Jackdaws (10 page)

"I'm sure you will." She
did not ask for details. She knew he would tell her as much as he wanted to and
no more.

He looked fondly at her, wondering
whether to say what was on his mind. It might spoil the pleasant atmosphere—but
it needed to be said. He sighed again. "If the invasion is successful, and
the Allies win back France, it will be the end for you and me. You know
that."

She winced, as if at a sudden pain,
and let go of his hand. "Do I?"

He knew that her husband had been
killed early in the war, and they had had no children. "Do you have any
family at all?" he asked her.

"My parents died years ago. I
have a sister in Montreal."

"Maybe we should be thinking
about how to send you over there."

She shook her head. "No."

"Why?"

She would not meet his eye. "I
just wish the war would be over," she muttered.

"No, you don't."

She showed a rare flash of
irritation. "Of course I do."

"How uncharacteristically
conventional of you," he said with a hint of scorn.

"You can't possibly think war
is a good thing!"

"You and I would not be
together, were it not for the war."

"But what about all the
suffering?"

"I'm an existentialist. War
enables people to be what they really are: the sadists become torturers, the
psychopaths make brave front-line troops, the bullies and the victims alike
have scope to play their roles to the hilt, and the whores are always
busy."

She looked angry. "That tells
me pretty clearly what part I play."

He stroked her soft cheek and
touched her lips with the tip of his finger. "You're a courtesan—and very
good at it."

She moved her head away. "You
don't mean any of this. You're improvising on a tune, the way you do when you
sit at the piano."

He smiled and nodded: he could play
a little jazz, much to his father's dismay. The analogy was apt. He was trying
out ideas, rather than expressing a firm conviction. "Perhaps you're
right."

Her anger evaporated, and she looked
sad. "Did you mean the part about us separating, if the Germans leave
France?"

He put his arm around her shoulders
and pulled her to him. She relaxed and laid her head on his chest. He kissed
the top of her head and stroked her hair. "It's not going to happen,"
he said.

"Are you certain?"

"I guarantee it."

It was the second time today he had
made a promise he might not be able to keep.

The waiter returned with his lunch,
and the spell was broken. Dieter was almost too tired to be hungry, but he ate
a few mouthfuls and drank all the coffee. Afterwards he washed and shaved, and
then he felt better. As he was buttoning a clean uniform shirt, Lieutenant
Hesse tapped at the door. Dieter kissed Stéphanie and went out.

The car was diverted around a
blocked street: there had been another bombing raid overnight, and a whole row
of houses near the railway station had been destroyed. They got out of town and
headed for Sainte-Cécile.

Dieter had told Rommel that the
interrogation of the prisoners might enable him to cripple the Resistance
before the invasion—but Rommel, like any military commander, took a maybe for a
promise and would now expect results. Unfortunately, there was nothing
guaranteed about an interrogation. Clever prisoners told lies that were
impossible to check. Some found ingenious ways to kill themselves before the
torture became unbearable. If security was really tight in their particular
Resistance circuit, each would know only the minimum about the others, and have
little information of value. Worst of all, they might have been fed false
information by the perfidious Allies, so that when they finally broke under
torture, what they said was part of a deception plan.

Dieter began to put himself in the
mood. He needed to be completely hard-hearted and calculating. He must not
allow himself to be touched by the physical and mental suffering he was about
to inflict on human beings. All that mattered was whether it worked. He closed
his eyes and felt a profound calm settle over him, a familiar bone-deep chill
that he sometimes thought must be like the cold of death itself.

The car pulled into the grounds of
the château. Workmen were repairing the smashed glass in the windows and
filling the holes made by grenades. In the ornate hall, the telephonists
murmured into their microphones in a perpetual undertone. Dieter marched
through the perfectly proportioned rooms of the east wing, with Hans Hesse in
tow. They went down the stairs to the fortified basement. The sentry at the
door saluted and made no attempt to detain Dieter, who was in uniform. He found
the door marked Interrogation Center and went in.

