20 Christoph
20
Christoph
July, 1942 – Paris
The next day, after a late lunch, Christoph was one of the last to leave the dining room. A detritus of half-eaten meals and plates lay strewn around.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought everyone had finished,’ Sylvie said, coming in with a tray.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said.
She’d passed through his dreams the last few nights. He’d woken, puzzled. During the day, he thought about visiting the kitchens, as she’d suggested. But something held him back. Guilt about Hilde. A fear that Sylvie was just being polite. But now she was here. Standing right in front of him.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
She stood awkwardly by the door, gripping the tray. ‘I’m well, thank you.’
‘What are you making today?’
‘Potage fontanges, like I made for you and Otto. M. Dupont wanted me to add eggs and crème fra?che this time, to thicken it. I’ve never tried that before, but it works well.’ Her voice was animated, then she stopped and bit her lip. ‘Sorry, I’m talking too much.’
‘I like it when you talk about cooking. It’s infectious. Like when you cooked with Otto. He loved making the Schweinsohren with you.’
Sylvie smiled. ‘That’s how I learned with my grandma. Side by side in her kitchen. It’s the best way to understand how a recipe works.’
Her shoulders relaxed. The strain in her face lessened. Her passion for food gave her such pleasure. Just like the piano had given him.
‘What did you mean the other day about your father not liking stories?’ Christoph asked.
Sylvie put down the tray. ‘He preferred to drink, and it made him unpredictable. I learned to stay out of his way and I left home as soon as I could.’
‘Is that why you came to Paris?’
‘Yes. He never liked me cooking, said I made too much of a mess.’ She smiled ruefully.
‘And your mother, did she agree with him?’
Sylvie sighed. ‘She had to.’
‘You must miss her, and your grandmother too.’
‘My grandparents were killed when their village was bombed,’ Sylvie said. ‘But my mother and father are still there.’
Christoph felt hot with shame. ‘God, I’m so sorry, Sylvie. I don’t know how you can stand here talking to me. It’s barbaric what we’re doing, the lives that are being lost, and all for –’
‘Shush,’ Sylvie said, glancing at the door. She shook her head. ‘I appreciate your sympathy, but you need to be careful.’ She smiled shyly. ‘I wouldn’t like anything to happen to you.’
Christoph glanced at her, startled by the warmth in her voice. ‘Do you mean that?’
Sylvie reached out and touched his arm.
‘I like talking to you. Promise you’ll come and see me in the kitchen.’
Hope flared inside him. ‘I promise,’ he said.
That night Christoph ventured back up to the storerooms. He’d put some bread rolls in his pocket to bring for the man. The room was in darkness. He’d brought his flashlight this time.
‘It’s me – Christoph,’ he whispered.
Christoph ducked his head where the ceiling sloped and made his way over to where the young man had been.
The blankets, the bucket, even the glass Christoph had left, were nowhere to be seen. Christoph frowned. The man had been injured. He couldn’t be far away; that leg had looked too painful.
Quietly, he searched the storerooms, which went back a long way. Christoph stole in between old beds, tables and chairs covered in dustcovers until he reached the far end, a rough brick wall. Retracing his steps, he cast the flashlight left and right, until, near one of the beds, a glint caught his eye. It was the glass. So he was still here.
‘I’ve brought some bread,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll just leave it here.’
There was no reply. But the silence seemed to vibrate. The man was listening, Christoph could feel it. Perhaps weighing up whether to trust him or not. Christoph waited a moment longer.
‘I’ll bring some more food tomorrow,’ he said to the empty, dark space.
Perhaps if he kept coming, the man might grow to trust him in time.
The next day, Christoph ventured into the kitchen, as M. Dupont was out. Sylvie made him a coffee, then opened her battered recipe book and added some notes.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I like to keep it up to date. That’s what my grandmother taught me. Let the recipes evolve .’
‘Where did your grandparents live?’ he asked.
‘In Normandy. A smallholding in the country. I loved being there. They worked hard, night and day, and not a scrap of food was wasted.’
Christoph thought of the maps in his office, the farms he had to inspect and hold to account. According to the Kommandant, the farms were under German control now: the food belonged to the German nation. But Christoph’s father had taught him that food belonged to the soil that it had grown in, to the hands that had tended it.
Sylvie removed the light, papery skin of an onion and began to chop. Her fingers held the knife so lightly yet moved so fast.
‘May I ask you a question?’ she said.
‘Of course.’
‘What did you do before the war?’
‘I went to agricultural college,’ Christoph said, ‘but I never wanted to take over the farm. I hoped to become a concert pianist.’
‘Hoped?’ Sylvie said. She tipped the chopped onion into the frying pan.
‘I was accepted into the Bonn Music Conservatory, but then I had to sign up for the army.’
Sylvie put down her knife and considered his words.
‘You could still go,’ she said, ‘if the war ever ends.’
Christoph thought of Hilde, of the life that awaited him when he returned. She wanted him to work on the farm with her father and brothers. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be taken in a different direction now.’
Sylvie stirred the softening onions. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said softly, glancing at him.
Christoph’s blood quickened. A wave of desire washed over him. He had to be careful. He stood up and drained his coffee.
‘Well, I must get back to work,’ he said.
Now that he had her good opinion, he was afraid of what it meant. He shouldn’t let this friendship continue, for Hilde’s sake. But he didn’t know how to stop it.