19 Christoph
19
Christoph
July, 1942 – Paris
Christoph carried Sylvie’s box of possessions from the boarding house to Le Meurice. It wasn’t heavy: some clothes, a hand mirror, and the dried lavender perched on top. She was different somehow. He noticed her glance at him from time to time.
He wanted to say more to her. About how he’d grown up hearing that France was the enemy: how it threatened Germany’s western border and had ensured that the Treaty of Versailles ruined the German economy after the Great War. To tell her that since he’d been here, he’d come to see things more clearly. But it was obvious that his outburst in the Tuileries had made her uncomfortable.
‘Did you get everything you wanted?’ he asked eventually.
‘No, not everything.’
A gust of wind blew the lavender on to the pavement. Christoph bent down to pick it up.
‘It might be better in your bag,’ he said, holding it out to her.
Sylvie shook her head. ‘Leave it. It doesn’t matter.’
Christoph slipped the lavender into his pocket. ‘I’ll look after it, then. Just in case.’
She watched him, a sad look on her face. ‘Thank you.’
They started walking again. Emboldened, Christoph kept talking. ‘My sister, Lotte, loves lavender. My mother taught her how to sew and make a lavender cushion to scent her drawers.’
‘My mother taught me that too,’ Sylvie said with a smile. ‘How old is Lotte?’
‘She’s nearly sixteen, but inside she’s probably younger than Otto. Mama says that she often sits at the piano, confused about where I am. She’d enjoy making those pastries you made with Otto. Gentle activities with her hands always soothed her.’
‘What’s wrong with her? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘She got ill when she was two,’ Christoph said as they walked along the street. Sylvie seemed different to how she’d been on the way here. Less pensive, more willing to talk. ‘Up to then, she’d been developing normally – crawling, walking, starting to talk. But some bacterial infection affected her brain. She was never the same afterwards.’
‘That must have been terrible,’ Sylvie said.
He detected a hint of compassion in her voice.
‘Yes, my mother and father were distraught, but we had to be strong for Lotte’s sake. I was suspended from school one day for hitting a boy who’d teased her.’
‘She’s lucky to have you as her brother.’
Christoph glanced at her. There was definitely a change in her. Her eyes had softened. As they reached the steps of Le Meurice, he wondered why.
A few days later, Christoph was teaching Otto how to play ‘Für Elise ’ . The boy kept making mistakes and grew agitated.
‘Let’s take a break,’ Christoph said.
‘But I’ve nearly got it,’ Otto said.
Christoph smiled. ‘You need to learn when to stop. Sometimes, our hands need time to digest what we’ve learned. Listen, while I play it.’
The notes were as familiar as the paths around the farm. Halfway through, Otto tapped his arm. Sylvie stood in the doorway, holding a tray on which stood a large tureen.
She placed it on the table and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I heard you playing. It sounded beautiful.’
‘Thank you. It’s my sister’s favourite piece,’ Christoph said. Something in the way she looked at him caught his attention. ‘Otto, can you go and wash your hands, please.’
‘Do you have any other siblings?’ Sylvie said, standing aside to let the boy pass.
‘No, just her. She’s enough of a handful, my father used to joke. But, of course, he loved her.’ It was strange talking to Sylvie like this. Any moment, he expected her to close herself off, but her expression was open and interested.
‘You talk about him in the past tense,’ Sylvie said.
‘He died two years ago. Lotte misses him terribly.’ Christoph smiled. ‘He was a great teller of fairy-tales.’
‘He sounds nice.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’ he asked, eager to keep her talking.
‘No, there’s just me,’ Sylvie said with a sad smile. ‘It’s probably for the best. My father didn’t like stories.’
Otto ran back in, shaking his hands dry. Christoph wanted to ask more, but Sylvie was already on her way out of the room.
‘I hope you enjoy the soup,’ she said, then added tentatively, ‘it was nice to talk to you. There’s always coffee brewing on the stove, if you ever want one.’
She gave a half-curtsey and left the room.