In the outer room, Willi Weber sat
at the table. Dieter barked, "Heil Hitler!" and saluted, forcing
Weber to stand. Then Dieter pulled out a chair, sat down, and said,
"Please be seated, Major."

Weber was furious at being invited
to sit in his own headquarters, but he had no choice.

Dieter said, "How many
prisoners do we have?"

"Three."

Dieter was disappointed. "So
few?"

"We killed eight of the enemy
in the skirmish. Two more died of their wounds overnight."

Dieter grunted with dismay. He had
ordered that the wounded be kept alive. But there was no point now in
questioning Weber about their treatment.

Weber went on, "I believe two
escaped—"

"Yes," Dieter said.
"The woman in the square, and the man she carried away."

"Exactly. So, from a total of
fifteen attackers, we have three prisoners."

"Where are they?"

Weber looked shifty. "Two are
in the cells."

Dieter narrowed his eyes. "And
the third?"

Weber inclined his head toward the
inner room. "The third is under interrogation at this moment."

Dieter got up, apprehensive, and
opened the door. The hunched figure of Sergeant Becker stood just inside the
room, holding in his hand a wooden club like a large policeman's truncheon. He
was sweating and breathing hard, as if he had been taking vigorous exercise. He
was staring at a prisoner who was tied to a post.

Dieter looked at the prisoner, and
his fears were confirmed. Despite his self-imposed calm, he grimaced with
revulsion. The prisoner was the young woman, Geneviève, who had carried a Sten
gun under her coat. She was naked, tied to the pillar by a rope that passed
under her arms and supported her slumped weight. Her face was so swollen that
she could not have opened her eyes. Blood from her mouth covered her chin and
most of her chest. Her body was discolored with angry bruises. One arm hung at
an odd angle, apparently dislocated at the shoulder. Her pubic hair was matted
with blood.

Dieter said to Becker, "What
has she told you?"

Becker looked embarrassed.
"Nothing."

Dieter nodded, suppressing his rage.
It was as he had expected.

He went close to the woman.
"Geneviève, listen to me," he said in French.

She showed no sign of having heard.

"Would you like to rest
now?" he tried.

There was no response.

He turned around. Weber was standing
in the doorway, looking defiant. Dieter, coldly furious, said, "You were
expressly told that I would conduct the interrogation."

"We were ordered to give you
access," Weber replied with smug pedantry. "We were not prohibited
from questioning the prisoners ourselves."

"And are you satisfied with the
results you have achieved?"

Weber did not answer.

Dieter said, "What about the
other two?"

"We have not yet begun their
interrogation."

"Thank God for that."
Dieter was nonetheless dismayed. He had expected half a dozen subjects, not
two. "Take me to them."

Weber nodded at Becker, who put down
his club and led the way out of the room. In the bright lights of the corridor,
Dieter could see the bloodstains on Becker's uniform. The sergeant stopped at a
door with a judas peephole. Dieter slid back the panel and looked inside.

It was a bare room with a dirt
floor. The only item of furniture was a bucket in the corner. Two men sat on
the ground, not talking, staring into space. Dieter studied them carefully. He
had seen both yesterday. The older one was Gaston, who had set the charges. He
had a large piece of sticking-plaster covering a scalp wound that looked
superficial. The other was very young, about seventeen, and Dieter recalled
that his name was Bertrand. He had no visible injuries, but Dieter, recalling
the skirmish, thought he might have been stunned by the explosion of a hand
grenade.

Dieter watched them for a while,
taking time to think. He had to do this right. He could not afford to waste
another captive: these two were the only assets left. The kid would be scared,
he foresaw, but might withstand a lot of pain. The other was too old for serious
torture—he might die before he cracked—but he would be softhearted. Dieter
began to see a strategy for interrogating them.

He closed the judas and returned to
the interview room. Becker followed, reminding him again of a stupid but
dangerous dog. Dieter said, "Sergeant Becker, untie the woman and put her
in the cell with the other two."

Weber protested, "A woman in a
man's cell?"

