Rieleck-Sostmann said. She didn’t raise her voice at all.
“If I had only known … Please accept my apologies, Fräulein.” He groped for the door behind his back with one large pawlike hand. As he retreated, he banged into the bed, and Rieleck-Sostmann sat up menacingly. Immediately thereafter, we could hear the lieutenant’s heavy steps echoing down the hall.
“Sorry about that,” I said, touching her back.
56 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
“Nothing to be done. Your hotel is still less complicated than mine.” She smoothed the second stocking and looked at me. Her blond hair covered half her face. “Are you going to go out with him?”
I took one of her cigarettes. “Maybe.”
She began pinning up her hair. “Don’t you ever get the itch to play the Frenchman again?” she asked.
I struck a match. “Suppose I did. What harm would it do?”
“Well, I might denounce you as a déserteur amoureux. ”
I could never tell when she was joking. She looked into my eyes as they reflected the match’s bright flame. On a sudden im-pulse, she got to her feet, opened the wardrobe, and took out the suit with the little checks. She smiled as she put on the jacket.
Disguised as a man, she came back to the bed and sank down on me. I endured her painful attentions. Afterward, she stood up and let the jacket slip to the floor. Aided by the mirror, she arranged her hair for the second time. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, feeling the spot where she had bitten me.
In the seconds it took Rieleck-Sostmann to make sure the hotel corridor was clear, I wished for nothing so much as normal duty far from Paris, for some office somewhere, for written sentences I could translate into German. And at the same time, I knew I’d never have it so easy anywhere else.
Rieleck-Sostmann left. For several minutes, I stared at the jacket on the carpet. I missed Monsieur Antoine. The young man who pushed his hat high on his forehead and walked through the city in soft-soled shoes. The unknown Parisian who greeted people and was greeted in turn. He enjoyed soaking up some of the warmth of this summer afternoon.
A P R I L I N PA R I S . 57
Until that day, I hadn’t had the courage to disregard Rieleck-Sostmann’s warning. I hadn’t gone back to rue Jacob, not in civilian clothes, not in my uniform. Sometimes I considered dropping into Turachevsky’s, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that, either.
I often brooded over Chantal’s presence there and tried to make sense of it. I didn’t know much about her, but one thing was obvious: She hated the occupiers. Why would she appear before them naked?
I had grown gloomy and apathetic in these past weeks. We interrogated a Gascon suspected of plotting the arson attack in the ninth arrondissement. He was taciturn, gnarled as a root, and good at hiding behind his country dialect. I often had to repeat questions before I could understand what he meant. Leibold turned this man over to the SS corporals, but it was as though they were pounding on insensible stone. The Gascon had massive shoulders that he hunched defensively when the blows began. He let the corporals thrust his head into the tub. They held him under the water interminably, but when they pulled him back up, he said nothing. They prevented him from sleeping; heavy-lidded, his jaw jutting forward, he sat there and spoke so unintel-ligibly that I was obliged to work out for myself much of what he said.
“We’ll never get anything useful out of this guy,” Leibold said later, when we were in the hall. “But I’m sure he’s got important connections. I’ll let him go in a few days. Then I’ll set five blood-hounds on his trail. From then on, he’ll never be alone, not for a second. At some point, he’s got to try to make contact again.”
Sometimes I persuaded myself that I could be present at the endless interrogations—and even that I could witness the corpo-58 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
rals’ techniques
“If I had only known … Please accept my apologies, Fräulein.” He groped for the door behind his back with one large pawlike hand. As he retreated, he banged into the bed, and Rieleck-Sostmann sat up menacingly. Immediately thereafter, we could hear the lieutenant’s heavy steps echoing down the hall.
“Sorry about that,” I said, touching her back.
56 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
“Nothing to be done. Your hotel is still less complicated than mine.” She smoothed the second stocking and looked at me. Her blond hair covered half her face. “Are you going to go out with him?”
I took one of her cigarettes. “Maybe.”
She began pinning up her hair. “Don’t you ever get the itch to play the Frenchman again?” she asked.
I struck a match. “Suppose I did. What harm would it do?”
“Well, I might denounce you as a déserteur amoureux. ”
I could never tell when she was joking. She looked into my eyes as they reflected the match’s bright flame. On a sudden im-pulse, she got to her feet, opened the wardrobe, and took out the suit with the little checks. She smiled as she put on the jacket.
Disguised as a man, she came back to the bed and sank down on me. I endured her painful attentions. Afterward, she stood up and let the jacket slip to the floor. Aided by the mirror, she arranged her hair for the second time. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, feeling the spot where she had bitten me.
In the seconds it took Rieleck-Sostmann to make sure the hotel corridor was clear, I wished for nothing so much as normal duty far from Paris, for some office somewhere, for written sentences I could translate into German. And at the same time, I knew I’d never have it so easy anywhere else.
Rieleck-Sostmann left. For several minutes, I stared at the jacket on the carpet. I missed Monsieur Antoine. The young man who pushed his hat high on his forehead and walked through the city in soft-soled shoes. The unknown Parisian who greeted people and was greeted in turn. He enjoyed soaking up some of the warmth of this summer afternoon.
A P R I L I N PA R I S . 57
Until that day, I hadn’t had the courage to disregard Rieleck-Sostmann’s warning. I hadn’t gone back to rue Jacob, not in civilian clothes, not in my uniform. Sometimes I considered dropping into Turachevsky’s, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that, either.
I often brooded over Chantal’s presence there and tried to make sense of it. I didn’t know much about her, but one thing was obvious: She hated the occupiers. Why would she appear before them naked?
I had grown gloomy and apathetic in these past weeks. We interrogated a Gascon suspected of plotting the arson attack in the ninth arrondissement. He was taciturn, gnarled as a root, and good at hiding behind his country dialect. I often had to repeat questions before I could understand what he meant. Leibold turned this man over to the SS corporals, but it was as though they were pounding on insensible stone. The Gascon had massive shoulders that he hunched defensively when the blows began. He let the corporals thrust his head into the tub. They held him under the water interminably, but when they pulled him back up, he said nothing. They prevented him from sleeping; heavy-lidded, his jaw jutting forward, he sat there and spoke so unintel-ligibly that I was obliged to work out for myself much of what he said.
“We’ll never get anything useful out of this guy,” Leibold said later, when we were in the hall. “But I’m sure he’s got important connections. I’ll let him go in a few days. Then I’ll set five blood-hounds on his trail. From then on, he’ll never be alone, not for a second. At some point, he’s got to try to make contact again.”
Sometimes I persuaded myself that I could be present at the endless interrogations—and even that I could witness the corpo-58 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
rals’ techniques
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