23 Christoph
23
Christoph
July, 1942 – Paris
The night before he was due to take Sylvie out for dinner Christoph went up to the storerooms. He had some ham and crackers, wrapped up in brown paper, and a jug of water. He checked the corridor and went out on to the stairs. They were deserted. Hardly anyone ventured up here.
The storerooms smelled musty. Every time he came up, there was no sign of the man, but the food he’d left always disappeared. This time, however, Christoph sensed a shift in the room.
‘Hello?’ he whispered.
He made his way to the back, and there, laying crouched in a foetal position, was the man. He was clutching his stomach and looked very pale. Christoph knelt by his side.
The man groaned. Christoph noticed a plate, some leftover food on it, by the old bed. He recognized the floral pattern. The head chef ate his meals from this set of plates, while the rest of the staff had plain white ones. Only M. Dupont had access to the cupboard where the plates were kept. That meant it must be M. Dupont who’d brought the young man up here and was keeping him hidden.
‘Let me guess,’ Christoph said. ‘You had poached egg and haddock, didn’t you? The egg must have been off. M. Dupont usually makes sure everything is perfect but perhaps he was having a bad day.’
The man looked at him, terrified. Christoph knew he’d guessed correctly.
‘It was M. Dupont who brought you here, wasn’t it?’ Christoph said gently. He’d never have thought the taciturn M. Dupont would have been responsible for bringing this Jewish man into the hotel.
‘I can’t say,’ the man said, shivering.
Christoph took one of the dust sheets off the crate and placed it over him. ‘If I was going to report you, I’d have done it by now. But I don’t intend to.’
The man looked at him warily. ‘Why not?’
‘What’s happening here is wrong. I want to help you if I can.’ He knew it was mad to risk his life like this. But he couldn’t turn his back on the man now he’d spoken to him and seen the pitifulness of his situation.
Christoph passed him a glass of water. ‘What happened to you?’
The man sat up, still pale, but more composed. ‘I was at my friend’s house when the police came. They took us away in a van. There was no time to tell the rest of my family. We were taken to Le Vel’ d’Hiv.’
‘You were there?’ Christoph said, horrified.
‘It was like hell,’ he said. ‘There were so many people; they were pushing busloads of us towards the entrance. I was herded along with hundreds of others. I caught a glimpse inside and made a run for it in the commotion.’
‘Is that how you hurt your leg?’
‘Yes, the place was chaotic. Thank God it was the French in charge and not the Germans. I went down the first street I could find, over a wall and into someone’s garden. I smashed my leg on a trellis as I went down.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive.’
‘Luck is all we have now.’
Christoph calculated how many days it was since the Le Vel’ d’Hiv round-up; the man must have been here since mid-July. Two weeks at the most. ‘How did you get to Le Meurice?’
The man rubbed his forehead. ‘I waited until it was dark then hobbled out and made my way to M. Dupont’s house. He’s involved with the éclaireurs Israélites de France. He thought hiding me right under the nose of the Kommandant was the safest place I could be. Once my strength is up, I hope to join my family again.’
Christoph frowned. This was a serious situation. If the man was caught …
‘I’m sure M. Dupont will take care of you,’ Christoph said. ‘Tell him Leutnant Baumann is willing to do what he can.’
Christoph twisted his watch strap. Half past six. She wasn’t going to come. He’d been a fool to expect it. He’d been sitting alone at Le Tour d’Argent for half an hour, thinking about the hideaway in the storerooms and his plight.
Then he saw Sylvie at the top of the stairs. She wore a brown coat and a red dress with a black belt. Her hair was free of the chef’s hat and fell in dark waves over her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. They closed the metro,’ she said.
The waiter took her coat. Christoph readjusted his thoughts. She hadn’t stood him up. She was here.
‘Don’t apologize,’ he said. ‘It’s the army’s fault the stations keep closing. Would you like white wine?’ He caught the waiter’s eye. ‘ On prendra une bouteille de Sancerre, merci .’
‘Where did you learn such fluent French?’ she asked.
Christoph shrugged. ‘I had a tutor. His views would be spurned now, but he believed in language as a way to keep the peace.’
‘He would have got on with my grandmother. She taught me a smattering of German for the same reason.’ Sylvie said. Her eyes darted around the room. ‘You wouldn’t think there’s a war on, or even an occupation. Everyone seems so at ease.’ She touched the silver cutlery, frowning.
‘And yet it’s impossible to forget what’s going on,’ Christoph said. ‘You might feel happier to be seen with me if that were the case.’
Sylvie glanced around the room. ‘It is rather strange to be here.’
‘You don’t have to stay if it makes you uncomfortable,’ Christoph said. ‘There’s no obligation.’
Sylvie blushed. ‘Perhaps, Herr Leutnant, we can pretend that the war isn’t happening, just for a moment.’
Her voice sounded strained, as if she was trying to be jolly but her heart wasn’t in it.
‘Could you call me Christoph instead of Herr Leutnant?’ he said.
Sylvie glanced at the menu. The waiter poured the wine. ‘If you like,’ she said, ‘Christoph.’ She bit her lip as she read through the starters and main courses.
To put her at ease, Christoph asked, ‘What would you recommend from the menu? The Kommandant told me to try the salmon mousse, but I can’t stand that kind of thing.’