Dieter stared at him incredulously.
"Do you think she will feel the indignity?"

Becker went into the torture chamber
and reemerged carrying the broken body of Geneviève. Dieter said, "Make
sure the old man gets a good look at her, then bring him here."

Becker went out.

Dieter decided he would prefer to
get rid of Weber. However, he knew that if he gave a direct order, Weber would
resist. So he said, "I think you should remain here to witness the
interrogation. You could learn a lot from my techniques."

As Dieter had expected, Weber did
the opposite. "I don't think so," he said. "Becker can keep me
informed." Dieter faked an indignant expression, and Weber went out.

Dieter caught the eye of Lieutenant
Hesse, who had quietly taken a seat in the corner. Hesse understood how Dieter
had manipulated Weber and was looking admiringly at Dieter. Dieter shrugged.
"Sometimes it's too easy," he said.

Becker returned with Gaston. The
older man was pale. No doubt he had been badly shocked by the sight of
Geneviève. Dieter said in German, "Please have a seat. Do you like to
smoke?"

Gaston looked blank.

That established that he did not
understand German, which was worth knowing.

Dieter motioned him to a seat and
offered him cigarettes and matches. Gaston took a cigarette and lit it with
shaking hands.

Some prisoners broke at this stage,
before torture, just from fear of what would happen. Dieter hoped that might be
the case today. He had shown Gaston the alternatives: on one hand, the dreadful
sight of Geneviève; on the other, cigarettes and kindness.

Now he spoke in French, using a
friendly tone. "I'm going to ask you some questions."

"I don't know anything,"
Gaston said.

"Oh, I think you do,"
Dieter said. "You're in your sixties, and you've probably lived in or
around Reims all your life." Gaston did not deny this. Dieter went on:
"I realize that the members of a Resistance cell use code names and give
one another the minimum of personal information, as a security
precaution." Gaston involuntarily gave a slight nod of agreement.
"But you've known most of these people for decades. A man may call himself
Elephant or Priest or Aubergine when the Resistance meet, but you know his
face, and you recognize him as Jean-Pierre the postman, who lives in the rue du
Parc and surreptitiously visits the widow Martineau on Tuesdays when his wife
thinks he is playing bowls."

Gaston looked away, unwilling to
meet Dieter's eye, confirming that Dieter was right.

Dieter went on, "I want you to
understand that you are in control of everything that happens here. Pain, or
the relief of pain; the sentence of death, or reprieve; all depend on your
choices." He saw with satisfaction that Gaston looked even more terrified.
"You will answer my questions," he went on. "Everyone does, in
the end. The only imponderable is how soon."

This was the moment when a man might
break down, but Gaston did not. "I can't tell you anything," he said
in a near-whisper. He was scared, but he still had some courage left, and he
was not going to give up without a fight.

Dieter shrugged. It was to be the
hard way, then. He spoke to Becker in German. "Go back to the cell. Make
the boy strip naked. Bring him here and tie him to the pillar in the next
room."

"Very good, Major," Becker
said eagerly.

Dieter turned back to Gaston.
"You're going to tell me the names and code names of all the men and women
who were with you yesterday, and any others in your Resistance circuit."
Gaston shook his head, but Dieter ignored that. "I want to know the
address of every member, and of every house used by members of the circuit."

Gaston drew hard on his cigarette
and stared at the glowing end.

In fact, these were not the most
important questions. Dieter's main aim was to get information that would lead
him to other Resistance circuits. But he did not want Gaston to know that.

A moment later, Becker returned with
Bertrand. Gaston stared openmouthed as the naked boy was marched through the
interview room into the chamber beyond.

Dieter stood up. He said to Hesse,
"Keep an eye on this old man." Then he followed Becker into the
torture chamber.

He was careful to leave the door a
little ajar so that Gaston could hear everything.

Becker tied Bertrand to the pillar.
Before Dieter could intervene, Becker punched Bertrand in the stomach. It was a
powerful blow from a strong man, and it made a sickening thud. The young man
groaned and writhed in agony.