Hunting Ground (21 page)

I knew that what he had said was perfectly true and happening throughout the Occupied Zone, yet it still angered me, and I said, ‘Besides, there’s the loss of your pension. We wouldn’t wish the family Picard to go without.’

The threat of losing their pensions is what encouraged so many civil servants to cooperate with the Nazis.

‘Talk tough, if you like, madame, but face reality. For the moment, the Germans have chosen to be kind.’

‘But not to the Poles, the Czechs, or anyone else?’

‘I’m sorry you lost your little girl, but please don’t let that tragedy make you foolish. Talk to your husband. Don’t do anything in Paris until you have first spoken to him.’

Paris, through the hush of what was the busiest time of day, was somewhat surreal. Bicycles—
vélos
—were everywhere, their crazy
vélo-taxis,
too. So few cars and lorries were about, to see one was to experience a moment profound. That one sat lost and alone, far along the Champs-Élysées beneath the chestnut trees like a bank robber’s car with the streams of bicycles passing by or parked side by side in endless rows.

Here and there, a
vélo-taxi
nudged out into the silent stream. There were Germans everywhere around Place de la Concorde—all types of uniforms. ‘Tourists’ mostly, for the High Command must have been using Paris for rest and recuperation, but businessmen, too. Lots of French girls fraternizing. Lots of laughter, lipstick, makeup, short skirts even in the cold, silk stockings … Could they still buy those? Later, the girls painted on a beige wash, drew lines up the backs of their legs, or went without. The shoes hadn’t yet become difficult. Later, those things, with their hinged wooden soles, would make them sound like frisky, two-legged fillies if they didn’t fall apart or jam. All the barges had disappeared from the Seine, most of the statues from the streets. The circular cast-iron sheeting of a
vespasienne,
however, still revealed the boots, shoes, and trouser legs of men standing shoulder to shoulder as they urinated. Some things never changed, but the signboard of its posters exhorted the public to be wary of strangers, to report suspicious things, to save, conserve, and be grateful for the protection of the German soldier. England is the enemy. There were ordinances about the blackout. The curfew now began at midnight, the last trains of the métro were at eleven. Most of the theatres and restaurants closed at ten thirty, otherwise people must stay the night until five a.m. when the curfew ended.
*

I stopped to read a copy of the proclamation of 20 June 1940, badly tattered and weathered. Acts of violence and sabotage were to be severely punished, but none have happened that I knew of. Everyone was having too good a time, or so it appeared. Firearms were, of course, forbidden, but I was willing to bet that a few had been kept. No one was to assist non-German military personnel or civilians who were attempting to escape—were we to help only the German ones, and not those of the RAF and others still on the run from Dunkerque?

Though this was soon to be forbidden, you could still listen to your wireless, but God help you if you spread news that was contrary to the good of the Third Reich, i.e., the results of British bombing raids as reported over the BBC French broadcast from London.

No insults would be tolerated. All gatherings were subject to approval. The administration of the state—the police and schools, the banks, too—was to continue under the French as before the Occupation. Failure to report to work or to reopen your shop or place of business was punishable by fines, and imprisonment in the first instance and confiscation in others. Hoarding was to be considered an act of sabotage and subject as such, I guess, to the death penalty. Prison, anyway. The pears I had preserved, the apples, vegetables, even though I had three boarders. The .22 calibre rifle that Tommy and Jean-Guy had used—now hidden in the cellar, in an old piece of pipe; that Luger of Dmitry Alexandrov’s that I had kept, but did the Occupier really need an excuse? Ah, no, of course not.

Beneath the notice was another. It was signed by General Studnitz, the first, if temporary military commander of Greater Paris, but it applied to the whole of Occupied France. Art treasures were not to be removed from their present places—that was fair, wasn’t it? Transfers of them needed his approval—fair again?

