Carnival (20 page)

‘Then tell me, please, Fräulein, why the colonel's secretary should have stayed out all night on her skis?'

And where she went, said Victoria silently. Could you not have seen this coming, Sophie?

The look the bookseller gave the chairman's daughter was ignored.

‘She skied all night, simply to avoid them. They would have known from my call to the bookshop that the girl would be there. Since they must have discovered the photos of themselves were missing, they'—again there was a shrug—‘they must have put two and two together and gone after her.'

‘And tried to make it look like a suicide?'

‘Why else would Colonel Rasche have brought you and Herr Kohler in, had he not trusted one word of what those two had claimed?'

Rubber boots weren't just for keeping water and caustic soda out, thought Kohler. The constant sound of splashing hoses and filling buckets made the carpenter want to piss, but of course, unlike a delinquent schoolboy, he couldn't ask Dorsche to be excused.

The reedy slash of a self-conscious grin was flashed as Savard let go. Dorsche knew it too. Nervous … was the carpenter nervous? wondered Kohler. Of course the poor bastard was, for he knew only too well what could quite possibly happen to him.

‘Paulette a le diable au corps, Inspecteur. Eugène …'

The devil in her body …

‘
Deutsch!
' shrieked Dorsche, the sound of him causing others to momentarily stop whatever they were doing.

‘
Elle prenait plaisir à
…' She took pleasure in …

‘
Und bist du nicht willig, so brauch ich Gewalt!
' shrieked Dorsche.

If you're not willing, then I will use force!

‘She … she had …'

‘
Ja, ja
, I've heard all about it,' sighed Kohler.

‘Eugène couldn't take it any longer, Inspector. Lagerfeldwebel, forgive me, but some of your
Greifer
teased Eugène about his wife. They said that she couldn't get enough of your good German boys, that they were real men and had cocks like pick handles.'

The guards, the ‘catchers', would have said it too, but Dorsche was far from happy at being told. The ruddy Burgermeister cheeks were sucked in, the wire-rimmed specs mirroring the feeble light as he gave the carpenter the slightest of nods.

That didn't stop Savard, though it should have.

‘One of the
Postzensuren
had it in for Eugène, Inspektor. She's Alsatian and no doubt felt she was doing her bit to get back at us French, but no parcel at Christmas? None last month? It has to make you wonder if she didn't …'

Was Savard bent on suicide himself?

‘All parcels are delivered,' muttered Dorsche. ‘The
Lagerführung
cannot be held responsible for postal delays due to the hostilities. Copies of the Wehrmacht ordinance pertaining to all prisoners of war have been posted in the dining hall for all to read.'

‘In each camp, cheap, mass-produced German dictionaries have been issued, Inspektor, to assist in one language for all, but here there are only three copies!' swore Savard. ‘ “Our treatment must be firm but correct,” eh?
Lieber Christus im Himmel
, Lagerfeldwebel, I'm sick of having to translate that passage for the Russians!'

Lead-blue behind those specs of his, Dorsche's gaze passed over the carpenter with a finality that made one shudder.

‘The
Ostarbeiter
don't need to read that passage or any other, since they do not receive anything,' grunted the Lagerfeldwebel.

Were the Eastern workers, the Poles, the Russians and others denied Red Cross parcels? wondered Kohler, sickened by the thought.

‘And mail from home, Inspektor, and are denied the freedom to write to their loved ones.'

Savard must have realized that the game was up, whatever that game was, but somehow it would be best to grin and try to make light of things. ‘Now look, let's calm down, eh? Answers are needed, Lagerfeldwebel. Reports will have to be filed. Personally I'd like to …'

Cigarettes were found, one falling to be ruined, no small matter, but … ‘I'd like to tell Berlin that everything I saw here was being done correctly and that everyone went out of their way to assist the investigation and that nothing was done to punish anyone for anything said while under questioning.
Ach
, who needs trouble?'

Or a transfer to the Russian front.

They lit up, Herr Kohler's offer of a light being held as still as death until that hand was gripped and withdrawn from Prisoner 220375, that one's cigarette being confiscated. ‘Second-hand smoke is healthier for this one, Herr Detektiv Aufsichtsbeamter.'

