Carnival (16 page)

Food was listed: potatoes, cabbage, sauerkraut, black bread in two-kilo loaves and lumpy, sour too, and soggy, horsemeat and bone, pork and bone, soup bones also, and calorie intakes required under the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht ordinance as per Karl Rudel.

Beside each of these intakes she had lightly pencilled in the normal minimum requirements for a healthy man at hard labour: 3,000 calouries per day instead of the 1,500 received; fats at least 100 grams instead of 30; protein the same; vitamin A 5,000 units, not the 2,000, et cetera.

Oh for sure, a voice should be raised, but from here and right next to the prime mover and shaker of the Works? It was suicidal.

Five hundred and ninety-three prisoners ate, slept, worked and did little else, and the quarry camp at Natzweiler-Struthof was always there if a vacation was needed.

She must have known Eugène Thomas quite well, must have had to consult with him often and but a step or two away, but had she known he had received that anonymous letter, had she known of the trinitrophenol and the cutthroat?

The bell above the bookshop's door rang well enough, but things were never simple, irony often deep, thought St-Cyr. Two buckets of sand, painted red and clearly marked by Civil Defence for use in case of fire during an air raid, were tucked out of the way inside the door. As would be expected, the regulations were clearly posted and signed by the
Luftschutzfeldwebel
, but here the name of one Werner Lutze was found, a fact that neither Frau Lutze nor Colonel Rasche had bothered to mention.

Leaded, diamond-pane, seventeenth-century casements gave crisscrossing shadows to the books. On the far wall, a large, framed photo of a book burning brought its stark reminder: 10 May 1933. Thousands and thousands of students had plundered public and private libraries, marching into the Unter den Linden and then following it to the University of Berlin, to set the mountains alight while
Zeig Heil
-ing
at the top of their lungs.

All such fires, and there had been many of them, had awakened within him an ominous sense of foreboding that had been realized on 1 September 1939 with the invasion of Poland, but why had Victoria Bödicker chosen to hang that photo? As a protest or sign of loyalty, and if the latter, was that not wise, and if the former, not foolish?

Beneath the photo, three plump porcelain geese, like those found before the war in every second shop window in Strasbourg and Colmar to advertise
pâtés de foie gras
, were nestled in straw atop small stacks of newly received books, the geese sound asleep.

A protest, then, but hard for anyone in authority to prove.

‘
Mein Herr
, can I help you?'

The voice was carefully modulated, yet warm and soft. A brunette with page-boy styled hair, she was perhaps thirty-two years of age. High, strong, almost Slavic cheekbones framed deep brown, mildly interested eyes, no lipstick, rouge or powder being worn, the skin clear and with the burnish of wind and sun.

She was also of the same height as Sophie Schrijen who stepped timidly from one of the aisles to stand apprehensively behind and partly to one side of her. Two of the original three, the one here to get the story of the other straight and make sure they both said the same thing, or here in fear of her life?

‘
Meine Damen
, a few small questions, nothing difficult, but first, the automobile that is parked well down the street …'

And not outside the shop as a precaution—was this what he thought? wondered Sophie. ‘It's my brother's. I left it there because, since a child, I've loved walking along that street to this shop. The
Schupos
will find me if it needs to be moved.'

The urge to say,
Ah,
bon
, pulled at him, but it would be best simply to nod.

There were aisles and aisles of books: 20,000 new ones were published in the Reich each year. Sentimental novels of
Kameradschaft­
in the front lines, dogma, too, and doctrine, the superiority of the
Volk
, the Germanic Nordic race and the unjust lack of living space. Stories of chivalry as well and of
Kinder, Küche und Kirche
—kids, kitchen, and church—for those were what girls were supposed to aspire to, though the church was definitely not in favour with the Nazis and hadn't been since 1933, especially the Protestants, and the slogan but one that had been borrowed from a deeper past and never quite expunged from the popular psyche and therefore used in various ways.

A sleeve of the closely fitted, trim brown velvet jacket of the Fräulein Bödicker's suit brushed against his overcoat as she put the lock on and turned the signboard to read
Closed
, her perfume causing him to start and she to smile softly.

