Patrick Modiano - The Occupation Trilogy - La Place de l'Étoile – The Night Watch – Ring Roads

The voice of Admiral Levy roused him from his thoughts.

‘Good crossing, young man? First time in Israel? You’ll love our country. A terrific country, you’ll see. Lads of your age are swept up by the extraordinary energy that, from Haifa to Eilat, from Tel Aviv to the Dead Sea. .’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Admiral.’

‘Are you French? We have a great love of France, the liberal traditions, the warmth of Anjou and Touraine, the scents of Provence. And your national anthem, it’s beautiful! “ Allons enfants de la patrie!” Capital, capital!’

‘I’m not entirely French, Admiral, I am a French jew. A French jew.’

Admiral Levy gave him a hostile glare. Admiral Levy looks like the twin brother of Admiral Dönitz. After a moment Admiral Levy says curtly:

‘Follow me, please.’

He ushers the young man into a sealed cabin.

‘I advise you to be sensible. We will deal with you in due course.’

The admiral switches off the electricity and double locks the door.

He sat in total darkness for almost three hours. Only the faint glow of his wristwatch still connected him to the world. The door was flung open and his eyes were dazzled by the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. Three men in green oilskins strode towards him. One of them held out a card.

‘Elias Bloch, Secret State Police. You’re a French Jew? Excellent! Put him in handcuffs!’

A fourth stooge, wearing an identical trench coat, stepped into the cabin.

‘A very productive search. In the gentleman’s luggage we found several books by Proust and Kafka, reproductions of Modigliani and Soutine, some photos of Charlie Chaplin, Erich von Stroheim and Groucho Marx.’

‘Your case is looking more and more serious,’ says the man named Elias Bloch. ‘Take him away!’

The men bundle him out of the cabin. The handcuffs chafe his wrists. On the quayside, he tripped and fell down. One of the officers takes the opportunity to give him a few swift kicks in the ribs then, grabbing the chain linking the handcuffs, dragged him to his feet. They crossed the deserted docks. A police van exactly like the ones used by the French police in the roundup on 16 July 1942 was parked on the street corner. Elias Bloch slid into the seat next to the driver. The young man climbed into the back followed by three officers.

The police van sets off up the Champs-Élysées. People are queuing outside the cinemas. On the terrace of Fouquet’s, women are wearing pale dresses. It was clearly a Saturday evening in spring.

They stopped at the Place de l’Étoile. A few GIs were photographing the Arc de Triomphe, but he felt no need to call to them for help. Bloch grabbed his arm and marched him across the place . The four officers followed a few paces behind.

‘So, you’re a French Jew?’ Bloch asked, his face looming close.

He suddenly looked like Henri Chamberlin-Lafont of the French Gestapo Française.

He was bundled into a black Citroën parked on the Avenue Kléber.

‘You’re for it now,’ said the officer on his right.

‘For a beating, right, Saul?’ said the officer on his left.

‘Yes, Isaac, he’s in for a beating,’ said the officer driving.

‘I’ll do it.’

‘No, let me! I need the exercise,’ said the officer on his right.

‘No, Isaac! It’s my turn. You got to beat the shit out of the English Jew last night. This one’s mine.’

‘Apparently this one’s a French Jew.’

‘That’s weird. Why don’t we call him Marcel Proust?’

Isaac gave him a brutal punch in the stomach.

‘On your knees, Marcel! On your knees!’

Meekly he complied. The back seat made it difficult. Isaac slapped him six times.

‘You’re bleeding, Marcel: that means you’re still alive.’

Saul whipped out a leather belt.

‘Catch, Marcel Proust,’ he said.

The belt hit him on the left cheek and he almost passed out.

‘Poor little brat,’ said Isaiah. ‘Poor little French Jew.’

