walk into the apartment with his eyes closed.

As he opened them, the fear leapt from him, making his head spin with a giddy euphoria.

On the other side of the room, opposite his towers of books, in a chair beside Faber, was Marienne. Alive and well.

She and Faber were sitting at the old table littered with scraps of paper, empty bottles and the saucer for an ashtray. Her wrists were tied to the sides of the chair by fabric Duchene didn’t recognise until he noticed his torn curtains.

‘You’re being painfully melodramatic,’ Faber said. He was wearing civilian clothes: a waistcoat and trousers. A wide brim hat sat on the table beside him.

‘I’m the one being melodramatic?’ Duchene said in German.

‘Close the door as you come in,’ Faber said, switching to his native tongue; he slurred his words less.

Duchene did as he was asked, but moved slowly, trying to piece together this new threat. Slung over Faber’s shoulder was an MP 40 submachine gun. In one hand he held a Luger, in the other a half-empty bottle of Teacher’s whisky.

He’s been to Marienne’s.

There were no signs of the Resistance, of gunfire, of violence. But on the ashtray saucer beside Faber were two half-smoked Gitanes.

Philippe was here. But has gone.

At Faber’s feet was a large German army radio wrapped in field-green canvas, and from one end rose a black antenna. On its front were a series of dials and a pair of headphones. But Faber wasn’t in uniform.

The army doesn’t know where he is. He’s stolen the radio.

‘Made sense of it all yet?’ Faber asked, drinking from the bottle. ‘Shall we jump to the end? I can shoot the whore now and be done with it.’

‘No,’ said Duchene, holding up his hands.

Marienne was making movements with her eyes. Something complicated; something that didn’t make any sense to him.

‘Where’s Kloke?’ Faber asked.

‘I don’t know. Hiding. Fled. Dead. All are possible.’

Faber’s face shifted – it was a moment only, but an emotion was there. Disappointment? No.

‘So you’ve failed,’ he said.

‘I’ve looked all over Paris. I found the last man who saw him – his French lover, Olivier Manaudou. He has no idea where Kloke is.’

Another shift. The upwards turn of a lip, the deepening of crow’s feet. A twitch of anger.

No, something else.

‘This man, Olivier, confirmed that Kloke had stolen guns from the Resistance and was planning to sell the cache back to them. With the help of a Frenchman, Lucien Martin. Olivier was frightened, distraught.’ Duchene paused. He had an idea. ‘Oliver said he’d begged Kloke to take him out of Paris. Made him promise they’d build a life far away in Indochina, where they’d grow crops, grow old.’

No shift in Faber’s expression this time. It was a full emotion, raw and loud; a souring of his face, a snarl on his mouth. Faber wasn’t angry – he was jealous.

‘Is that why the Gestapo is looking for him?’ asked Duchene.

‘What?’ Now Faber seemed lost in drunken thought, irritated that Duchene had disturbed him.

‘The Gestapo want Kloke so they can interrogate him. Get him to confess that you and he were lovers.’

Faber snorted. ‘Too simplistic.’

‘But you were. Lovers.’

‘Don’t push me, Duchene. A second is all it takes, and her brains will be spread all over your books.’

‘They would have arrested you both. Your regime isn’t so fond of homosexuals.’

‘Obviously.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t find him. You don’t have to follow through with your threats.’

‘Oh, but I do. I’m still a man of my word, a soldier, a bringer of death.’

‘If you’re still a soldier, call the Wehrmacht. Ask them to pick you up.’

‘He can’t,’ said Marienne.

‘Shut up,’ said Faber.

‘They’ve stopped answering him on the radio.’

Faber dropped the whisky. Before it hit the floor, his hand was wrapped around her neck, the Luger only millimetres from her eyes.

Rage. Fear. Duchene’s hands started to shake. But he looked to Marienne, focused on her – not this enemy. Let his words flow as though he was talking to his only daughter.

‘Wait,’ Duchene said. ‘What about the Abwehr? You must still have friends there, colleagues you can call. The old guard?’

Marienne’s face was starting to turn red.

Duchene held up his hands. ‘There’s a phone in my neighbour’s apartment, across the hallway. You can use that to call anywhere in Paris – in Berlin, even. Get help.’

