The Collaborators. Reginald Hill

see. But thanks for telling me about Sophie. I’ll keep an eye on her.’

      As she spoke, Valois realized just how much on edge she was; emotionally frayed by worry about Jean-Paul, physically exhausted by her work in the shop combined with sleepless nights looking after the kids, and doubtless worn down by the simple strain of daily life with the formidable Louise.

      Behind him the shop door opened and a German officer came in. He was a stocky fellow of indeterminate age with an ordinary kind of face, were it not for a certain shrewdness of gaze which made you think that every time he blinked, his eyes were registering photographs.

      ‘Good day, Ma’m’selle Janine,’ he said in excellent French. ‘I hope the children are improving. I was asking after them when I talked with your excellent mother earlier. I thought perhaps a few chocolates might tempt their appetites back to normal…’

      He proffered a box of chocolates. Janine ignored it and glanced furiously at Valois. She was angry that after what she’d just been saying, the civil servant should see her on such apparently familiar terms with this Boche. Feeling herself close to explosion, she took a deep breath and said, ‘No thank you, lieutenant. I don’t think they will help.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Günter Mai, nonplussed.

      He regarded her assessingly, placed the box carefully on the counter and said, ‘Forgive the intrusion. Perhaps your dear mother, or you yourself, might enjoy them. You’ll be doing me a favour.’

      He patted his waistline ruefully, touched his peak in the shadow of a salute and brought his heels gently together in the echo of a click.

      It was the gentle mockery of these gestures plus the diplomatic courtesy with which he’d received her rejection that finally triggered off the explosion.

      She pushed the chocolates back across the counter with such force that the box flew through the air, struck him on the chest and burst open, scattering its contents all over the floor.

      ‘Why don’t you sod off and take your sodding chocolates with you?’ she shouted. ‘We don’t want them, do you understand? I can look after my own kids without any help from the likes of you.’

       59

      The door from the living quarters burst open.

      ‘What’s going on!’ demanded Madame Crozier. ‘What’s all the noise?’

      ‘It’s nothing, madame. The young lady is upset. Just a little misunderstanding,’ said Mai with a rueful smile.

      ‘I’ve been telling your Boche friend a few home truths,’ cried Janine. ‘You talk to him if you want, maman. Me, I’ve had enough!’

      She pushed her way past her mother and disappeared.

      ‘Janine! Come back here!’ commanded Madame Crozier. ‘Lieutenant, I’m so sorry, you must forgive her, take no notice, she’s overwrought. Excuse me.’

      She turned and went after her daughter. Soon angry voices drifted back into the shop where Mai and Valois stood looking at each other.

      ‘And you are…?’ said Mai courteously.

      ‘Valois. Of the Ministry of Finance.’

      ‘Ah. Not in Vichy, monsieur?’

      ‘Finance remains in Paris.’

      ‘Of course. Good day, Monsieur Valois.’

      No salute or heel clicking this time. He turned and left the shop. Christian Valois went to the door and watched him stroll slowly along the pavement. His back presented an easy target. With a shock of self-recognition, Valois found himself imagining pulling out a gun and pumping bullets into that hated uniform. But if he had a gun would he have the nerve to use it? He realized he was trembling.

      Behind him, Louise re-entered, her face pink with emotion.

      ‘Has he gone? Such behaviour! I don’t know where she gets it from, not my family, I’m sure. She’s never been the same since she married that Jew.’

      She sank to her knees and began collecting chocolates. Janine came in. Ignoring her mother, she said, ‘Christian, no need to worry about Sophie. Soon as the children are well enough, I’ll be coming to stay with her. Will you tell her that, please? I’ll be round later to sort things out.’

      60

      ’It’s a very small flat,’ said Valois. ‘You’ll be awfully crowded.’

      ‘Not as crowded as we are here, knee deep in Boches and their hangers-on.’

      ‘Listen to her. Such ingratitude, she’ll get us all killed,’ muttered Louise, crawling around in search of stray chocolates.

      Pauli came in and looked curiously at his crawling grandmother.

      ‘What’s gramma doing?’ he asked.

      ‘Rooting for truffles,’ said Janine. ‘Goodbye, Christian.’

      Stepping gingerly over Louise, Christian Valois left the bakery. As he walked along the empty street, he began to smile, then to chuckle out loud.

      Unobserved in a doorway on the other side, Günter Mai smiled too.

      6

      In October, a census of Jews was announced. They were required to report in alphabetical order to their local police station. When Janine expressed unease, Sophie laughed and said, ‘It’s our own French police I shall see, not the Germans. In any case, would the Marshal have met with Herr Hitler and shaken his hand if there was need to worry?’

      Janine too had taken comfort from the meeting at Montoire. If things were getting back to normal, surely prisoners must soon be released? He wasn’t dead…he couldn’t be dead…

      At the police station there was a long queue. When she reached its head, Sophie filled in her registration form with great care. Only at the Next of Kin section did she hesitate. Something made her look over her shoulder. Behind her, winding around the station vestibule and out of the door, stretched the queue. Conversation was low; most didn’t speak at all, but stood with expressions of stolid resignation, every now and then shuffling forward to whatever fate officialdom had devised for them.

      ‘Come on, old lady,’ said a gendarme. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

      She put a stroke of the pen through Next of Kin.

      ‘What? No family?’

      ‘A son. Until the war.’

      ‘I’m sorry. Thank God it’s all over for the rest of us. Now sign your name and be on your way.’

      It felt good to be out in the street again and her confidence rapidly returned as she walked home as briskly as her rheumatic knee permitted.

      As she reached the apartment building, Maurice Melchior emerged, resplendent in a long astrakhan coat which he’d been given by accident from the cloakroom at the Comédie-Française the previous winter and at last felt safe in wearing.

      ‘Good day, Madame Simonian. And how are you? Taking the air?’

      Piqued at being accused of such unproductive activity, Sophie said sharply, ‘No, monsieur. I’ve been to register.’

      ‘Register?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How quaint! Good day, madame!’

      Melchior set off at a brisk pace, eager to put as much distance as possible between himself and this silly old Jewess who’d gone voluntarily to put her name on an official census-list. How desperate people were to convince themselves that everything was normal. Normal! All they had to do was stroll along the boulevards and look in the shop windows. Everything had gone. Ration coupons had been introduced the previous month. And the forecast was for a long, hard winter. The only people