26 ONE NIGHT, MAYBE TWO
26
O NE N IGHT , M AYBE T WO
Imtold woke early and, without changing out of his pajamas, began playing. The violins in Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade contained passages with very delicate phrasing. It was a beautiful but complicated melody, like all masterful works performed for the first time. He practiced to find perfection. He tried over and over. He didn’t want the conductor to have to stop the rehearsal again to ask him to concentrate on his left hand. Once was enough humiliation for him.
In the room next door, Samuel slept as best he could. Despite trying, he hadn’t gotten used to his roommate’s tendency to practice his violin at all hours of the day. The music kept him up more than the anxiety of knowing he had a job to complete that evening. He’d emerge from his cave, meet with Imtold in the place de la Sorbonne, and once they made sure there was no one left in the German bookstore, they’d drop their gift off at the door and run away, one up Vaugirard, the other behind the university. Half an hour later, they’d meet at home to celebrate with a glass of wine and pretend nothing had happened. They had repeated each gesture, each movement, a dozen times. The synchronization was crucial. So was the superstition. If things worked out for them the last time they tried, on the night it rained cats and dogs, they’d repeat the pattern.
The first thing Samuel did when he woke up was curse the sound of the violin chords. After, he splashed his face with a little water and looked out the window. Paris had woken with a clear sky, a sophisticated blue. Not even the birds dared to disturb the suspiciously calm scenery. A hole in his stomach, he opened the bread box with the hope of nibbling on a crust, even if it was stale. He found the same thing there that he found every day: nothing.
Resigned to a breakfastless morning, Samuel turned to speak with Imtold, who’d come into the kitchen. “Two days ago, someone told me about this kid. You know the youngest of the Bailocs? He’s three years old, and he thought an orange was a ball. He’d never seen an orange. It was the first time.”
“I get it. Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Samuel adjusted the sheet music on the music stand. “By the way, you got it right the first time you played.”
“Thank you.”
“It sounds so good, there’s no need to play it again.”
“We have a concert next weekend.”
“Seriously, Imtold, you’ve got it down. Trust me, don’t practice anymore. Don’t think about it anymore. You don’t need to.”
“You’re sarcastic this morning.” Imtold set his violin on the table.
“Be careful,” Samuel warned with a small laugh. “Don’t confuse your cases.”
Inside Imtold’s old violin case was the explosive Samuel Bardollet had carefully prepared the last few evenings. An explosive device he’d whipped up out of anger that had been brewing for months, since the Vél d’Hiv Roundup. Practically overnight, almost all his Jewish friends had disappeared. They hadn’t taken just men, as they’d done during the initial years of the war. Women, children, and whole families too. Thousands. People ripped from their beds, arrested, and driven to the velodrome in the fifteenth arrondissement, where they waited for five days without food or water. After ... No one in Paris knew where they took those people. Not even Imtold had a guess.
Samuel had escaped, because, in his handiness, he’d built a hiding place on the roof of the building. He’d taken advantage of the angle created by two chimneys to set up a minuscule refuge where he could hole himself up if things went south. He knew he couldn’t stay in that shoebox for too long. He’d suffocate to death. But he had to risk it. The alternative was always worse. And when the moment came, his secret corner saved his life on July 16, 1942.
He had decided to set the lair up the day Imtold had arrived home with a green card he’d picked up on the street. By the middle of the first May of the Nazi occupation, not even a year since the invasion of France, Jews had not yet been forced to wear the yellow star on their clothes. In the span of a few days, the French police had circulated a note that spread across the whole city. It was a green card signed by the French police inspector asking all foreign Jews who’d come to Paris as refugees to report to the Gymnase Japy for a routine check, with a blanket and a day’s worth of food. According to the note, they’d receive documents there, and their status would be legalized. If they didn’t comply, they could face “severe sanctions.” Many guessed it was a ruse due to those two words. Many others fell hook, line, and sinker for the trap. It was the green card raid.
“If they truly did that to the Czechs, the Polish, I’m sure they’ll come after their own one day or another,” Samuel predicted. “To them, we’re Jews, and that’s it. They don’t care where we came from.”
“Of course, it’s true, Samu. So true that we have no idea where they took those poor people. They may have deported them back to their countries.”