Those whose value exceeds one hundred thousand of the new francs had to be reported
in writing
by their owners or custodians—ah, now, what about that? What about that nice diamond necklace you had kept for years in a safe-deposit box since your grandmother left it to you? Things that had been in the family for years? Gold coins that had been stashed away for your old age? Art treasures and valuables …

The auction was in the Jeu de Paume and, at first, I couldn’t understand how such a thing could happen, for this had been the place of places to see special exhibitions. Then it was crowded with crated and uncrated paintings, exquisite pieces of sculpture, tapestries, and other
objets d’art
. There were several large collections of Venetian glass, of coins both Roman and more recent. Each crate, each piece, bore a stamp or tag with the name of its former owner and the letters ERR, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the agency for the confiscation of works of art that had once belonged to Jews, Freemasons, and other enemies of the Reich.

The ERR was my husband’s employer. Those lists Jules had made were being put to use. In loneliness and despair, I walked through several fortunes worth of art. No one stopped me. No one questioned my being there. Perhaps they knew who I was. Perhaps they had been warned to expect me.

Jules was waiting. Blue-washed, sticking-paper–X’d glass was above and all around us in the greenhouselike walls and ceiling of this former tennis court of royalty. Crowded …
Ah, mon Dieu
, German officers and senior officials were everywhere, but scattered among them were the art dealers and not just those from Paris and France, but from Switzerland, the Reich, Belgium, Holland, lots of other places—experts who had already sold themselves to the new order or were simply there to take advantage of the situation.

There were also members of the police, the Sûreté, and the Gestapo, though there were few of the latter at this time, and they kept to themselves.

‘Seven hundred thousand francs.’

‘Eight hundred thousand!’

‘One million!’

‘One million, two hundred thousand!’

‘Two million.’

‘Two million francs,
mesdames et messieurs
. I have two million going once … going twice … going three times … and sold to the Reichsmarschall.’

A Teniers oil on canvas, an absolutely gorgeous painting. Sold to the commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe. At two hundred francs to the British pound, that was only ten thousand pounds sterling, or at twenty francs to the Occupation mark, one hundred thousand of those and a fantastic bargain, especially as the Occupier sanctioned the money and it was worthless almost everywhere but in France.

Jules accepted the bid from Göring’s chief buyer. It was all so nice, so friendly. Handshakes all round but no sign of the cash. Perhaps that would come later, perhaps never.

My husband, how could he do this? Göring was the man whose brave pilots had murdered our little girl.

Barging through the crowd, I knocked champagne glasses aside as I headed for that monster. There was no mistaking Göring even though he’d come in mufti: that bulk, that ham-slabbed face with its pig-blue eyes and skin that was flushed.
Maudit salaud …

Jules grabbed me by an arm. ‘Herr Reichsmarschall, permit me to introduce my wife, the sculptress of that little piece I presented to you.’

Presented
… What was this?

The cigar was raised but paused as he surveyed me, and what he said or did not say was completely lost, for my courage left and I stared bleakly at his shoes, knowing everyone was watching me now and that I’d betrayed myself. ‘
Enchantée,
Herr Reichsmarschall. That is a lovely Teniers you have just acquired.’

How could I have done this? As I watched, the lips began to move, and I saw the dampened end of that cigar as it paused before them, his smile now flaccid, his nod of dismissal curt as he turned away to confer with his art experts.

As Jules and I hurried from the auction, we passed the Vuittons, and I caught a look of utter hatred from that woman. Outside, Jules was far from pleased. ‘
Idiote,
just what the hell did you think you were going to do? Spit at him?’

He hurried me to a cellar office in the Louvre, which was cluttered with priceless things, threw me up against its door, and hit me three times. Blood trickled from my broken lips, but somehow I managed to say, ‘Don’t ever do that again, or I’ll kill you. I swear it!’

That shook him a little, but he still couldn’t keep anger from him. ‘Lily, these people mean business! Don’t you ever cross them.’

Finding a handkerchief, he offered it, but I used my own. ‘How can you do this?’

At least we’d talk now, he thought, and tried to smile. ‘Göring’s really not so bad. He’s got an eye for what’s exceptional and is still fond of the Impressionists, though the others aren’t. You of all people should appreciate him for that.’

A common bond. ‘What I understand, my husband, is that you’re engaged in a monstrous theft. You’re building yourself on the sorrows of others.’

‘No more than most. I’ve repaid the mortgages on the house. I’ve money in the bank.’

‘And the taxes?’

