The Germans could only be an improvement.
When they came, they came in style. In triumph. There were tanks, armoured cars, mounted troops, and ranks of field-grey infantry marching in precise formation. It was an incredible sight. Most of the people stared in silence, their faces angry or disbelieving; some shouted bitter comments. Vasson watched, his face impassive, and wondered how long it would be before the Germans emptied all the shops and set him up for life.
The first month was all brass bands, martial songs and jackboots. The Germans seemed to be everywhere, their music blaring out day and night in every part of the city. Posters appeared saying:
TRUST THE GERMAN SOLDIERS.
Strange new newspapers came on to the news-stands:
Aujourd’hui, La France du Travail
, their pages full of German propaganda. Even the long-established
Le Matin
and
Paris-Soir
weren’t slow to be forced into line and before long they too came out with glowing pro-Nazi headlines. The swastika appeared over hundreds of buildings.
The first week was good for the retail trade – or so people believed. The Germans made straight for the shops and swept up all the lingerie, perfumes and stockings they could find. And paid for them. Motor coaches brought hundreds of soldiers up into Montmartre to see the sights – ostensibly the Sacré-Cœur, but really the nightclubs and the girls. The Parisians were pleasantly surprised.
By the end of the month there was chaos. The Germans had paid for everything in Occupation money which was found to be worthless; the food disappeared from the markets to feed the German Army; petrol suddenly disappeared from the filling stations; and, overnight, prices shot up.
Vasson began trading. He started by selling coffee and petrol to the French. He dealt only in francs, in cash. As soon as he had money he spent it again, increasing his stock.
A few weeks later it was time to start dealing with the Germans. They had an almost insatiable desire for stockings, lingerie and perfume. Now that they’d emptied the shops they were happy to buy on the black market. But Vasson needed a contact: someone in supplies, who would buy his luxuries in exchange for food or tyres or petrol – he wasn’t prepared to deal in worthless German money.
It didn’t take long to find his man, a quartermaster sergeant called Seiger. Vasson would have preferred to deal with an officer, to make the operation more permanent and above board, but right from the start Seiger and he understood each other perfectly. It was too good an opportunity to miss. By September Vasson had doubled his stock, rented a decent apartment, and bought himself two new suits.
This time Vasson was determined not to fall into any traps. He would go carefully, always consolidating, always spreading the risks. The best way to spread the risks was, he realised, to branch out into other businesses. He started looking for opportunities. The girls racket was no good: everyone was on to that one and anyway half the girls had developed a bad case of patriotism and wouldn’t go with Germans. The clubs were no good either; they were still wrapped up too tight.
For a while he settled for dealing in a wider range of goods – more foods, more imported goods – but he still wasn’t happy: if for some reason he was closed down he would have nothing to fall back on.
Then he stumbled on the answer, accidentally.
He’d been tipped off about a large quantity of lingerie in a warehouse in the southern suburbs. He’d never been to the place before, he didn’t know who ran it, but that didn’t matter. He’d discovered that, when offered cash on the spot, people were quite happy to do business with him. This one would be no exception.
But he was wrong. The warehouse was run by an old Jew called Goldberg, and Goldberg did not want to do business with him. Not on any terms, not at any price. He would not say why; instead he was belligerent and rude. He called Vasson a leech and a verminous parasite. He shut the door in his face.
Vasson went to Seiger; Seiger arranged a meeting with a smart young man in the black uniform of the SS; the smart young man took him to see a man in civilian clothes, someone by the name of Kloffer. They met in an apartment in the Rue Lalo behind the elegant Avenue Foch.
Kloffer was different from the Germans Vasson had met before. He was quiet, cool and slim, like a snake. He hardly spoke while Vasson told him about the Jew with the warehouse full of lingerie. He merely nodded slightly and, when Vasson had finished, gave a small bow and left.
Kloffer left so quickly that there was no time to ask questions. Vasson was left in the air. He felt slightly cheated. Would they do anything? He wasn’t sure. And, if they did, would they tell him?
