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.
PART THREE
February—December 1941
Dans une telle situation, il n’y a que le premier pas qui coûte.
Madame du Deffand
1
If it wasn’t the coldest February in years, to most Frenchmen it felt like it.
Monsieur Édouard Scheffer of Strasbourg sat in the Café Balzac near the Quai de Grenelle métro station and shivered. Not even two thicknesses of overcoat, a Homburg hat and frequent additions to his vile coffee from a gun-metal hip flask could keep him warm. The patron, who valued his custom, was apologetic. He and Monsieur Scheffer had done a few small blackmarket deals in the couple of months since Miche the Butcher had introduced them, so he was sure that Monsieur would appreciate the problem of fuel shortage.
The seated man nodded and thought of his beautifully warm room at the Lutétia. Bruno Zeller would never undertake assignments which involved freezing to death. In fairness it was difficult to imagine Zeller being able to pass himself off as anything other than a German officer, but just now Günter Mai didn’t feel like being fair.
The door opened. Two figures entered. One was Boucher, the other was the girl. Boucher peered down the long shadowy room in search of him. He always sat at the furthermost end near the kitchen door, partly for security, partly to avoid the draught.
Now Boucher saw him. Spoke to the girl. Pointed.
She looked, saw, recognized.
In that instant he could see she’d had no idea who she was going to meet. He’d assumed Boucher would have told her, and he’d been surprised when nevertheless the redhead had confirmed the meet was on. But all that he’d read into this was that the girl was desperate, and desperate people made easy recruits.
She was trying to leave but her cousin was hanging on to her arm. Mai willed him to let her go. If she was forced to confront him now, his cover could be blown and he found Édouard Scheffer very useful.
She was coming. Damn. He signalled the patron to bring more coffee. The girl arrived and glowered down at him.
‘Darling, how good to see you. Not still angry with me, are you?’
She was taken aback. The patron, arriving with the coffee, grinned lecherously, scenting a lovers’ quarrel. Angrily she sat in the chair he ostentatiously pulled