Читать книгу The Collaborators - Reginald Hill - Страница 20

So the year drew to its close. Winter like the Germans came swiftly, hit hard, felt as if it was here to stay.

‘I’ll tell you something, Günter,’ said Major Zeller. ‘I never thought it would be so easy.’

‘Victory, you mean?’

‘No. Not victory in the field, anyway. It was always possible that that would be easy. No, the remarkable thing is the degree to which we have got ourselves accepted. More than accepted. Welcomed! I actually feel at home in this city, a visitor rather than a conqueror.’

He paused, then went on, ‘It would please me, Günter, if from time to time as I spoke to you, that you gave a little nod of agreement or let something other than lugubrious doubt light up that gamekeeper face of yours.’

‘Sorry,’ said Mai.

‘You don’t agree?’

‘It’s early days, sir,’ said Mai. ‘You knock a man down, he may be concussed and in shock for a long time afterwards. He may even believe that he didn’t really mind being knocked down. But you’d better wait till he’s fully himself again before deciding if you really want him holding the ladder while you’re cleaning windows.’

Zeller regarded him curiously.

‘Cleaning windows? How quaint you sometimes are, Günter. I do hope you will not put your quaintness forward as official Abwehr thinking tonight. The SD are keen enough to undermine us without giving them ammunition in the Embassy.’

‘I’ll try to remember my manners, sir. I expect in any case I’ve only been invited to hand out drinks to the distinguished foreign guests. Is Monsieur Melchior attending on our ticket, by the way?’

A glittering New Year reception was being held at the Embassy. All the main sections of the Occupying Authority had been asked to submit suggestions for the guest list. Mai knew very well that there was more chance of Zeller suggesting Winston Churchill than Melchior. The major was still being ribbed by officers in those units put on alert for the non-existent midnight disturbances. He was convinced that somehow the SD had been behind the fiasco to make the Abwehr look ridiculous. Mai didn’t discount the possibility but didn’t reckon Melchior would have had the nerve to fool Zeller knowingly.

‘I should prefer not to hear that revolting creature’s name mentioned, lieutenant,’ said Zeller dangerously. ‘I don’t know where he’s been hiding for the past weeks, but when he finally crawls out of his hole, he’s going to wish he’d burrowed down the centre of the earth.’

Going to give him a spanking, are we? thought Mai. But the look on his superior’s face convinced him it would be unwise even to hint he found the matter more amusing than tragic.

That night as he stood in the most obscure corner of the huge reception room in the Embassy, feeling itchy and uncomfortable in his dress uniform, he wondered if perhaps Zeller hadn’t been right about one thing. Looking round the glittering assembly, it was easy to believe that all the richest, most influential members of the Parisian ruling classes were here. Women in elegant billows of silk and satin, necks and bosoms gleaming with gold or dazzling with diamonds; men in tail-suits that actually fitted, some with the medals of other campaigns in other wars pinned proudly on their chests; smiling, dancing, drinking, joking with their conquerors. Could it be that Zeller was right? Could they not only have won the war, but somehow managed to win the peace?

As if summoned by his thoughts, the major appeared. He looked vital, assured, handsome, a true conqueror.

‘Enjoying yourself, Günter? The perfect end to a perfect year, wouldn’t you say? Triumph after triumph! There’s been nothing like it since Augustan Rome!’

‘Remember, you are mortal, major.’

‘What?’

‘Didn’t the Romans use to set a slave close behind the conqueror in his triumph to whisper as he acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, Remember, you are mortal?’

‘Did they? And is that the role you think God’s allocated you?’ said Zeller sarcastically. ‘No, I shouldn’t think so. Basically you’re too arrogant a bastard to think of yourself as a slave.’

Mai smiled. He wasn’t about to be provoked into a public row with his superior. That kind of fight was no-contest.

In any case, he definitely hadn’t been picked to remind Zeller of his human frailty that night. God had chosen quite another champion. Mai knew this because, over the major’s shoulder, he could see him approaching. And soon they could both hear his voice, fluting its deflating message.

‘Bruno, dear boy! I thought it was you, so unmistakable from behind! I’m so glad you could make it!’

Zeller swung round to confirm with his eyes what his ears found incredible.

‘What in the name of God are you doing here?’ he cried, bewilderment as yet stronger than rage.

Maurice Melchior raised his eyebrows.

‘I’m having a really delightful time, that’s what.’

He turned round, his elegant silken dinner jacket giving a quick flash of a brilliant scarlet lining.

‘Walter, I told you he’d be here. Bruno, my dear, you know my friend, Walter, of course. But let’s be formal, I know how much protocol matters to you military boys. Lieutenant-Colonel Fiebelkorn, may I have the honour of presenting you to Major Bruno Zeller?’

Mai saw the delight trembling through Melchior’s whole body as he made the introduction. Even clearer was the fury that held Zeller stiff, his fists clenched so tight that the silver signet ring stood out like a weapon. Melchior could live to rue the day he had made the major an enemy.

But as Günter Mai looked at the SS colonel’s impassive face and unblinking watery gaze, he felt a sudden certainty that it had been a far more dangerous day for Melchior when he had made Fiebelkorn his friend.

Across the room, a gorgeous French film star fanned her nearly naked breasts and complained how warm it was. A gallant Panzer officer immediately leant forward, drew back the heavy brocaded curtains and began to wrestle with a window.

‘The black-out! Remember the black-out!’ called someone.

‘The black-out?’ said the Panzer officer. ‘Why bother? There’s no danger up there unless Churchill starts sending trained pigeons from Trafalgar Square!’

There was a burst of laughter which became general as this shaft of Aryan wit was passed around the room and for a while the open curtain was forgotten, allowing the brilliance of the many chandeliers to spill its diamantine glory into the darkness outside.

A crowd had gathered earlier in the Rue de Lille to see the notables arrive, but as midnight approached, despite a rumoured assurance that the curfew would be suspended for this night, most of the watchers had drifted away to their own houses and their own meditations on the dying year.

A few remained, however. Among them was Janine Simonian. She had felt compelled to get out of Sophie’s tiny flat that night. She’d let herself drift but hadn’t been surprised to find herself in the University quarter. She had been brought here first by Jean-Paul. It was here that her eyes had been opened to a world outside the bakery, a world of ideas and imagination, of criticism and curiosity. Finally the memories had become too much and to escape them she joined the watchers in the Rue de Lille.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked someone.

‘It’s a ball, just like the old days,’ was the reply.

At that moment the curtain was drawn back and the spectators could see right into the reception hall. Music drifted out, and laughter. Elegant women in expensive clothes were drinking with attentive men in formal evening dress or colourful dress uniforms. It was a scene of assurance and power; it stated more forcibly than marching troops or rumbling gun carriages that we, here, inside, are the conquerors and will be for ever; while you, outside, are for ever the conquered.

A flurry of snow passed overhead, leaving flakes on her cheeks like tears. The last watchers began to depart. Someone said, ‘Happy New Year,’ but no one replied.

Janine said, ‘Jean-Paul, wherever you are, Happy New Year, my love.’

Then she too turned and walked slowly away from the light.