“You don’t believe that, my friend.”
The next morning, scared he’d be hunted like a rabbit, Samuel began building his hiding place on the roof of the house. Only half a man could fit in there, and he couldn’t spend too much time inside. He didn’t care; that small space was enough for him. There were advantages to eating so little food and being able to bend like a contortionist in a circus.
They reviewed the plan again. Once Imtold finished his rehearsal of Scheherazade with the whole orchestra in the afternoon, Samuel would wait for him at the door of the Chatelet. He’d go there with the old violin case containing the bomb. Imtold would emerge from the theater, his own instrument case in hand. Slowly, the two “musicians” would walk together toward the place de la Sorbonne. By the time they’d arrive, the German bookstore would already be closed. They would wait outside on the corner bench to confirm that detail while pretending they were chatting. There would be no rush. They couldn’t rush these things. The moment they knew no Kartoffeln or passersby were around, Samuel would approach the window closest to the door, open the case, and, in less than seven seconds—he had calculated it precisely—activate the bomb to go off thirty seconds later. Case in hand, he would run toward Vaugirard. Imtold, acting uninterested, would begin walking in the direction of the university. They’d meet at home, no matter what. If a problem came up ...
“Everything will be fine. There won’t be any problems. We know the plan well,” Imtold reassured Samu.
As credible as Imtold could be, he also was human and thus was capable of making mistakes.
Yes, Samuel picked him up after rehearsal. Was he carrying the case with the surprise inside? Yes. They walked toward the square, and the bookstore lights were already turned off. They sat on the bench, as they had planned, and when the moment presented itself, they stood. Samuel walked to the window next to the doorway, and Imtold, humming quietly to calm his nerves, headed toward the university. Samuel opened the two locks on the case at the same time and, hands sweaty, activated the explosive before counting to seven. At that exact moment, the door of the bookstore opened.
“Halt! Halt!” shouted the German soldier.
Samuel began running in the direction of Vaugirard. The soldier, who was trailing from the bookstore, shot at him as he fled, hitting Samuel in the leg with his second burst of shots. Limping, Samuel managed to make it a few feet before the second shot hit him in the back, causing him to fall. Injured, Samuel was left face down. Everything after happened quickly. That same soldier approached him and finished him off with two shots to the head. Just as the blood started pouring out in streams, the bomb burst all the bookstore windows. Hugging his violin case close, Imtold turned the corner behind the Sorbonne with no choice but to run up a couple of streets. Fear pumping in his body, he decided he couldn’t return home. But until when? He’d think about it when he could. Right now, he just had to flee.
The Gestapo jumped right on the case. They called in the soldier who shot Samuel to the general station the morning after the attempted bombing of the bookstore. He went to 84 Avenue Foch with the violin case that had flown just a couple of doors down in the blast, and reported the events. He said he’d seen only one person, whom he’d killed as he attempted to escape, and that he himself had been lucky to follow him. If he’d stayed inside, guarding the bookstore, he’d be dead.
The head of that department of the Gestapo was in a very bad mood. He had two scientists from the laboratory come down to investigate the case with a magnifying glass. The only name they could find was the luthier’s written on the old label. Not much of a clue. They also had photos they’d taken of the unidentifiable dead man once they’d removed him from the street. And they guessed that, in some way, the resistance had emerged from the music scene. In Paris, this information was the same as no information. It was like a needle in a haystack. The head of the department was not one to mince words when it came to giving orders:
“Look for the resistance and inquire about it everywhere. Turn over the conservatory. Interrogate everyone who enters and leaves the Jeunesses Musicales. Don’t leave any leaf unturned. There must be some benefit to having infiltrated every orchestra. There aren’t so many. This is the moment they should help us. Someone must know something. Should there be any doubts, you know what to do. Don’t rest until you bring me the group behind this. I want them all. Do you understand me?”
He gargled and spit on the boots of the five soldiers standing in front of him. They stomped their heels, raised their hands, hailed the Führer, and bravely got to business.
