Reginald Hill - The Collaborators

‘This job of yours, what is it exactly?’ she asked.

‘It’s all above board,’ he assured her. ‘We help the authorities recover things. Food that’s been hoarded, valuables that have been hidden, illegally I mean.’

‘You help the Boche to loot!’

‘No,’ he said with genuine indignation. ‘It’s just recovery. People abandon their houses, make no proper provision for storing delicate antiques, the authorities take care of them.’

‘Rich Jews’ villas, you mean? And what do you know about delicate antiques, Miche?’

He grinned and said, ‘Not much. But they have experts to deal with things like that. And it’s not just Jewish stuff either. I reckon it’s a lot of rubbish this stuff about the Boche being down on the Jews. So there’s a bit of trouble sometimes, but there’s never been any shortage of our lot ready to have a go at the Jews. Ask your mum-in-law. I bet she can tell a tale or two. It just goes to show.’

It struck Janine that what her cousin was really wanting to show was that he was quite justified in working for the Germans. And it struck her also that she was feeling rather holier-than-thou for someone who had lain awake all night debating just what she would agree to in return for hard information about Jean-Paul.

But it had all been a waste of time. She was running out of hope. That was the point she was trying to steer away from in this idle chatter with Miche.

She didn’t realize she was crying till Miche said, ‘Hey come on. No weeping. Not outside anyway. You’ll get icicles on your cheeks. Let’s get you home. Tell you what, why don’t I use my influence and see if I can dig you up some proper fuel, and perhaps a kilo of best steak so you can all feast your faces tonight?’

He dropped her in the Rue de Thorigny promising to be back within the hour. He meant it too. Miche the Butcher had a soft heart. But he was even softer when it came to resolution.

As he drove along the Rue Montmartre toward his well-stocked, well-fuelled apartment, he saw a familiar small but exquisitely packed figure, swaying along beneath an explosion of golden hair.

‘Arlette!’ he called. ‘Arlette! How’s it going?’

She looked in surprise at the impressive car pulling into the kerb, then recognized Boucher.

‘Miche, it’s you. God, you’re doing all right, aren’t you?’

‘Not bad,’ he grinned. ‘Long time, no see.’

In fact he hadn’t seen Arlette since she’d put him up when he came back to Paris last June. They’d parted in a quarrel. He recalled throwing some very nasty names at her, not because she’d needed him out of her room so that she could ply her trade, but because he realized her new customers were Germans.

Well, he’d been a patriot then. Still was, only the Marshal had changed the shape of patriotism.

‘Fancy a drink?’ he said.

‘Why not? My place or yours?’

Hélène was at his place. She was dancing tonight and liked to have a good rest. He’d been quite looking forward to disturbing her. On the other hand it would probably be a kindness not to.

‘Yours,’ he said. ‘Hop in.’

Janine had watched him drive away: assertive, positive, athletic. She’d felt envious. What must it be like to be a man and be able to adapt your environment to your needs instead of having to mould your needs to your environment! These men could do anything! Finding a lost husband, or providing food and fuel within the hour, it was all one to them.

But as she shivered hungrily to bed that night, she made a bitter adjustment to her conclusion.

Promising to find a husband; promising to provide warmth and nourishment; promising to come back from the wars safe and sound and soon; it was these resounding promises that were all one to them. All vibrant with sincerity, and all completely vain.

It was an April evening, but the wind that met Christian Valois head on as he cycled back to the family apartment in Passy was full of sleet. He carried his bike up the stairs and into the apartment with him. Cars had practically vanished from the streets. There was little petrol to be had and, in any case, you needed a special Ausweis from the Germans to use one, so bikes were now pricey enough to attract the professional thief.

As he took off his sodden coat, the phone rang.

The line was poor and the female voice at the other end was faint and intermittent.

‘Hello! Hello! I can’t hear you. Who is that?’

Suddenly the interference went and the voice came loud and clear.

‘It’s me, your sister, idiot!’

‘Marie-Rose! Hello. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Listen, quickly, in case we get cut off. Are you coming down this weekend? Please, you must, it’s my birthday, or had you forgotten?’

She was seventeen on Saturday. Seventeen. A good age, even in awful times. But could he bear to go to Vichy? His parents had urged him frequently to join them, or at least to come for a visit. So far he had refused. But Marie-Rose’s birthday was different. Despite her youthful impertinence his sister adored him and he was very fond of her.

He said, ‘I don’t know. The weather, it’s so awful…’

‘Damn the weather! Please, please, it won’t be the same without you.’

‘I’ll see,’ he said. ‘I won’t promise but I’ll see.’

Shortly afterwards they were cut off.

The next morning, spring finally exploded with all the violence of energy too long restrained. On the Friday afternoon, he caught the train to Vichy.

At the crossing point into the Free Zone, they were all ordered out to have their papers checked. Valois had had no difficulty in getting an Ausweis. When your father was a Vichy deputy and you were a respectable civil servant, you were regarded as quite safe, he thought moodily.

Not everyone was as lucky. Somewhere along the platform an argument had broken out. Voices were raised, German and French. Suddenly a middle-aged man in a dark business suit broke away from a group of German soldiers, ran a little way down the platform, then scrambled beneath the train.

Valois jumped into the nearest carriage to look out of the further window. The man was on his feet again, running across the tracks. He was no athlete and he was already labouring. A voice cried, ‘Halt!’ He kept going. A gun rattled twice. He flung up his arms and fell.

He wasn’t dead, but hit in the leg. Two soldiers ran up to him and pulled him upright. He screamed every time his injured leg touched the ground as he half-hopped and was half-dragged the length of the train to bring him back round to the platform.

Valois turned furiously from the window and made for the platform door. There was a man sitting in the compartment who must have got back in after him.

He said, ‘I shouldn’t bother.’

Valois paused, realizing he recognized the man.

‘I’m sorry? It’s Maître Delaplanche, isn’t it?’

‘You recognize me?’

The lawyer’s face, which was the living proof of his Breton peasant ancestry, screwed up in mock alarm.

‘You’re often in the papers, and I attended several meetings you spoke at when I was a student.’

‘Did you? Ah yes. I seem to recall you now.’ Face screwed up again in an effort of recollection as unconvincing as his alarm. ‘Valois, isn’t it? Christian Valois. Of course. I knew your father when he practised, before politics took him over.’

Delaplanche was well known in legal circles as a pleader of underdog causes. Whenever an individual challenged the State, his opinion if not his counsel would be sought. He had spoken on a variety of socialist platforms but always refused to put the weight of his reputation behind any programme except in his own words, ‘the quest for justice’.