The Paris Affair

16 Christoph

16

Christoph

July, 1942 – Paris

The trees by the Seine swayed in the light breeze. Somehow, summer had arrived, despite the war. The trees would be in full leaf at home too, on the avenue that linked his family’s farm with Hilde’s. Lotte would be out in the fields with their mother. Even though she couldn’t speak, Christoph and his mother had grown to understand her noises and gestures. Summertime always filled her with delight.

Christoph undid the top button of his shirt; the heat was stifling. He’d walked further than usual so that he could get some new sheet music for Otto from a shop in the rue de l’Université. Now, with it rolled up under his arm, he headed towards the Seine.

Sylvie’s words still troubled him. Nothing is worse than active ignorance. It echoed the inner critic inside of him: the one who failed, every day, to act. Worse still had been the look of contempt on her face. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, Christoph wanted her to think well of him.

As he neared the river, where couples were strolling and fishermen cast out lines into the water, he heard strange wailing noises fill the air.

‘What’s going on?’ Christoph asked one of the fishermen.

‘It’s the Jews in the velodrome,’ the man said. ‘It’s been going on for two days now.’

Le Vel’ d’Hiv. Christoph hadn’t realized he was so close. He’d heard the Kommandant discussing the fiasco of the French round-ups: how the French were finally making good on their promise to deliver up the Jews by herding thousands of them into the velodrome before transportation out of Paris. Christoph had blanched inwardly when he’d heard the news. Now, drifting on the light breeze, that gut-wrenching sound he could hear was the suffering of everyone trapped inside.

It was unbearable. Christoph wanted to stop his ears, to drown out the noise of all those voices, all that pain. He turned around, quickening his pace, walking towards the Eiffel Tower, away from the sound, as fast as he could.

But the wails rang in his ears; he couldn’t escape them. He shivered despite the heat, crossing the Tuileries, where people sat on benches and pigeons pecked at the gravel as if nothing untoward was happening on this bright July day.

Without warning, Christoph’s stomach heaved. He vomited on the grass. An old woman walking past looked at him with disgust. He wiped his mouth. His work for the Kommandant researching farms in Normandy had nothing to do with what was happening in Le Vel’ d’Hiv. But it was part of the same chain; mere links separated him from such atrocities. He felt the weight of it, choking him.

Christoph tried to compose himself. He was late for the piano lesson. He knocked on the door of the Kommandant’s apartment, the taste of bile still in his throat. Frau Schaumberg opened it, her face streaked with tears, Otto by her side.

‘Is everything all right?’ Christoph said.

‘ Nein, nichts ist in Ordnung ,’ Frau Schaumberg said. She wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘The Kommandant wants Otto to learn how to make Schweinsohren. I can’t go down to the kitchens with all the staff staring at me, but the Kommandant insists.’

Otto tugged Christoph’s jacket. ‘Papa says they’re delicious and that I can eat as many as I like.’

Frau Schaumberg pulled at her handkerchief. ‘It’s too humiliating.’

The cries from Le Vel’ d’Hiv still echoed in Christoph’s mind. He struggled to feel sorry for Frau Schaumberg and her petty worries in the light of what he’d heard that morning. But he couldn’t show this. Besides, he had some sympathy for her subservience to the Kommandant’s commands.

‘But I want to go,’ Otto said, stamping his foot.

Frau Schaumberg turned to Christoph. ‘Would you mind taking him, Herr Leutnant, instead of doing the piano lesson?’

Christoph hesitated. Sylvie would be there. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see her again. Especially not now, when he felt so low. It would only remind him how hateful his position was here. But he couldn’t refuse a request from the Kommandant’s wife.

The kitchen hummed with heat and activity. Saucepans steamed. M. Dupont was overseeing two assistant chefs who were plucking some chickens. He talked loudly, above the noise of the boiling pans. It contrasted with the cold efficiency of the hotel atrium. Christoph inhaled the aroma of fried onion. Strange, how life went on.

‘Apologies for interrupting,’ Christoph said. ‘The Kommandant wants someone to teach Otto how to make Schweinsohren . ’

Sylvie came out of the larder, her arms full of potatoes.

M. Dupont nodded. ‘She’ll do it. No doubt she’ll have that Schwein thing in her book . ’

That was the last thing Christoph wanted. ‘No, don’t worry, we’ll come back another time.’

But Otto was crossing the kitchen to Sylvie, babbling in German. The other chefs smiled, amused. Christoph followed, feeling foolish.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to bother anyone, but the Kommandant’s wife insisted.’ This was as awkward as he’d feared.

‘It’s fine,’ Sylvie said, giving him a brief smile. ‘I know how to make them. They’re like palmiers.’

She turned to Otto. ‘Schweinsohren?’ she said. ‘ Tu et moi? ’ She tapped his nose gently and smiled.

Otto smiled back, relieved. ‘ Ja, bitte ,’ he said.

Sylvie fetched her recipe book and looked up the ingredients, then they mixed them into a dough. Christoph stood back and watched them roll the pastry flat and spread the filling on top, enchanted by her patience. Sylvie showed Otto how to roll the pastry into the centre from each of the long sides, while the hustle and bustle of lunch preparations went on around them.

It was soothing to observe her at work. Christoph felt his heart slow and the knots in his stomach loosen a little. The sound of her voice drowned out the cries he’d heard from Le Vel’ d’Hiv, for now at least. Her gentleness to Otto reminded him that kindness still existed.