‘
Mirage
,' he said, as if baffled as to how she could have come by it, thought Victoria, but did he not know that Renée had bought her watch near that shop before the war and that Colonel Rasche had since been back and had, on one occasion, bought more of the perfume?

‘It's lovely, isn't it?' she said. ‘Very delicate, very feminine. Renée found it in a shop in Paris and gave me a little.'

The shop Enchantment on
place
Vendôme and the signature perfume of Gabrielle Arcuri, the chanteuse who had come into his life, but did God have to do this to him? wondered St-Cyr. ‘Treasured,' he said, ‘and now worn in memory of Renée Ekkehard.'

‘Why, yes. I … I had to do something. She …'

Sophie Schrijen had reached out in comfort, or had it been to silence her?

Frau Macher was again at her desk and typing, the foyer a no-man's-land he'd have to cross, thought Kohler wryly. He also knew that at any moment Löwe Schrijen could ask for something in his daughter's office or ring Sophie up if he hadn't been told she had left. An intercom button connected this one to his and to Frau Macher, and opportunity enough to quietly listen in to the daughter, since there wasn't a light to give the game away.

In the rush to leave, Sophie Schrijen had forgotten her keys which lay in a bundle in the middle of the desk: keys to the administrative offices and this one in particular, those to the filing cabinets, the house in the country, the padlocks on the wagons at the
Karneval
, even a flat in town? he had to ask.

Keys were always going missing, girls always misplacing theirs, temptation the foremost of detective sins.

The sound of the typewriter continued. Things in here, though, were so tidy it had to raise alarm bells. Sophie Schrijen had even kept the desk drawers all but as her brother must have left them, and if that wasn't curious, what was? Only in the right front corner of the central drawer had space been set aside for herself. There was a newly purchased lipstick, of that horrible wartime
Quatsch
that burned the lips, but had it been used to write a suicide note? The urge to pocket it came, but if absent, she'd know that someone had been in and had lifted the keys.

An eraser-sized chunk of pink granite was curious. The quarry? he had to ask, but if so, why keep it so close it had to be a constant reminder?

A phosphorescent swastika button lay beside it—one of those that were meant to be worn during the blackout, but had obviously not been, and that, too, was curious. Had she been out and about in Kolmar?

A token, one of those little collectibles the
Winterhilfswerk
sold to parents and schoolchildren, was here too, the thing depicting a grim-faced Wehrmacht 1935-style helmeted soldier boy, strong and handsome, but this was not the only toy soldier. There was a broken lead one on a horse, one of those spike-helmeted unfortunates the Kaiser had let gallop into machine-gun and artillery fire until those had cut them down and killed good horses. Splendid mounts.

This one had lost a right foreleg but had also been scratched and picked at with a nail or pin, though elsewhere the paintwork was still like new. Had it been one of her brother's as a child and if so, why keep it here and not elsewhere? Had she stolen it in revenge perhaps over some childhood squabble, and if that, why, then, was she still feeling guilty about it?

Or had she found it at the
Karneval
?

The only sign of untidiness was a hastily removed sticking plaster, but why yank it off and not throw it into the wastepaper basket, why put it here in this little corner if not to hide it from Frau Macher or someone else, the basket bound to have been searched?

A forefinger … A single droplet of blood, now dried, had half-missed the gauze and hit the adhesive tape, indicating that the bandage had been hastily applied and then just as quickly removed. That ampoule? he had to ask and favour his own middle right finger. Had it been done by a broken neck of glass, the hand shaking so hard she had cut herself?

The sound of the typewriter had stopped. Rudel must have come into the foyer and said something, for Frau Macher's voice came clearly now. ‘You're to go right in, Herr Oberstleutnant. Generaldirektor Schrijen is waiting.'

And in without even knocking.

Between where the keys had lain and the chair, there was a single file folder, a speech Sophie had been going over for a meeting of the
Frauenschaft
this coming Saturday, 13 February, at 8.00 p.m. Loneliness, Loyalty, and Constancy. Finding the Strength to Wait.