Everyone runs in war. First, there’s the exile. The desperate escape to some unknown place out of the need to get out before it’s too late. For those who stay, there’s the refuge, the rush to shelter themselves when the sirens ring. Everyone underground—the sooner, the better. The sprint to the bunkers, caves, and metro stations. It didn’t matter now. Jean Lefebvre, the violinist of the Pierné Orchestra, known as Imtold for his gift of discovering a million and one rumors and spreading them even further, couldn’t run. When he felt the soldier’s hand on his shoulder, he knew it wasn’t worth trying. He found himself with both hands behind his back within seconds. A man wearing green had snatched his case. He was only two streets away from the theater, but he hadn’t managed to make it to the rehearsal.
“What’s in here?”
“My instrument,” he responded coldly. The six soldiers that circled him were unsure. They were about to leave the case on top of the car hood until one of the soldiers, the one who had the most braids on his lapels, advised them not to do so with a sharp look. They opened the back door of the vehicle, put a hand on Imtold’s neck, and pushed him into the car. Two soldiers sat on both sides of Imtold, and the door closed. As soon as the car took off, they blindfolded him with a scarf and said, “Don’t worry. The journey will be short.” He was scared they’d take him out soon, but the journey was literally only a minute. He knew where they’d taken him. Across the river, to the Conciergerie, which had been converted into a Nazi prison.
They forced him out of the car, swearing at him. With nothing more being said besides at the opening and closing of doors, he sensed they were crossing halls. They dragged him, blindfolded and handcuffed, down a set of stairs without warning. They sent him down the last flight rolling.
Two brawny men picked him up by his armpits. Since he’d been blindfolded, his hearing and touch had been forcibly sharpened. A door creaked in front of him. They roughly took off his handcuffs and pushed him into an abyss, then closed a metal door behind him. Three locks slammed shut, each one sounding more definitive. Punishment, execution, death.
Before he dared do anything, he waited a bit, quiet, with his back against the first wall he could reach.
“Hello ...?” he said, his voice thin, to see if anyone would respond.
The silence was absolute. He slowly untied his blindfold. That didn’t help much. The basement didn’t have any light. The cell was damp, without even a bull’s-eye window or a crack of light peeking out from under the door. Absolute blackness, as though he’d been killed already.
He spent hours on the cold stone. He had no way of knowing how many. One night, maybe two. At some point, sleep, fear, and savage hunger took over him. As he nodded off, the sight of Samuel Bardollet came to him. Samuel running, Samuel shot in the back, Samuel lying on the ground, and the soldier approaching him and causing his head to explode with two bullets. And the trickle of his friend’s blood that must have pooled on the cobblestone. When he felt a little braver, he stood and looked for a hole in the wall where he could peek through and ask for help ... Nothing. From time to time, he heard shrieks from beyond the darkness.
“Jean Lefebvre?” someone shouted from the other side of the door.
“Yes ...”
“Put on your blindfold. Tell us once you’re ready.”
It wasn’t easy for him to tie it. His fingers trembled due to nervousness, hunger, and weakness. The door opened, and they grabbed him by the arms.
“We’re going on a trip,” they told him in bad French.
He barely made it up the stairs. He detected light from the corners of the mask. They went up two floors, sat him down in a chair, and took off his blindfold. The sudden brightness hurt his eyes. It took a moment for him to adjust. Once he was able to focus, he saw a beefy, bald man wearing Gestapo pants and boots sitting in front of him. On his torso, however, he wore a sleeveless shirt that outlined his pecs. At a glance, his arms resembled those of a champion weightlifter. The man looked above the prisoner’s head, as if there was someone behind Imtold waiting to give the officer permission to begin his interrogation.
“What’s your name?”
He didn’t respond.
“Tell us your name.”
“You already know it.”
“We want you to say it.” He looked over Imtold’s head again.
Imtold felt a sudden, hard whip lash on his back.
“Now, tell us your name.”
“Jean.”
“Jean ... Looks like you’re slowly regaining your memory. What else, Jean?”
He shook his head. And instantly he received another lash.
“Don’t be so stubborn.” The officer was poking fun at him.
“You already know my name,” he said again, concealing the red-hot burning of the wound.
“Jean Lefebvre. Now tell us the name of your companion.”
Imtold waited for another attack from behind. Just when he thought it wouldn’t come, the angry lash reached him.
“Are you refusing to speak?”
Another lash.
“Your friend is already dead. You can’t do anything for him now.”