When the pastries were in the oven, Sylvie gave Otto a glass of water and some left-over pastry to play with.

‘How long will they take?’ Christoph asked, hoping to engage her in conversation.

Sylvie took the bowl and spoons to the sink and turned on the tap. ‘ Quinze minutes ,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure they don’t burn.’

‘You’re good with him,’ Christoph said.

‘He’s just a child.’

She scrubbed the bowl with a wire brush. Suds dripped from her hands. The scar on her hand was fading.

‘Have you settled in at Le Meurice?’ Christoph asked.

Sylvie shrugged. ‘As well as can be expected. I have a room with a view of Paris, but I’m not allowed to leave the hotel by myself.’

‘ Pardon , I didn’t think …’ He was an idiot. The question had been clumsy, given the circumstances. Sylvie wasn’t here by choice but by the Kommandant’s orders.

‘It’s okay, it’s not your fault.’ She yanked the plug and the water gurgled away.

‘Ah, here you all are,’ the Kommandant said, striding through the kitchen.

Christoph saluted, cursing the Kommandant’s arrival. He’d wanted to say more to Sylvie, to undo his blunder, but the chance had gone.

‘You’ve been busy.’ The Kommandant glanced at Sylvie. ‘The smell of cinnamon reminds me of Christmas back home. I presume this is from your recipe book?’

‘Yes, Herr Kommandant. We used preserved figs from the head chef’s uncle’s orchard for the filling.They’ll be ready soon.’

‘Can I go and tell Mama how I made it?’ Otto asked. The Kommandant ruffled his son’s hair and nodded. Otto gave a quick wave to Sylvie and hurried out.

The Kommandant folded his arms. ‘So, you really are a chef with mixed German and French heritage. A lucky find here in Paris.’

Christoph recognized that tone of voice – warm, playful, knowing – he’d heard the Kommandant use it on other women. He watched anxiously.

‘Thank you, Herr Kommandant …’ Sylvie hesitated, twisting her hands. ‘I wonder …’

Intrigued, the Kommandant stepped closer. He was interested in her. Christoph could tell by the way he thrust his shoulders back.

‘What do you wonder, my dear?’ the Kommandant said, his voice soothing.

‘If it’s at all possible, I’d be very grateful if I could fetch my belongings. The boarding house where I was staying isn’t far from here.’

‘Indeed,’ the Kommandant said. ‘What is it that you need?’

‘A few clothes and keepsakes. I have a sprig of dried lavender that hangs on my bed. The smell reminds me of my grandmother’s garden. Just like the cinnamon reminds you of home.’

Christoph held his breath. She was too bold, but the Kommandant apparently liked her audacity. Had there been something almost flirtatious in her words? The Kommandant seemed to think so.

‘Ah, lavender,’ he said. ‘Its scent is more conducive to sleep if tucked under the pillow. It depends on how deeply one wishes to sleep.’ His eyes ran down the length of her body.

Out of nowhere, a ball of fury threatened to break loose in Christoph. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to calm down. He’d seen the Kommandant flirt with dozens of women. Why should he care this time?

‘Very well then,’ the Kommandant continued, ‘as you have argued your case so eloquently, you can visit your old boarding house. Leutnant Baumann will escort you after breakfast tomorrow morning.’

After he left the kitchen, Christoph collected a letter from Hilde from the reception desk. Christoph’s heart sank at the sight of her handwriting. He took it up to his room to read.

Lieber Christoph , she wrote

My father has paid for the repairs to your mother’s house. She was most grateful. We’ll all be one big family when you finally get home.

It’s a pity we couldn’t get married during your last leave. I know it was short, but we could have managed it. Your desire to wait, to give me a ‘proper wedding’, has been admired by everyone in the village except me!

Your sister misses you. When I have time, I go and visit her, but it’s impossible to get any sense out of her.

Write soon and tell me how much you miss me.

Christoph looked out over the rooftops of Paris. Hilde’s words about his sister made him uneasy. They were too much like the taunting Lotte had received at school but couched in a jolly tone. He didn’t know how he could counter it. The fate of his family’s farm and Lotte were now dependent upon the generosity of Hilde’s father and his friends in the party.

He picked up the pen to reply but heard a noise. It came from above. Barely a sound, really. More like a door softly closing. Christoph listened again, but there was nothing.

The hotel was set out on six floors. Above the grand reception rooms and offices lay the state bedrooms and the Kommandant’s apartment. Higher still were three floors of bedrooms for the staff, with the women on the lower of these floors and the men in the two floors above. Christoph’s room was on the men’s floor that lay almost at the top of the building and above that were storerooms in the eaves. The noise must have come from the storerooms. Maybe it was bats.

Christoph had never been in there, but sometimes he went to the very top of the building, to the old rooftop garden and glasshouse restaurant. They had been abandoned since the start of the war for fear that lights would attract the Allied bombers. Sometimes Christoph went up there to play the restaurant piano in the moonlight, preferring to play unnoticed rather than in the Kommandant’s apartment. The rooftop piano was battered and a little off key from the damp, but Christoph enjoyed those moments when he felt alone.

Now, he tossed the pen aside impatiently. He didn’t know what to write. He could never hurt Hilde. He’d made a promise. If he went back on it, he’d only despise himself more.