How kind of him! ‘Herr Savard, all of your combine are still in mourning, I gather?'

‘Mourning?' blurted Savard, throwing Dorsche a terrified look. ‘What is this, please? Lagerfeldwebel, the official three days are over, aren't they?'

‘Definitely,' snapped Dorsche.

Only then did the carpenter realize that he had been so afraid, he had forgotten what the combine had agreed to say.

‘Out of respect for those who died at Stalingrad, Herr Kohler,' said Dorsche, ‘the prisoners decided to wear black armbands. I, of course, had the Russians make them.'

And never mind Martin Caroff's claiming he'd worn his out of respect for Eugène Thomas!

At the far end of the shed, one man in a rubber suit had removed his hat and was looking uncertainly their way. The glazier …

‘The coffin,' managed Kohler. ‘You would have had to measure that girl. Tell me everything you noticed about her. The knot, the position of her arms and hands, what she wore, her beret. All such things.'

‘Knots all look much the same to me, Inspektor, but forgive me for contradicting you. There was no beret. Renée wore a woollen toque. It was very cold, the night she was out. A beret would hardly have been suitable or legal.'

‘Mittens? Gloves?' demanded Herr Kohler, trying his best to recover from what had just been revealed, but would Prisoner 220375 forget what he and the others had agreed to say and yield a little more? wondered Dorsche.

‘She wore mittens and gloves,' said Savard warily. ‘Though I only saw the knitted cuff of one of her gloves, I knew them well enough. Renée often wore them when at the
Karneval
. She'd get so excited about something she had found, she would yank them off to touch it and then forget them, only to remember hours later where she had left them. She was like that. Days after she had found something, she could take you to the exact spot. It's a shame she felt she had to leave us. She was a lovely girl, very gentle, very kind.
Un ange, n'est-ce pas
?'

‘
Ein Engel!
'—an angel—said Herr Kohler, the carpenter having momentarily switched into French.

‘The Fräulein Ekkehard often broke the rules,' interjected Dorsche. ‘When my back was turned, or that of one of my men, she would leave food or drop bits of string.'

‘Or buttons, or a cigarette—even pieces of fruit leather. Black raspberry, red currant, apple or grape,' said Savard. ‘She knew the
Karneval
so well, Inspektor. When Sophie … the Fräulein Schrijen wanted Raymond to draw her a map of the ruins and then make a scale model as it once was, Renée did a sketch map from memory. Raymond and Eugène then measured off the distances she had noted. I swear she knew that ruin like the palm of her hand. I'll never forget her enthusiasm for what we were doing. Our lives were brightened.
Ach, mein Gott
, in this hellhole of ours, she was a saint, even if she did break the
gottverdammt
rules!'

‘Raymond Maillotte is the Textilfabrik's test weaver and fabric designer,' grunted Dorsche, pinching out his cigarette to save it for later. ‘Now please, Inspektor, your time is up with this one.'

Savard couldn't leave it at that. ‘Eugène and Raymond were working on a new process, Inspektor. Viscose rayon has long filaments and when these are still in their plastic state, they can be chemically treated to produce a much tougher, more resilient fibre that withstands frictional heat, deformation and impact bruising far better than ordinary rayon.'

Dorsche looked about to bash the carpenter. ‘For rubber tyres?' asked Kohler, stepping between them.

‘The synthetic ones, since no others can be made. Eugène called it high-tenacity rayon.'

‘And now he's dead. …'

Dieu merci
, sighed Savard inwardly, the detective had swallowed the bait and would understand, for sure, that the process was top secret and perhaps believe that Eugène, as a loyal Frenchman should have done, had dealt with the matter in the only way possible and had taken his own life.

‘
Bitte
, Herr Kohler, I really must insist,' grumbled Dorsche. ‘Your visit here is already overextended.'

‘Then make sure I can interview this one again, eh? Otherwise Berlin … Well, you know how they are. Didn't the OKW assign you to this posting?'

‘Of course they did, but they, too, know that accidents happen, especially when that same High Command has ordered myself and my men to get the maximum work out of our guests.'