The pain made him lurch forward onto the ground. The torturer let go of the whip and returned him to his chair. The brawny interrogator was in no rush.
“We’ve been to your house. Did you live together?”
He didn’t confess. He received another lash.
“Samuel Bardollet, your roommate, was Jewish. Scum ... Are you a Jew too?”
He shook his head.
“And so?” The officer was acting patronizing. “Why this hate for the Germans?”
Imtold looked into his interrogator’s eyes. He didn’t just have the arms of a weightlifter. His nose also looked like it had been flattened by punches.
“Where else did you plan on placing bombs?”
Silence.
“Where next after our bookstore?”
Imtold pursed his lips. A blow to the back. The interrogator raised his hand to stop the executioner from giving out any more lashings. He stood lazily, approached Jean Lefebvre, grabbed him by the neck, and hoisted him up off his seat.
“Do you know who we are?”
Imtold didn’t open his mouth.
“A Frenchman like you must know who died in this same building, right next door. Are you familiar with the name Marie Antoinette? Tell me, have you heard of it?”
He limited himself to agreeing by looking down.
“Do you know how she died?” The officer pressed his Adam’s apple with his two pincerlike fingers. “The guillotine was a great invention.”
He let him go. Imtold crumpled onto the chair. When it seemed like the interrogation was over, the officer punched him so hard his teeth cracked, and he was knocked to the floor.
Then, everyone disappeared, and they left him alone with a swollen face and a burning back.
A couple of hours later, the bald interrogator who gave commands and the soldier who complied returned. The interrogator had gotten cold and put on his uniform shirt on top of the one he was previously wearing, but he left it unbuttoned. As soon as he spoke, the smell of wine filled the air.
“Jean Lefebvre ... I did tell you we’ve been to your apartment, right? We found a lot at your house. And there were a couple of things we didn’t like too much. It’s really disgusting to counterfeit bread ration cards. Don’t you think it’s unpatriotic to take advantage of your fellow man’s hunger?”
Imtold listened and didn’t speak.
“Who else helped you with your attacks? Someone like you, who takes advantage of his own people? Tell us. You didn’t do all that by yourselves. Who else was there? Where did you meet?”
The quieter he was, the more lashes he received. But he kept his pride.
“You should cooperate. It doesn’t make sense to harbor more people. When you hide, where do you hide?”
Imtold suddenly realized they had changed their strategy from the afternoon. They were no longer asking things they knew. They weren’t warming him up anymore just to bully him and make him sing. Now, they didn’t even touch his hair.
“We also found all kinds of sheet music at your house. It turns out you’re a musician. From the Pierné Orchestra. A violinist, right?”
Imtold panted to avoid saying yes.
“A beautiful profession. But you must know something ... It’s a shame, but while we were searching your apartment, your violin fell and broke. I suppose it wasn’t one of those really expensive Stradivariuses. From what they tell me, it’s in pieces. I’m sorry.”
Irony as torture.
“Let’s see these violinist hands.”
The interrogator extended his fingers so the violinist would copy his gesture. Imtold reluctantly did so. The soldier with the whip instantly handcuffed him again and placed a table between the interrogator and his victim. He grabbed him by the wrists and placed them on top of the white tabletop.
“A nice violinist manicure. Such perfect fingers,” said the interrogator. “Now, tell me, who else was with you and Samuel?”
Imtold closed his eyes with the same force he closed his mouth with. The interrogator suddenly ripped out one of his nails. Imtold’s screams could probably have been heard from across the Seine.
“Who else was part of your crew?”
He ripped out another nail. The ring finger.
“Who helped you escape?”
He moved to the next hand. The other ring finger was left raw.
“Give us a name.”
The officer played things symmetrically. Now it was the index finger.
The violinist’s shrieks bothered the interrogator.
“A name, you son of a bitch.”
When he’d furiously extracted eight nails, he closed his own fist and, like a hammer, he forcefully smashed each of Imtold’s fingers, breaking them one by one.
He didn’t say anything else. The interrogator and the soldier left the room, and they never came back. They let Jean Lefebvre die alone, without anyone knowing his fate. In the following days, the rumors of Imtold’s disappearance spread throughout the whole orchestra. There was a different version for every tale. Most likely, none of them were true.