Reginald Hill - The Collaborators

‘What do you mean, Bruno?’ demanded Melchior nervously.

‘You’re going to have to start earning your keep,’ said Zeller spitefully. ‘As a cultural guide, you’re a dead loss. As a sexual partner, you have your moments, but frankly, with the exchange rate the way it is, I can afford troupes of prettier, younger, more athletic friends than you, and there’s no shortage of offers. So that leaves only one avenue.’

‘What’s that, Bruno?’ asked Melchior, his mouth dry.

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‘When we first met, you asked if I was going to make an agent out of you. Like you, I took it as a joke. But by Christ, Maurice, the joking time is over. Those big ears and sharp eyes of yours must be good for something. From now on, if you want protection - and the alternative, let me assure you, is persecution - you’re going to earn your keep. Do you understand me?’

Hell hath no fury like a German officer made to feel ridiculous, thought Günter Mai who was listening in the next room. But trying to make an agent out of a creature like Melchior, that really was ridiculous. There could be trouble there. Should he try to warn Zeller? He thought not. It would mean admitting his knowledge. And Zeller probably wouldn’t listen. Besides, he thought with a smile, a bit of trouble wouldn’t do that gilded youth any harm at all.

A not unkind man, Günter Mai might have been rather more concerned, though not much, if he could have shared Melchior’s growing panic as October turned to November and Zeller’s threats became more and more dire. He tried to explain how terribly difficult it was for someone like himself to become an agent. He was more than willing to oblige, dear Bruno must believe that, but the kind of gossip he was so expert at collecting was not, alas, the kind which held much interest for the guardians of military security.

But at last a break had come. There were rumours everywhere that, angered by the complacent acceptance by their elders of the German Occupation, the university students were planning some kind of demonstration on November 11th, armistice day. Melchior spent all his spare time in the cafés on the Boul’ Miche where once he had sought the occasional pick-up. The youngsters were happy enough to let him pay for their drinks, but laughed behind his back at his efforts to draw them. Did someone who had so shamelessly flaunted his Aryan nancy-boy really believe they were going to spill their plans for a few cups of coffee?

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But there were others who noticed and did not discount his efforts so scornfully.

On November 10th, he was sitting disconsolately in the café where he’d taken Bruno after their first meeting. The owner no longer greeted him by name now his usual clientele were back, and not even free coffee seemed able to buy him company today. As one student had explained, thinking to be kind, ‘You’ve grown so dull, Maurice, since you stopped trying to screw us.’

He rose and left. As he walked along the rain-polished pavement observing with distaste the spattering of his mirror-like shoes, footsteps came hurrying after him. He looked round to see a youngster he knew as Émile approaching. He was a pale, sick-looking boy, and shabby even by student standards. When he caught up, he glanced behind him furtively, then drew Maurice off the boulevard into a doorway.

‘Monsieur,’ he said. ‘I need money.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Melchior. ‘A couple of francs is all I have…’

‘I need a thousand. Five hundred at the very least.’

Melchior looked at him sharply. This was obviously no ordinary touch.

He said, ‘Even if I had such a sum, which I don’t, why should I loan it to you?’

‘Not loan. Pay. Look, monsieur, everyone knows you’re very interested in the plans for our demo tomorrow. Well, I can tell you it’s not going to wait till tomorrow. Come midnight tonight, and you’ll be able to see to read, if you’re in the right places. I know those places.’

‘But that’ll mean breaking the curfew.’

‘It’s not the only thing that will be broken,’ said Émile. ‘Come on. Are you in the market or not?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Melchior.

‘Because if I don’t, I’ll be flung off my course by the weekend, if I don’t get flung off a bridge first by the people I owe money to.’

These were reasons Melchior could understand. He said, ‘I’d need proof.’

‘For God’s sake, what’s proof? I’ve got a copy of the plan with timings and locations, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Melchior who despite everything was quite enjoying getting into his role. ‘You give me the plan. If it works out, I’ll pay you five hundred francs tomorrow.’

‘Go and screw yourself, you little fairy,’ said Émile angrily. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to trust someone like you!’

Melchior smiled, unhurt, and said significantly, ‘It wouldn’t be me you were trusting, Émile. Your payment would be guaranteed, believe me.’

The youngster weighed this up. Strange, thought Melchior. He knows I mean the Germans and he’ll doubtless end up by deciding he can trust them more than he’d trust me.

He was right.

‘OK,’ said the student reluctantly. ‘Payment tomorrow morning, nine sharp, the Tuileries Gardens, by the Orangerie. And it’ll be the full thousand for extended credit, all right?’

‘Agreed,’ said Melchior, holding out his hand.

A folded sheet of paper was put into it, then Émile turned on his heel and hurried away into the gathering dusk.

Melchior walked along, studying the paper. There were going to be torchlight processions starting in the Place de la Bastille at 11.30. And once the authorities’ attention had been concentrated on the processions, the Embassy, in the Rue de Lille, and the Hôtel de Ville were going to be the objects of the main demos at midnight. Melchior practically danced along the pavement in his elation. No hint of such early activity had emerged hitherto. This would be a real coup for Bruno. Surely he must show his gratitude by restoring their relationship?

But now as quickly as it had come, his joy faded as a sense of revulsion swept over him. What the hell was he doing? Giving this to Bruno meant hundreds of youngsters could be walking into a trap. And the Boche wouldn’t be gentle, that was sure. No! He wouldn’t do it. Bruno could go jump in the Seine!

He walked on, feeling incredibly noble.

Then he heard the sound of breaking glass. He turned a corner and saw a tobacconist’s with its window shattered. Pasted on the door was a now familiar sign saying JEWISH BUSINESS. Two youths with the armbands of the Parti Populaire Français were standing laughing on the pavement. They fell silent as he walked past. Then he heard their footsteps coming after him. Faster and faster he walked till he was almost running.

Finally, exhausted by effort and fear, he stopped and turned.

He was alone. But he had left his feeling of nobility far behind.

Every year on November 11th, Sophie Simonian went to the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior to leave some flowers and make her own personal thanksgiving.

‘Bubbah, this year say thanks at home or in the synagogue,’ urged Janine.

Sophie looked at her in surprise and said, ‘Why should I change the habit of twenty years, child? I owe it to Iakov for his safe return.’

Realizing she had no hope of winning the argument, Janine insisted on accompanying her, leaving the children in the care of a neighbour.

As their train pulled into l’Étoile métro station, she saw that the platforms were crowded and the crush of people getting into the carriage prevented the two women from getting out. When Sophie began to grow agitated, a middle-aged man who’d just entered said, ‘Take it easy, old lady. You’re better off down here than up there. You’d not be let out of the station anyway!’