I was still the same, would always be that way. ‘There’s no need. You know as well as I that the house has been declared a repository. It’s under the protection of the Wehrmacht and not subject to taxes.’

‘And is that glorious Army of the Occupation protecting the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg? Has the German Army legalized the looting of works of art?’

‘Of course not. The military governor of France has expressly forbidden it but …’ He gave a sheepish grin, a shrug. ‘But there are those who wish it to continue.’

‘Who?’

‘The Führer, for his museum in Linz; the Reichsmarschall, for Karinhall, the villa he has on his estate in East Prussia; the Nazis, Lily. Even Himmler buys.’

‘And you, my husband? What about you?’

He turned away to sit down behind that desk of his. ‘I’ve made my choice. Now you must make yours, but remember, please, that one more outburst like that and I may not be able to protect you. A word, that’s all they’ll need. Why not be sensible? The house is far more comfortable than the internment camp at Besançon. Jean-Guy still needs his mother. You can keep an eye on things for me. Schiller …’

I waited, but he left it unsaid and irritably asked, ‘Why have you come to Paris? How did you convince them and that mayor of ours to give you an
Ausweis
?’

A
laissez-passer.
‘When you had expressly asked them not to?’

‘Why, Lily?’

‘Because I must see André.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’

He was worried now—alarmed.
Ah, bon
, he
needed
me to watch that house of his. ‘Ask André.’

‘Lily, wait.’

Out on Place de la Concorde, Jules told me exactly how things stood. ‘Why do you think you’ve been allowed to stay in the house, you with your English passport, your friends, and that sister of yours? It’s only because I’m useful, Lily. If you want to thank somebody, thank Göring. He’s the one who gave the order allowing you to stay.’

Göring …
My wife, the sculptress of that little piece I presented to you
. My sculpture of Nini, the one that Tommy had bought and that was stolen from him by
the Action française thugs and Schiller.

‘Make the best of things. Buy some new clothes, some shoes, a lipstick—whatever you want. Here, let me give you some money.’

There were one-hundred- and one-thousand-franc notes, several five-thousands, and all of them brand-new. If I had thrown them up in the air, they would have floated slowly to the ground and neither of us would have stooped to pick them up.

Like a whore accepting her ‘little gift,’ I took the money. It was far too needed to refuse. We found a café. I let him order something, but what it was, or if I drank it, I have no memory.

He asked about Janine. I said I hadn’t heard.

‘She’s still missing,’ he said. ‘Dupuis thinks she must have gone underground.’

‘Dupuis is an inspector with the Sûreté.’

‘The criminal investigation branch. They’re hand in glove with the Gestapo because they have to be. Someone’s been plastering Résistance notices up all over the place and also printing a newspaper.’

Nini would do this—a start. ‘She must have gone south with all the others. She’ll still be in the
zone libre
. It’s crazy to think she’d be messed up in anything like that.’

‘Just don’t try to find her. They would only have you followed, Lily. You wouldn’t want to lead them to her, would you?’

‘And Michèle?’ I asked. ‘Have you managed to break into the safe and plunder her little capital? Was it exquisite, my husband? Another virgin?’

‘Your sister wasn’t.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of her. I was thinking of myself.’

‘Michèle is also missing, as are Dmitry Alexandrov and Henri-Philippe Beauclair.’

My sister’s friends. But Dmitry …

I know I asked Jules about the Vuittons, and was he still involved with them. ‘I can never forgive you for what they did to me.’

Immediately, he withdrew, was almost brutal about it. ‘We had to know. Too much was at stake. Besides, those guys were only to have threatened you. It … it got out of hand.’

‘Did it? On your orders or those of the Vuittons?’

I started to get up but heard him saying, ‘Just keep the house in readiness. When the time comes, we’ll be there with Göring. Then you’ll see how things really are.’

‘And Schiller?’ I demanded.

‘Do everything you can to keep him happy since he probably won’t be staying with you much longer. There’s far too much else for him to do.’

What can I say? It’s to my everlasting shame that later I didn’t have the courage to have Jules killed when I could so easily have done so. The others had left the matter entirely to me, yet I always hesitated. There would be no little black pasteboard coffin for him then, only recently, and from Zurich.