He passed the Hôtel Majestic. All the windows of the great façade were dark. To reassure himself, he decided that Otto Abetz flanked by all the jolly fellows of the Collaboration were in the lobby for him, the guest of honour at a Franco-German dinner. After all, was he not the official Jew to the Third Reich?

‘We’re taking you on a little tour of the area,’ said Isaiah.

‘There are a lot of historical monuments around here,’ said Saul.

‘We’ll stop at each one so you have a chance to appreciate them.’

They showed him the buildings requisitioned by the Gestapo: Nos. 31 bis and 72 Avenue Foch. 57 Boulevard Lannes. 48 Rue de Villejust. 101 Avenue Henri-Martin. Nos. 3 and 5 Rue Mallet-Stevens. Nos. 21 and 23 Square de Bois-de-Boulogne. 25 Rue d’Astorg. 6 Rue Adolphe-Yvon. 64 Boulevard Suchet. 49 Rue de la Faisanderie. 180 Rue de la Pompe.

Having finished the sightseeing tour, they headed back to the Kléber-Boissière sector.

‘So what did you make of the 16th arrondissement ?’ Isaiah asked him.

‘It’s the most notorious district in Paris,’ said Saul.

‘And now, driver, take us to 93 Rue Lauriston, please,’ said Isaac.

He felt reassured. His friends Bonny and Chamberlin-Lafont would soon put an end to this tasteless joke. They would drink champagne together as they did every night. René Launay, head of the Gestapo on the Avenue Foch, ‘Rudy’ Martin from the Gestapo in Neuilly, Georges Delfanne from the Avenue Henri-Martin and Odicharia from the ‘Georgia Gestapo’ would join them. Order would be restored.

Isaac rang the bell at 93 Rue Lauriston. The building looked deserted.

‘The boss is probably waiting for us at 3 bis Place des États-Unis for the beating,’ said Isaiah.

Bloch paced up and down the pavement. He opened the door to number 3 bis and dragged the young man inside.

He knew this hôtel particulier well. His friends Bonny and Chamberlin-Lafont has remodelled the property to create eight holding cells and two torture chambers, since the premises at 93 Rue Lauriston served as the administrative headquarters.

They went up to the fourth floor. Bloch opened a window.

‘The Place des États-Unis is quiet this evening,’ he said. ‘See how the streetlights cast a soft glow over the leaves, my young friend. A beautiful May evening. And to think, we have to torture you. The bathtub torture, as it happens. How sad. A little glass of curaçao for Dutch courage? A Craven? Or would you prefer a little music? In a while, we’ll play you a little song by Charles Trenet. It will drown out your screams. The neighbours are sensitive. They prefer the voice of Trenet to the sound of you being tortured.’

Saul, Isaac and Isaiah entered. They had not taken off their green trench coats. He immediately noticed the bathtub in the middle of the room.

‘It once belonged to Émilienne d’Alençon,’ Bloch said with a sad smile. ‘Admire the quality of the enamelling, my friend, the floral motifs, the platinum taps.’

Isaac wrenched his hands behind his back while Isaiah put on the handcuffs. Saul turned on the phonograph. Raphäel immediately recognised the voice of Charles Trenet:

Formidable,

J’entends le vent sur la mer.

Formidable

Je vois la pluie, les éclairs.

Formidable

Je sens bientôt qu’il va faire,

qu’il va faire

Un orage

Formidable. .

Sitting on the window ledge, Bloch beat time.

They plunged my head into the freezing water. My lungs felt as though they might explode at any minute. The faces I had loved flashed past. The faces of my mother and my father. My old French teacher Adrien Debigorre. The face of Fr. Perrache. The face of Colonel Aravis. And then the faces of all my wonderful fiancées — I had one in every province. Bretagne, Normandy, Poitou. Corrèze. Lozère. Savoie. . Even one in Limousin. In Bellac. If these thugs spared my life, I would write a wonderful novel: Schlemilovitch and the Limousin , in which I would show that I am a perfectly assimilated Jew.