After a few days Vasson could bear the uncertainty no longer. He drove to the Jew’s warehouse to see if anything had happened. As he neared the place he felt a delicious sense of anticipation, as if he was about to be given a treat. He was not disappointed. The doors of the warehouse were open, the interior gaping and empty. The glass in the windows had exploded from the force of a fire which, from the scorch marks on the walls, must have raged for hours. Vasson was pleased; the Germans must have been impressed by what he told them. As for Goldberg, he’d deserved it. He hadn’t listened.
Vasson expected to see Kloffer again, but he heard nothing. He was disappointed. He wanted to see Kloffer again, to talk about the raid, to go over the details and to remind Kloffer that it was he, Vasson, who had provided the information. He wanted his contribution to be recognised; yes, damn it, and properly acknowledged. But there was nothing.
During the rest of September and October the Germans dropped their softly-softly approach to the population: the honeymoon was over. There were arrests of communists, trade unionists and leftist-intellectuals; the bread ration was low, unemployment was high.
In November there was more trouble: a mass demonstration by students in the Champs Elysées on Armistice Day. The Germans arrested the ringleaders for left-wing activities.
Every week Vasson went to meet Seiger. They always met in a small bar near the Porte de Clichy. The place had two advantages for Vasson: no-one knew him there and it was near the rented garage where he kept his stock.
Early in December Vasson bought a batch of high-quality stockings off a little shopkeeper in the
vingtième
. He decided to offer them straight to Seiger. He would ask for cigarettes in return; cigarettes always sold well and at the moment they were fetching particularly high prices.
He walked into the bar feeling excited, as he always did. He enjoyed doing business. It was lovely and clean and
definite
. He liked thrashing out the terms with Seiger, playing the game they always played: hedging and evading, stating and overstating, until finally the bargain was struck. There was nothing like it.
But today there was no Seiger. He searched the small bar for the familiar uniform; but it was missing. How irritating! Vasson did not like arrangements to go wrong.
Vasson took another look round the bar. No, there was no Seiger. Instead – Vasson’s heart gave a small thud – instead there was Kloffer. He was sitting alone at a table. He gave no sign that he had recognised Vasson. Vasson looked round again, wondering what to do. Should he go up to Kloffer and admit he knew him? Or should he ignore him? He decided it would be safer to ignore him. He went to the bar and sat down. The proprietor sniffed at him, ‘Your friend not here today then?’
‘No.’
The man sneered, ‘Well, that’s a loss, isn’t it?’
Vasson ignored him. Another cheap patriot. He ordered a coffee, then changed his mind and asked for a pastis. He looked round at Kloffer. The German was sitting staring out of the window. Vasson downed his drink and, as he put the empty glass on the counter, he saw Kloffer get up and leave the bar. Vasson paid and followed the German out.
When Vasson reached the street he looked quickly up and down. Kloffer was disappearing round a corner to the left. Vasson walked quickly to the corner and rounded it. There was a black Citroën beside the kerb. Kloffer was waiting at the open rear door. There were two men in raincoats and fedora hats sitting in the front. They might as well have a sign on the side saying ‘Gestapo’. Kloffer said, ‘Get in.’
Vasson got in followed by Kloffer. The car sped south, towards the Etoile. Vasson asked nervously, ‘May I ask where we’re going?’
Kloffer stared straight ahead. For a moment Vasson thought he wouldn’t answer, then he said, ‘To my office.’
Vasson wondered where that would be. But he didn’t ask. There was something about Kloffer’s manner that discouraged questions.
The car rounded the Etoile and turned into the Avenue Foch. Vasson suddenly realised where they must be going and his mouth went dry. The Gestapo and the SS lived down here: the street was fast getting the pseudonym Avenue Boches. But why were they bringing him here? A nasty suspicion flashed through his mind and for a moment he thought: They’re busting me, they’re going to close me down. Then he decided not. If they were busting him they would have got him at the garage and taken his stock and ransacked his apartment.
The car drove under the archway of number 82 and stopped. This was the lion’s mouth. It was well-known: Gestapo Headquarters. Its two neighbours, numbers 84 and 86, were occupied by the SS.
Vasson followed Kloffer up the stairs to the third floor. When they finally entered a large room with deep carpets and a large empire-style desk, he felt calmer. It was difficult to believe that anything terrible could happen in these surroundings. Vasson looked at the luxurious décor and realised that Kloffer was important.