Christoph stared at the space where she’d stood. What did she mean, coffee brewing on the stove, if you ever want one ? Was it an invitation to visit the kitchens? To visit her? He rubbed his chin. Or was he reading too much into it?
He sat down to eat with Otto. The soup tasted like springtime; of the small vegetable patch his father had kept behind the barn. After the funeral, Christoph had harvested the last vegetables his father had planted. His mother had made a soup, just like this one. It was like a gift, a promise that even though death had come, life still sprang from the ground.
He didn’t see Sylvie for a few days, but that didn’t stop his mind wandering to thoughts of her. Even now, late at night, he couldn’t sleep, turning over their conversations in his mind. To distract himself, he thought about work.
There was a lot to do. The Kommandant had told him to organize a shipment of food by train from Paris to Koln. Coordinating the deliveries of produce from the farms around Paris took time.
‘No one is to know about this,’ the Kommandant had said. ‘Just get the food to Paris, and the army will take care of the rest.’ Christoph felt uneasy about the whole thing. Technically, his work was harmless: he wielded a pen, not a gun. But the effect of this shipment would cause suffering and more deaths from lack of sustenance. He’d seen the queues outside the empty shops. Food was growing scarcer.
In the silence of his ruminations, Christoph heard a sound from above. A low moan. He listened intently. There it was again, accompanied by the creak of a joist. Christoph sat up. It sounded like someone was up there.
Christoph decided to investigate. He got out of bed and silently climbed the stairs to the sixth floor of the hotel. The noise came again, from somewhere inside the storerooms. Christoph hesitated. Perhaps he should leave well alone. He remembered the child’s face at the window after the round-up. This time he was determined not to walk away.
Christoph tried the door handle. It was stiff, but with a firm shove the door opened. He crept in, closing the door behind him.
He was in a vast, gloomy space filled with discarded furniture. Moonlight trickled in from a tiny window. In the corner, behind a stack of boxes, lay a young man in rags. His face was pale and covered in sweat. The man’s eyes grew huge at the sight of Christoph in his German uniform. He looked about eighteen, thin and frail.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ the man whispered. He pushed himself back against the wall.
‘I won’t, don’t worry.’ Christoph glanced around the room. The man was clearly hiding up here. There was a torn patch on his jacket, the stitching frayed. A yellow star, Christoph suspected; it would explain why he was hidden away like this. But who had hidden him here? And why the hell did they think it was a good idea to hide a Jew in Le Meurice, right under the nose of the Kommandant?
Christoph knelt down. The man drew back.
‘I want to help,’ Christoph said gently.
The man shrank away from him. ‘You’re a soldier.’
‘Ignore my uniform – I’m not like them. My name is Christoph Baumann. I’m from a farm near Bonn and I’d much rather be playing the piano than being in this war.’
The man smiled warily. ‘I hope that’s true.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Why should I tell you?’ The man winced, clearly in pain. Christoph glanced down. One trouser leg was rolled up and a bandaged tied around his shin. Dark red dried blood stained the white fabric.
‘What happened?’ Christoph asked.
‘Nothing,’ the man said.
‘Look, I promise, I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word.’ The man’s lips were dry. ‘You’re dehydrated. I’ll get you some water. I’ll be back in a minute.’
He moved stealthily back to his room and filled a glass with water from the carafe on the chest of drawers. Carefully, he carried it back up to the storeroom. When he reached the corner where the man had been, it was deserted.
‘I’ve got the water,’ Christoph called softly.
The storeroom was thick with silence. He didn’t want to search the place: that would only frighten the man and make too much noise. Christoph placed the glass on one of the crates.
‘I’ll leave it here, then,’ he whispered.
There was no reply. Christoph went back to his room and got into bed. He lay there, wondering if he’d catch a sound from above. But there was nothing. The man, if he was still up there, must be lying just as still as Christoph, holding his breath in fear of his life. Christoph’s eyes began to close. Someone in the hotel must know the man was up there. But who?