‘Look at you.’ Faber turned from Marienne and spat at the floor. The spittle landed on a book. ‘You’re convinced you understand it all. You’ve sniffed around and dug up some old bones. So what?’

Tears were welling in Marienne’s eyes, she was struggling to breathe.

‘So, explain it to me,’ Duchene said, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were stinging.

Faber snorted again. ‘Confess? Don’t be absurd.’

‘You … need … to …’ Marienne’s voice was thin and raspy.

‘What?’ Faber said, taking his hand from her throat.

She kept her head high, clearly refusing to splutter or cough. ‘I said, you need to leave … Paris. You’re not in uniform. You’ll be executed as a deserter.’

‘She’s right, Major. And the Resistance will shoot you on sight.’

‘My father knows how to get you out from the centre of the city,’ Marienne said, wiping the tears from her eyes.

‘Oh? He does?’ The major leant back in his chair as he watched Marienne.

Duchene was as intrigued as Faber to hear the answer.

‘That man he spoke about, Lucien – he smuggled contraband past your roadblocks, into and out of the city. My father has been with him. He knows the way.’

‘Your father has consistently disappointed me, something I understand you’re familiar with. Why would I trust him with anything ever again, especially my life?’

‘Because we’ll be risking ours to help you,’ she replied.

‘And where is this miraculous smuggler’s route?’

‘The Catacombs.’

‘The Catacombs?’ Faber looked directly at Marienne, which meant Duchene was saved having to conceal his surprise.

‘This route goes under the German roadblocks. It will bring you to the southern edge of Paris. From there you can make your way into the countryside.’

‘To be shot by the Maquis?’

‘You can pass as Swiss,’ Duchene said. ‘It’s still a better chance than you have if you try to get out by yourself.’

Faber stood and walked to the window. He glanced down at the street. ‘Can either of you drive?’

‘I can,’ Duchene replied.

‘And we can? Drive there?’

‘We have to cross the river,’ Duchene said. ‘Pont Marie has the fewest barricades, I crossed it on my way back here. We can get to the Left Bank there.’

‘Then untie your daughter. We leave now.’

Duchene didn’t hesitate. With a paring knife from his kitchen, he cut the curtain cord around Marienne’s wrists.

Faber saw him holding it. ‘On the table,’ he said.

Duchene dropped it.

Faber slid the Luger into his hip holster and swivelled the submachine gun to face Duchene and Marienne. She rubbed her wrists as she followed Duchene to the door. He whispered to her, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Oh, please, let’s not end this before it’s begun,’ Faber said. ‘If you try to talk to each other again, I’ll shoot you both. Duchene, there’s a blue Fiat outside. You will drive, and Marienne will sit beside you. I’ll be in the back, and if either of you talks to the other, bang-bang. Got it?’

‘And if the car crashes?’ Duchene asked.

‘Don’t let that concern you. You’ll be dead.’

Duchene opened the door, and they walked through darkness to the entrance. Before heading outside, they waited for a cyclist throwing leaflets to pass by. Although there were faces in the windows of the buildings around them, there was little other activity on the street.

Faber handed Duchene the car keys. The three of them got into the Fiat, and Duchene turned on the ignition. The car was small, its engine tinny.

‘Not what I’d have expected you to drive,’ Duchene said.

‘Lucky for you, it’s all I could get. This looks less like a German’s car and more like a Frenchman’s.’

‘Right now it’s not clear what we are,’ said Marienne.

Duchene looked at her, and she nodded to him. Something had taken hold of her, something he couldn’t quite establish. Was it anger, confidence? Some deep faith in her father to find a way out of their predicament? He had nothing, no strategy, only a vain hope that something would intervene and provide them an opportunity to escape. It was desperate thinking, and all too often desperate led to dead.

He couldn’t let himself drift too deep into thought – he had to watch the road. Barricades and hazards were growing in size and number, and staunch Parisians were returning to the streets despite the curfew. On the main thoroughfares, convoys of Germans were rushing to defensive points.

In order to travel the four blocks from his apartment to the bridge, he had to double back and use side roads. It would have been faster to walk than drive. But the car made him feel more secure – encased in metal, able to accelerate should something happen – and for this, he was thankful.