Kloffer took off his hat and coat and told Vasson to sit down. When they were both seated Kloffer stared straight at Vasson and asked, ‘What is your name?’
Vasson almost let the surprise show on his face, but he covered it quickly and said, ‘You know my name: it’s Jean-Marie Biolet.’
‘No, your real name.’
‘That
is
my real name.’
A flicker of impatience crossed Kloffer’s face. ‘Come now, I know it is not.’
Vasson thought quickly: How? How did he know? It
must
be a guess. Vasson had
never
been taken in by the police, not once; no-one had checked his identity since he arrived in Paris.
It had to be a bluff.
‘It’s my real name,’ Vasson repeated.
‘We could get the préfecture to check it. Somehow I don’t think your thumb print would match that on your identity card.’
Vasson shrugged. ‘So check them. You’d be wasting your time. I am Jean-Marie Biolet and I come from St Etienne.’ He added, ‘Anyway, what does it matter? Either I can help you or I can’t.’
Kloffer’s sharp rat-like eyes fell to the pad on the desk in front of him. Vasson realised he wasn’t going to press the matter.
Thank God
.
‘Very well,’ Kloffer said, ‘I want someone. I think you can find him for me.’
Vasson felt the relief flooding over him. So that was all they wanted – a person. It was to be a job like the one he’d done on Goldberg. Find and identify. Simple. But he was puzzled. Who could it be? He didn’t know anyone these people might want.
Kloffer continued, ‘The person we want is a communist agitator by the name of Cohen. He is a professor at the Sorbonne but has recently … gone to ground.’
‘But I’ve never heard of Cohen, I don’t know Cohen …’
‘Exactly. You will be perfect for the job.’
Vasson began to understand. This was no Goldberg job. This wasn’t a simple matter of pointing out an insignificant Jewish wholesaler, it was more, much more.
Vasson said stiffly, ‘But why me?’
‘Oh, come now. You will be excellent for the job. You have all the qualifications. You have already proved that.’
‘But supposing I fail …?’
Kloffer looked impatient. ‘Oh you won’t do that. I have a feeling about you.’ He stabbed a finger at Vasson. ‘I have a feeling that you will be very good at the little tasks I ask you to do.’
‘But … where would I start? How will I find him?’
Kloffer smiled thinly. ‘We have some information. Cohen is a history professor at the Sorbonne. He is also the leader of a communist cell. We have detained most of them. Now I want Cohen himself. We picked up his girlfriend the other day, her name’s Marie Boulevont. We released her but—’ Kloffer cleared his throat and looked unhappy ‘– but we lost her. She was living at 56, Rue Brezin. Now she too has disappeared.’
In other words, Vasson thought, they’ve made a mess of it.
‘We will give you a new name and student’s papers and anything else that might be useful. Normally we would wait for someone to tell us where Cohen is, but in this case we want him in a hurry. As soon as possible. You understand?’
Vasson was trying to sort out his thoughts. He’d expected all kinds of things. But this … It would be difficult, and very dangerous. Political activists would not be kind if they caught him. Christ, they’d kill him without a second thought.
The money would have to be good, bloody good. Vasson looked up sharply: the German hadn’t mentioned that.
Vasson said, ‘I’d want good money for the job, in francs or gold, on delivery. What are you offering?’
Kloffer looked amused. ‘Oh, a great deal. Freedom from arrest. Your little black market operation is, after all, totally illegal. It could get you into a lot of trouble. Also freedom from investigation into your background and your – what shall we say? – dubious identity.’
Vasson waited. Kloffer said, ‘That is all.’
God!
Kloffer was nothing but a cheap blackmailer. He might have known. The humiliation burnt Vasson’s cheeks. He thought: No, you’re bloody well not going to get away with it.
Vasson looked calmly down at his hands and said casually, ‘No.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I don’t accept your terms. I have nothing to hide. You can close me down if you like.’
Kloffer stared across the desk.
Vasson glanced out of the window. ‘Now if we were to come to a sensible arrangement I could do a first-class job …’
‘Go on.’