‘There’s only one dish you can have at La Tour d’Argent,’ Sylvie said. ‘Canard à la rouennaise. My grandmother used to talk about it. It’s rather expensive, though.’
‘Don’t worry, I have plenty saved up,’ he said. ‘Your grandmother must have been a remarkable woman.’
The candlelight shone in the rich curls of Sylvie’s hair.
‘She was. She taught me everything I know.’
‘Do you have any other family members?’ Christoph said. ‘I mean … is there anyone significant?’
He winced inwardly at his clumsy question.
‘I was engaged to be married,’ she said, ‘but my fiancé was killed in the fighting.’
‘I’m sorry, I …’ Another loss suffered at the hands of the Germans. ‘What happened?’
Sylvie took a sip of wine. ‘He died at sea. His parents got a telegram and then sent me a letter. I was in Paris at the time, the wedding dress was bought, he had leave booked. Everything seemed set. Of course, I’d seen it happen to others. But I never expected it would happen to me.’
Christoph didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t console her, not when his fellow countrymen were responsible. Instead, Christoph remembered how his mother had consoled him when his father died.
‘What is your happiest memory of him?’ he said, asking the same question his mother had asked him.
Sylvie looked at him, startled. ‘I don’t know. I’ve tried not to think about it. There were so many.’
‘If you could pick just one, what would it be?’
Sylvie brushed back her fringe.
‘I think it would be the day we got engaged. We were in the city, in Paris. He was on leave. For most of the day, it was awkward and unhappy – I couldn’t stop thinking about how little time we had left. But near the end, it started raining. We ran under the trees near the Eiffel Tower, and there was a band playing in the bandstand. He asked me to dance, a big smile on his face, and suddenly, time stopped. I can still recall the song.’
‘What was it?’ Christoph said. He sensed her mood lifting as she spoke. Transported back to that time.
‘Oh, a beautiful classic by Lucienne Boyer, “Parlez-moi d’amour”, that my grandmother used to sing as she cooked.’ Sylvie smiled, then sighed. ‘Anyway, by the end of the song we were soaking wet and he’d gone down on one knee in all the mud and asked me to marry him.’
‘That’s a wonderful memory,’ Christoph said. The faraway look in her eyes made him feel forgotten. Sylvie had been in love, and the Germans had killed that promise. He felt a twinge of doubt that he could ever make her care for him.
Sylvie shook her head. ‘I’d rather not talk about him any more, if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m sorry. It must have been awful … losing him.’ He searched for the right words. ‘I feel responsible somehow.’
‘It’s not your fault. But if it wasn’t for the war …’ She blushed. ‘Sorry. Put my words down to the fact that I was supposed to be married but I’m not.’
Sylvie took another sip of wine. Her hand shook. Christoph wanted to reach out, to feel the pulse on the underside of her wrist, but he resisted.
‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘The more you speak to me like that, the more human I feel.’
Sylvie glanced at him. ‘Then maybe I should do it more often.’
Christoph gazed into her steady blue eyes. He swallowed. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
He thought of Hilde’s letters. Of the money poured into his mother’s farm by Hilde’s father. These should be the things that held him back. But as he looked across the table at Sylvie, he knew that they would not.
At half past ten, they left the restaurant. The curfew was in place from nine in the evening until five in the morning, but because Christoph was a German soldier he was permitted to escort her back to Le Meurice. The street was empty and dark. The moon shone on the Seine, making a white pathway over the water.
‘Here, you should have this.’ He handed Sylvie the customary Tour d’Argent postcard with the serial number of the dish they had eaten there on it.
‘Thank you,’ she said, tucking it into her bag. ‘My grandmother had one just the same. The meal was an anniversary gift.’
‘I’ve enjoyed this evening very much,’ Christoph said.
‘So have I.’
Sylvie’s skin glowed in the light and it made him catch his breath.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘You’ve asked so many questions about me. I haven’t had a chance to ask you any.’ She stopped walking and leaned against the stone parapet overlooking the river. ‘Like, what do you do in your office all day?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m affiliated to the Agricultural and Food Supply Department. We’re overseeing food production. I haven’t visited any farms yet. They’re just coordinates on a map. But I will.’
‘When?’
‘Next week. I’m going to check a farm in Normandy that’s using the new crop planning we’ve given them. There are lots of mouths to feed, so my department wants to make production more efficient.’
Sylvie sighed. ‘People would kill for a morsel of what we tasted tonight.’
‘Yes, I fear that times are hard for Parisians, especially with plans to reduce rations and most of the food going back to Germany.’
‘I see.’ Sylvie looked back to the river.
Christoph gripped the stone rail. He’d been insensitive. Times might be hard for the French, but not for the officers and soldiers of the German army. He thought of the man in the storerooms, surviving on leftovers from the kitchens. The Germans lived in another world, while the rest experienced food shortages and hunger.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,’ he said.
Sylvie linked arms with him. He smelled linen and soap on her skin.
‘I’m not ready for the night to end just yet,’ she said. ‘Could we have a drink in your office?’
Christoph dissolved at her touch, at the warm press of her body next to his. It didn’t take long to answer.
‘Yes, of course.’