The naivety of his optimism fell away as soon as they arrived at the bridge. He saw it first and let the car idle as Marienne and Faber took it in. Across the centre of the Pont Marie, four cars had been pushed into a line to form a roadblock. On their roofs stood three men, two armed with pistols and the other an old hunting rifle. They wore black armbands. The crowd with them carried clubs and spades, and even some antique cavalry sabres.

‘Go back,’ Faber ordered.

‘We can get through,’ said Marienne. ‘We’ll tell them we’re with the Resistance. If we turn around now, it’ll raise their suspicions.’

‘If they demand answers of me,’ said the major, ‘and I don’t speak, that will raise their suspicions. And get us shot.’

Duchene didn’t like it either, but he had to trust that Marienne had a plan. He just hoped that she wasn’t doing the same and putting her trust in him. He put the car into first gear and taxied across the bridge towards the barricade.

The sides of the cars had recently been painted with FFI, French Forces of the Interior.

‘They’re going to get themselves killed,’ said Faber. ‘Who would ask them to fortify this position? It’s completely exposed. All it would take is a few soldiers, and they’d be dead. What do they think they’re going to achieve?’

‘For once, I agree,’ said Duchene.

The three armed men climbed down from the cars. As they arrived at the Fiat, Duchene wound down his window. His palms were sweating; they had left damp marks on the steering wheel. He replaced them exactly where they’d been.

‘Vive la France,’ he said to the men.

The fighter with the rifle, his face like leather from years in the sun, nodded to him. ‘Vive. Where are you heading?’

‘Meeting the rest of our unit,’ said Duchene.

‘Who leads you?’

‘Philippe Angevine. We were at the Sorbonne together.’

One of the other men tapped a pistol at Faber’s window. Faber ignored him, and he tapped again.

‘I think he wants to see your gun,’ the fighter with the rifle said. He seemed to be the one in charge.

‘I had to kill a Boche to get it,’ Faber said in French.

Duchene’s heart raced. Faber had impeccable pronunciation, but his accent was far from French.

The pistol tapped again.

‘Let him see it,’ Marienne said. ‘They’ll get their own soon enough.’

Faber wound down the window and handed over the MP 40.

The fighter slipped his pistol into his jacket pocket and held the gun up to his shoulder, pointing it over the Seine, then back towards the barricades and the crowd. His finger was on the trigger the entire time, and Faber and Duchene glanced at one another.

‘There a problem?’ asked the leader.

‘Your man there is being dangerous,’ Duchene said.

‘No trigger discipline,’ said Faber.

‘Only place your finger on the trigger if you mean to fire,’ Duchene said. ‘I’ve seen too many men shot by their own hands – or their comrades’ – from that one simple mistake.’

The leader grunted. ‘It’s a good point. Claude, give the man his gun.’

Claude shrugged and passed it to Faber.

‘Any chance you can roll a car back for us?’ Duchene asked. ‘Help us regroup with our men?’

With a nod, the leader whistled to the crowd. Four men started to push one of the four cars in the barricade, their legs straining.

‘Is that another gun?’ Claude asked Faber.

The German pulled his jacket over the holster. ‘No.’

The car was starting to roll.

‘Looks like a Luger.’

‘It’s not,’ said Faber.

Half the necessary clear space had appeared in the blockade.

‘Hold up,’ the leader said. He whistled, and his men stopped pushing, the car coming to a stop. ‘An MP 40 and a Luger? How’d you kill the German, then?’

Duchene didn’t wait for another bad answer. He pushed the accelerator to the floor and beeped his horn, and the three men fumbled with their weapons.

‘Marienne, get down,’ Duchene shouted as the crowd ahead of them started to scatter. He flinched, ducking at the crack of a shot behind them. Putting the car into second gear, he over-revved the engine as they neared the gap in the roadblock.

Not enough space.

Another shot, and the glass in the rear windscreen shattered over Faber. He pulled the bolt on the submachine gun and held it out the jagged hole.

‘No!’ Duchene jerked the steering wheel to the left.

Faber slid across the back seat, his gun tumbling wildly and pointing at the roof.

There was the sound of sheering metal. The smell of hot steel. The Fiat jolted on impact, bucking Faber and Marienne forward, but it kept going.

Duchene accelerated and ground the gears to put the car into third. The bridge passed behind them as they sped onto the Left Bank.