Читать книгу The Collaborators - Reginald Hill - Страница 14

Sophie Simonian was praying for her son when a knock at the door and a voice calling, ‘Bubbah Sophie, it’s me, Janine,’ made her hope for a second that her prayers had been answered.

Leaning heavily on a silver-topped cherry cane, she went to the door, opened it, and knew at once that there was no good news in her daughter-in-law’s face. On the other hand, there was no bad news either, thanks be to God for small mercies.

‘Bubbah, how are you? You look well,’ said Janine embracing her. ‘Is there any news of Jean-Paul?’

‘Nothing. No news at all. Sit down, my dear. Where are the children?’ In sudden alarm, ‘There is nothing wrong with the children? Why are you back in Paris?’

‘No, they’re fine, really. Pauli sends his love, and Céci too. I’ll bring them round soon. But I thought I’d come myself first so we can have a good talk.’

Quickly she described her abortive flight, her slow return. Unlike her own parents, Sophie had approved her decision to leave, though refusing (thank God!) Janine’s offer to take her too. Nearly seventy with a rheumatic knee, a return on foot would have been quite beyond her. Besides, she’d done her share of refugeeing almost forty years before, after the great pogrom of 1903 in Kishinev. France had offered a new life in every sense. It was here in Paris when hope seemed dead that at last she had conceived and given birth to a son. Iakov Moseich he was named after his father, and Jean-Paul, to tell the world he was a native-born Frenchman.

Her husband had died of a heart attack in 1931. Jean-Paul had wanted to abandon his university place due to be taken up the following year and get a job to look after his mother. She had told him scornfully that his father would have struck him for such self-indulgent sentimentality. It was time to start acting like a real Frenchman and not a joke-book Jewish son.

He certainly took her at her word, she later told herself ironically. During the next few years, he abandoned his religion, declared himself an atheist, flirted with the Communist Party, and announced that he was going to marry Janine Crozier. This last was perhaps the biggest shock of all. Some left-wing intellectual shiksa from the university she could have understood. But this wide-eyed child, of parents whose attitudes were as offensive to his new political religion as to his old racial one, was a complete surprise. When finally she had been unable to contain the question, ‘Why! Why! Why do you want to marry this child? She isn’t even pregnant!’ he had given her the only reply which could silence her: ‘Because whenever I see her, I feel happy.’

But six years and two grandchildren later, Sophie was completely converted, and during this trying time she had derived much comfort from her daughter-in-law.

As Janine finished her tale, there was a knock at the door and a man’s voice called reassuringly, ‘It’s only me, Madame Simonian. Christian.’

Janine opened the door. Christian Valois was standing there, in his arms a dark ginger cat with a smudge of black hair around his nose.

‘Janine!’ he said. ‘Is there news?’

Janine shook her head and said, ‘No. Nothing. Hello, Charlot, you’re fatter than ever!’

The cat purred as she scratched him and then jumped out of Valois’s arms and bounced on to Sophie’s lap.

‘I met him on the stairs,’ said Valois, kissing the old lady. ‘You’ve heard nothing either, madame? Of course not. Why doesn’t he write to one of us?’

His voice was full of concern which slightly irritated Janine. True, he was a very old friend of Jean-Paul’s, but this hardly entitled him to put his concern on a level with, if not above, that of a wife and a mother.

‘We are going to have some tea, Christian. Will you stay?’ said Sophie.

‘Just for a moment. I have to get back.’

‘Back where?’ asked Janine in surprise. ‘Surely there is no work for you to do. I thought everyone to do with the Government had run off to Bordeaux?’

‘I stayed,’ said Valois shortly.

In fact, his gesture in staying on at the Ministry was proving rather a strain. It hadn’t taken the Germans long to realize that he had neither authority nor function. A friendly Wehrmacht officer had suggested that if he was worried about his pay, he’d quite happily sign a weekly chitty certifying that the undermentioned civil servant had attended his place of work. This kindly condescension was far more infuriating than any hostility or threat could have been.

‘That was brave,’ said Janine sincerely.

Valois’s thin sallow face flushed. He opened his mouth, realized he was going to say something pompous about duty, bit it back and said instead, ‘Thank you.’

The two young people smiled at each other. Sophie Simonian noted this with approval. She liked young Christian and it had always seemed a shame that he and Janine didn’t get on. A man’s first loyalty was to his family, but he needed his friends too, much more than a woman did.

