table. Sokoloff was about Stahl’s age, good-looking in a craggy way, with a face careworn beyond his years, tousled brown hair, the dark complexion of the Latin French, and a certain set of the mouth: eager to laugh if it got the chance. As the waiter trotted off, Sokoloff said, ‘When the beer comes, we should drink to the estimable Mme Boulanger, she’s one of the good souls in this rats’ nest — I mean Parisian journalism.’
‘With pleasure,’ Stahl said. ‘She’s been a friend. And I begin to think I need to have as many of those as I possibly can.’
‘That’s always true,’ Sokoloff said. ‘Now we could follow one of our unwritten laws — no talk about politics or work during a meal. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll break one more rule today and we’ll do it anyhow. So then, tell me what’s going on.’
‘These people — only Le Matin so far but I get the feeling there’s more coming — are, how to say, after me.’
Sokoloff grinned. ‘After you? Only in your honour am I not sitting facing the door.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Not yet, but give it time.’
‘Well, I’ll let you know if a Bulgarian emigre comes through the door with a tommy gun.’
‘Do that, and we’ll continue our conversation under the table — which might be the best place to talk about the savage Le Matin. But I should start by telling you about Paris-Soir, where I work. We are the most respected — or hated, depends who you talk to — news organization in Paris, we also publish magazines, Marie Claire and Paris Match, and we own the station known as Radio 37. Saint-Exupery has written for us, so has Cocteau, and Blaise Cendrars. But the most important thing about Paris-Soir is that we don’t take bribes — not in any form. We have a wealthy publisher who is as much of an idealist as any publisher can be. We also occupy the democratic centre; with the communist L’Humanite far to our left, and Le Matin and others well to our right. When Henry Luce said in Time magazine that French newspapers sold their editorial policies to the highest bidder, he was sued for libel by Le Matin, Le Journal, and Le Temps — three newspapers of the right who sold their editorial policies to the highest bidder.’
With a tray balanced on the splayed fingers of one hand, the waiter arrived. Resting the tray on a service rack, he set a platter on the table and said, nearly sang, ‘ Choucroute garnie! ’ then added a crock of hot mustard and two glasses of dark Alsatian beer.
Stahl raised his glass and said, ‘ Salut, Mme Boulanger.’
Sokoloff imitated Stahl’s gesture and said, ‘Mme Boulanger.’ Then he drank and said, ‘Mm. Anyhow, the newspapers here are divided like the country, where cordial animosity has become something much more dangerous. This smouldered away for years, then came the Popular Front of 1936 — socialists, democrats, and communists — with Leon Blum, who is Jewish, as prime minister. The parties of the right were enraged; a fascist gang dragged Blum from his car, beat him badly, almost killed him. And if anyone wondered why, they wrote on the walls MIEUX HITLER QUE BLUM, better Hitler than Blum. Yes, mean-spirited, yes, caustic, but, in the end, far worse. In fact, they meant it.’
‘Meant it? Meant what? That Adolf Hitler should govern France? I’m sorry but I find that hard to believe.’
‘So do I. Or, rather, so did I. What the right has in mind is that Hitler would dominate France — with treaties by preference but with tanks if necessary. Democracy — which to the right is another way of saying “socialism”, if not outright Bolshevism — to be destroyed, and replaced by a Bonapartist authoritarian government which will finish with the labour unions and the intellectuals once and for all.’
Stahl had assembled a forkful of sauerkraut, speared a bite of frankfurter, spread some mustard on it, and raised the fork halfway to his mouth. There it stayed. He raised his head and met Sokoloff’s eyes. ‘That is…’ He hesitated, then said, ‘That’s treason.’
‘Not yet.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Stahl said. ‘Am I just being naive?’
‘You’re a well-meaning European who’s been away from Europe for eight years, during which time political life has changed. What hasn’t changed is the power of money — it was the big banks, the insurance companies, and the heavy industries that brought down the Popular Front. They are secretive about what they do, they crave anonymity. But there is also the magnate, the gros legume — the big vegetable — the warrior of the right. We have more than our share of those, it seems.’
‘And they are?’
‘For example Pierre Taittinger, of the house of champagne, who formed his very own fascist gang, the Jeunesses Patriotes, the young patriots, and introduced the symbolic blue beret as part of his, and their, uniform. For example Francois Coty, who famously said, “perfume is a woman’s love affair with herself”, and hid crates of weapons in his chateau at Louveciennes, on the outskirts of Paris, for his fascist gang, Solidarite Francaise. For example Jean Hennessy of the cognac firm, and the Michelin brothers, the tyre people, thought to be responsible for a terrorist bombing on the rue de Presbourg. These are people who work to bring down the government by force, and replace it with one more to their liking. Some of them have their own newspapers, some support, and arm, their own private militias, but all of them have one thing in common.’
‘Which is?’
‘They are French.’
‘But I’m told there is also German money, a lot of it, buying influence in the French government, and used to support propaganda, political warfare, that is meant to destroy the French will to fight.’
‘What you say is true, and now you have treason.’
Stahl returned to his lunch and his beer, but Sokoloff’s last comment didn’t go away. In the brasserie, the lunchtime symphony rose in volume — the clatter of silverware and china, spirited chatter, laughter, exclamations of ‘ Mais oui! ’ and ‘ C’est terrible! ’ Did they know? If they knew, did they care? The French looked away from evil, it drained the pleasure from life. Perhaps, they thought, it will just go away. In his very soul, Stahl wanted them to be right.
Sokoloff, sensing Stahl’s change of mood, looked guilty. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘let’s have another beer. Yes?’
Stahl said, ‘What the hell, why not.’ Then, after a moment, ‘What is it with the Germans? They didn’t used to be like this.’
Sokoloff shrugged. ‘They lost a war and it made them furious, now they want to destroy us. Hitler has, at times, a certain twinkle in his eye, you know? What a sly fox am I — something like that. He means he conquered two nations, Austria and Czechoslovakia, without firing a shot, and France is next. He said in Mein Kampf that France should be isolated, then destroyed. Have you looked at a map lately? We’re surrounded by fascist dictatorships: Italy, Portugal, soon enough Spain, and Germany itself. Switzerland, Belgium, the Netherlands; all neutral. Others, like Hungary, bullied into alliance with the Nazis. We no longer have friends, the world is becoming, for us, a very cold place.’
‘Well, I’m your friend,’ Stahl said, as though that meant anything.
‘I know you are, and you’re an American, which makes you a very welcome friend.’
‘So then, what can I do? What should I do? Nothing?’
Sokoloff thought it over, then, with a rather wistful smile, said, ‘I don’t think I have an answer. I will tell you, as a friend, to be careful. They, and I mean the French and the Germans, will attack their enemies — especially in the press. All they’ve done so far is use you, bad enough, but it can be much worse.’ He paused, then said, ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Roger Salengro?’
‘No.’
‘He was Blum’s Minister of the Interior — that means he directed all the security forces, all counter- espionage. Salengro wasn’t going to stand for their nonsense, so they attacked him. A particularly nasty little magazine, called Gringoire, wrote that Salengro, who fought bravely in the last war until he was captured, allowed himself to be taken prisoner on purpose, to save his life, an act of cowardice. This was a lie, but Gringoire kept repeating it until, one day, when Salengro went to the ministry, the soldiers guarding the entrance refused to salute him. They had come to believe the lie. Salengro’s heart was broken, and he went home and killed himself.’
‘That’s vile,’ Stahl said.
‘It is. But better for you to know about it.’
Stahl nodded, the story reaching him as he stared out at the crowded room. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should just go back to America.’