And also what truths we can pry from them, said Dorsche silently. ‘Prisoner 220375, be sure to wear your goggles and gloves. Remember, too, that the floor can be very slippery when the caustic is squeezed from the cellulose sheets and that men have, unfortunately, accidentally slipped and fallen into the baths. A tragedy, of course.'

From one end of the shed to the other, the glazier, still with hat in hand, never ceased to look their way. Uncertain of what was to come—apprehensive, no doubt—he waited for them, but was he also watching what went on behind them? wondered Kohler. Was Prisoner 220372 seeing other workers leave their stations to skirt the roller presses and converge on the carpenter? Could the ‘accident' not be stopped?

‘Herr Kohler, we haven't time to look back,' said Dorsche, hurrying on ahead.

Everyone behind them seemed busy, no notice being taken of them, yet notice taken all the same.
Verdammt
, the tension in the shed was everywhere. Had Dorsche organized one of his
Spitzel
to take care of the carpenter? If so, the camp's mouth radio would have spread the alarm even as the Lagerfeldwebel had hauled these two in here to give them rubber suits. Dorsche wouldn't be the only one with informants. The POWs would have their own among the guards, as well as a network of watchers among themselves. It was always like that. Always.

Savard had filled his buckets with water in case of a caustic spill and was now about to put his goggles on. Others had already done so. Hidden like that, who was to know who had pushed him? Wasn't that really why the glazier watched?

When the scream came, the shrieks would follow until there were no more.

Prisoner 220372 was older than the others—maybe fifty-two and a veteran of both wars. A man who knew himself and could look life in the face, grim though that might be.

The hair—what there was of it—was reddish grey and crinkly, the balding head freckled and sun-blotched by childhood years, the stubbled, square-jawed chin and cheeks sagging prematurely, the nose that of a Walloon for sure, so from Lille or Roubaix just as Rasche had said.

There were cuts and scars on the big hands, the result of poor quality glass cutters. The lips were compressed, the moustache red-grey, the attention still very much focused on what was happening at the other end of the shed.

When a hand was politely extended to him, the one with the gauntlet refused to budge and to hell with Dorsche or any other Boche, even a Gestapo. Beneath the widely spaced, reddish brows of this defiant patriot, the eyes were decidedly greenish-brown and devoid of feeling.

‘Look, I'm here to help,' said Kohler with a grin.

‘Help? There's plenty needed.'

Offer nothing, eh, while still concentrating on the other end of the shed? One had best give him what he wants. ‘I gather Eugène Thomas was very depressed and suicidal.'

‘One could say that, yes.'

‘Listen,
mein Lieber
, I know that even the most hardened criminals can look down the tunnel of their sentences to see the end, whereas a POW can never know. He longs for word from home, takes out his snapshots several times a day if possible, and kisses those of his loved ones at lights out. I know what it's like,
mon ami
.
Bien sûr
, we'll speak
Deutsch
as is required, but believe me, I have been behind the wire.'

‘But not, I think, required to work, or am I not speaking to a former officer?'

Touché. ‘I did ask to be sent out to the nearby farms but they wouldn't allow it, though the widows there sure could have used the help. Kids as young as three were grubbing for potatoes at harvest. The cows were not being milked. That's not good for cows. I used to worry about them.'

Herr Kohler had even learned to speak French but if he thought that this would make him more acceptable than others of his kind, he was sadly mistaken. ‘Eugène refused to be an NCO.'

Which, along with its consequent loss in pay, had made him a hero to his mates, for soldiers were always complaining about their officers and the combine must still have been blaming theirs for the Defeat, but was there no way to break the ice? ‘Did one of the
Postzensuren
tease him? Hitch up a garter belt to let him have a little look? Leave a photo mag' of female flesh in that toilet for him to peruse while he was having a smoke?'

‘Keep his parcels from him when rations are so short those little boxes can mean the difference between starvation and life—is this what you are implying, Inspektor?'

‘Did she?'

Good for Henri and Martin. ‘We think so, but can, of course, have no proof, can we, Lagerfeldwebel?'