As they sat and drank their tea, Janine told her story once more. Valois frowned as she told of the German planes attacking the refugee column.

‘Bastards!’ he said.

‘It’s war,’ said Sophie. ‘What do you expect? Stop the war is the only way to stop the killing.’

‘You think so? Perhaps. Only the war will not stop, will it?’

‘But the Marshal is talking with the Germans about a truce,’ cried Janine. ‘It was on the wireless.’

‘Truce? Defeat, you mean. Is that what you want?’ demanded Valois.

‘No! I mean, I don’t know. I hate the Germans, I want to see them thrown out of France, of course I do. But the only way for Jean-Paul to be safe is for the fighting to stop! I mean it’s stupid, he’s out there on the Maginot Line somewhere and all the Germans are here in France behind him! I mean it’s just so bloody, bloody stupid!’

She was close to tears. Sophie put her arm around her and frowned accusingly at Valois.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You know I’m worried about Jean-Paul too. Listen, there will be a truce, an armistice, something like that, I’m sure. He’ll be safe. But that’s not what I mean when I say the war won’t end. De Gaulle’s gone to England, a lot of them have. I heard him on the British radio saying that he would fight on no matter what happened back here.’

‘De Gaulle? Who’s he?’ asked Janine.

‘He’s a general, a friend of the Marshal’s.’

‘But the Marshal wants a truce, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And everyone says the Boche will be in England soon too. There’s nothing to stop them, is there? What does this de Gaulle do then? Go to America?’ asked Janine scornfully.

‘At least there’s someone out there not giving up,’ said Valois.

He finished his tea and stood up. Janine saw his gaze drift round the room coming to rest on the large silver menorah on the window sill.

‘Are the other apartments still occupied?’ he asked casually.

Sophie said, ‘A lot went. Soon they’ll be back when they see it’s safe, no doubt. Madame Nomary, the concierge, is still in the basement. Like me, too old to run. And Monsieur Melchior is still upstairs.’

‘Melchior?’

‘You must have seen him,’ said Janine. ‘The writer. Or artist. Or something like that. At least he dresses that way, you know, flamboyantly. I think he’s…’

‘He likes the men more than the ladies is what she doesn’t care to say in front of silly old Bubbah,’ mocked Sophie. ‘But he’s a gentleman and very quiet, especially since the war. I think he’s been hiding up there, poor soul. Why so interested in my neighbours, Christian?’

‘No reason. I must go, Madame Sophie. Take care.’

‘I’d better go too and rescue maman from the kids,’ said Janine, jumping up. ‘Bye, Bubbah. I’ll bring Pauli and Céci next time.’

‘Be sure you do, child. God go with you both.’

Outside in the steepsided canyon of the Rue de Thorigny they walked in silence for a little way.

Finally Janine said, ‘What’s worrying you about Sophie, Christian?’

He shot her a surprised glance then said, ‘I thought I was a better actor! It’s nothing. I was just wondering how I could suggest that it might be politic not to, well, advertise her Jewishness…’

‘In the Marais? Don’t be silly. And why would you say such a thing?’

‘You must have heard how the Boche treat Jews. Some of the stories…’

‘But that’s in Germany,’ protested Janine. ‘They wouldn’t dare do anything here, not to Frenchmen. The people wouldn’t let it happen!’

‘You think not? I hope so,’ he said doubtfully.

‘I’m glad you didn’t say anything, though. It would really have worried Bubbah.’

‘It wasn’t just her I was concerned about,’ said Christian gently.

‘Me? Why should it worry…oh my God. Jean-Paul, you mean? If they capture Jean-Paul…’

She stood stricken.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It probably won’t happen. And he’ll be a prisoner-of-war in any case, under the Geneva Convention…where are you going?’

She’d set off at a pace that was more of a trot than a walk. Looking back over her shoulder she cried, ‘I’ve got to get back to the children, see they’re all right. Goodbye, Christian.’

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’ll call…’

Already she was out of earshot. He headed west, frowning, and in a little while turned on to the Rue de Rivoli. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his head down, and did not see, or at least did not acknowledge seeing, the huge red and black swastika banners which fluttered everywhere like prospectors’ flags to mark out what the Germans were claiming for their own.