Pages of type held underlined words and passages. Beneath them were examples—advertisements torn from the Personals columns of the
Frankfurter Zeitung, Berliner Morgenpost
and
Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung
, the
Kölnische Zeitung
and
Münchner Neueste Nachrichten
, the latest
Night Focus
.

To quote: ‘Geli is eighteen, 160 cm in height (5'3”) and of good figure. Likes to dance and to party with friends. Loves long walks in the country or park and evenings at the cinema. Is happiest when with a loving, caring man who has a good sense of humour. Apply Box 183.'

Beside the advertisement, Sophie Schrijen had written
, ‘Geli misses her Ludwig terribly. When last heard from he was at Stalingrad.'

Again to quote: ‘Emmi is blonde, hazel-eyed and 42. Seeks male companion between 35 and 55 who can provide a caring home. Is experienced with children but past the age of childbearing. Is willing and able to cook, clean and keep house for a widower and his little family in return for his respect, love and kind support.'

Here Sophie Schirjen had written, ‘
Emmi's husband, Heinz, is stationed somewhere along the Atlantic Wall in France and hasn't been home in two years. When asked, Emmi hotly claimed he was
“Ein böser Mench”
(a bad man) who beat her, but when pressed, admitted she was terribly lonely. “I haven't had a man in all that time,” she wept.
'

‘Anneliese is dark-haired and dark-eyed. A pleasantly plump girl, she is 22 years old, likes to grow vegetables, make preserves and mead the old-fashioned way, and to read while listening to recordings of Wagner by the Berlin Philharmonic, the
Götterdämmerung
especially. Seeks an older man who can give her guidance, friendship and much love. Apply Box 1521.'

The
Münchner Neueste Nachrichten
:

‘
Anneliese is married and has two children. Her husband, Gunther, is stationed in Greece, she thinks. He does not write, she says, because he is too embarrassed to ask one of the others to do it for him. The loneliness is unbearable. The long nights and the children—I have only myself to rely on and must be both mother and father, she says. Her parents were killed in Köln during the firestorm.'

All over the Reich, and in France too, the lonely and the desperate were placing advertisements like these, the costs often negligible or given free of charge. Girls—women who needed companionship, security and sex, damn it, just like Gerda had. Women and girls who were seeing their youth and lives fly by. A tragedy.

Caught among the folds of the
Münchner Neueste Nachrichten
were two ten-by-eight-centimetre head-and-shoulders photos of company Sophie Schrijen or any other woman would definitely not want. One wore a white, thin-collared, too tightly buttoned shirt, black tie, heavy black woollen waistcoat and suit jacket. Round in the shoulders, his head was down on them, the perpetual evening shadow doing nothing to alleviate the expression in dark, half-hooded eyes that said, Ah, yes, you make the next move,
mein Herr
, and we'll see what happens.

The other one had a Hitler soup-strainer and eyebrows to match. Dissipated, a drinker too, and whoremaster who obviously sucked on more fags than he should, he was big in the shoulders, big everywhere and had the look of one who knew what he had to do and wouldn't give a damn about anything else.

‘The colonel's detectives,' said Kohler softly. It hadn't taken a moment to decide, since photos like these were in every cop shop in the land and in France too, and each had its
Polizeikommandantur
number on the back along with the stamp and swastika. These were simply spares that had been, and were always kept in case false identity papers might be needed. Renée Ekkhard must have gotten them, and at some risk, too, but why tuck them in here unless watching for these two when in the street and before an audience?

Had Sophie Schirjen discovered she was being constantly followed and was that why she hadn't gone out to the
Karneval
?

‘Herr Kohler, what is this, please?'

It was Frau Macher. ‘
Ach
, I was just trying to reach my partner but can't seem to figure out how to use the telephone.'

The tisane was not of camomile, that gentlest of nervines, felt St-Cyr, nor was it of peppermint or verbena. It was of motherwort whose pungent aroma and astringently bitter taste would have been lessened by lavender and honey. A tisane, then, to gladden and strengthen the heart in the face of adversity.
Leonurus cardiaca
in the Latin, the remedy centuries old and a favourite of medieval monks, but a bookseller who knew her herbal.