12 Christoph
12
Christoph
June, 1942 – Paris
After what he’d witnessed on boulevard Raspail, Christoph couldn’t get used to the luxury of Le Meurice: the marble floors and chandeliers, the mahogany bar lined with spirit bottles. He felt more dislocated than ever, as if the young man who’d fed scraps to the pigs, practised endless scales and swum with his sister in the stream had never existed.
He spent his days working in an office assigned to him by the Kommandant. His job was to plot the location of farms in occupied France, starting with Normandy. The department was preparing for inspections and Christoph was to take part in them. The Kommandant believed that farms were selling their produce to the black market rather than handing them over for the ‘greater good’ and could do more to boost production.
‘It’s their own people they’re starving,’ the Kommandant said one night.
Christoph had been invited to eat with the family after Otto’s piano lesson. He nodded politely, preferring to listen rather than venture an opinion. But inside, his stomach clenched. The woman and her baby in the doorway hadn’t died because of the black market or a lack of productivity on French farms. They’d died because the Germans were bleeding the city of food.
The Kommandant cut a piece of duck and dipped it in cherry sauce.
‘I don’t like this,’ Otto said. He prodded the sauce with his fork. ‘It tastes like jam.’
‘Hush, Otto. Don’t be rude,’ Frau Schaumberg said.
Christoph said nothing. It wasn’t the child’s fault he didn’t know that people a stone’s throw away from here would give anything for a meal like this.
The Kommandant wiped his mouth on a white napkin. ‘Maybe Otto has a point. I’m growing tired of French food. I want my son to experience the taste of the Fatherland.’
‘But you said the French were wonderful chefs?’ Frau Schaumberg ventured. ‘You seem to enjoy the food at Maxim’s.’
‘Oh, I like oysters and champagne as much as any man, but now we have conquered Paris, it’s only a matter of time before German food subjugates their cuisine as well. Food is the root of everything: our survival and identity. What do you think, Herr Leutnant?’
Christoph glanced up and swallowed his mouthful of food. ‘I remember reading in the German guide to Paris how soldiers needed to be wary of the “sweet and easy life of the City of Lights”. Maybe they meant the food too,’ he said, ashamed of himself for outwardly chiming in with the Kommandant’s views.
‘Exactly. Too much of this rich French food can make a man soft.’ The Kommandant chucked Otto under the chin. ‘Let’s see if Papa can get you some proper deutsches Essen .’
The next day, the Kommandant went to meet a group of high-ranking officials for lunch at Maxim’s, taking Christoph with him. He sat with the other assistants, on hand to take notes or supply facts. He wanted to get back to the quiet sanctuary of his office. Even so, he kept half an eye on the kitchen door in case Sylvie appeared.
After the officials had eaten, the Kommandant told the story of Otto and the sauce that tasted like jam. Christoph listened, wincing at the Kommandant’s self-important tone.
‘Trouble is, good staff are hard to come by,’ the Kommandant said. ‘My head chef hasn’t got a clue about German food. We’re short-staffed in the kitchen.’
‘The talented French chefs have either fled to Vichy or are prisoners of war in Germany,’ SS-Sturmbannführer Rodert said. He was a tall man with soft, small hands that looked too effeminate to conduct interrogations and oversee activities at Avenue Foch.
‘I told the head chef he needs to find another sous chef by the end of the week. If they know any German recipes, so much the better.’
There’s a female chef in Avenue Foch who claims her grandmother was from the Alsace,’ SS-Sturmbannführer Rodert said. ‘We’ve confiscated her recipe book to check if she’s an agent keeping notes in the guise of recipes. It’s full of all our old favourites, along with some French recipes. I spent a pleasant hour perusing it yesterday.’
‘Is she part of the resistance?’ the Kommandant asked.
‘I doubt it, but we’re still investigating. The recipes seem sound. She works here at Maxim’s, actually.’
Christoph’s ears pricked up.
‘How interesting,’ the Kommandant said. ‘Perhaps it’s the woman who cooked that dessert for us a couple of weeks ago. Go and find out, Herr Leutnant.’
Christoph got to his feet and went straight to the kitchen, hoping it wasn’t her. The head chef was leaning on the countertop looking through some menus.
‘ Bonjour . The Kommandant wondered if Mlle Sylvie is here today?’ Christoph said.
‘No, Herr Leutnant. Mlle Sylvie was arrested two days ago.’
Christoph’s blood ran cold. He couldn’t imagine that fierce young woman in a cell. It made him sick to think of it. ‘What happened?’
‘She was getting cloves for Sauerbraten. She never came back so I sent one of the staff to enquire, and that’s when we heard. She’s done nothing wrong. All she’s interested in is cooking,’ the chef said.
Christoph returned to the table and reported back.
‘ Wunderbar ,’ the Kommandant said. ‘A pretty chef who can make crème br?lée and Sauerbraten. What more could a man want? Send her over this afternoon.’
‘But the investigations have not yet been concluded,’ SS-Sturmbannführer Rodert said.
‘Very well, conclude them yourself as you see fit,’ the Kommandant said. ‘I’ll be able to test the veracity of her story through her cooking. If she really had an Alsatian grandmother, I’ll know it from the way she cooks Sauerbraten.’