Late in the afternoon, a soldier knocked on his door, presented himself in front of the desk, and clicked his heels at attention.
“Sir, I have a man waiting outside with news about Ferrand Boulier. His name is Villere.”
Bergmann grinned with self-satisfaction. “Bring him in.”
Villere had a haggard appearance, as though events of the past weeks had taken their toll. He wore a long, wrinkled overcoat despite the warm weather, and he hunched over and presented a nervous demeanor, holding his hands in front of his chest and wringing them. His hair had not been cut in weeks, and his eyes had sunk in their sockets.
“Papers,” the captain demanded.
Villere nodded wordlessly, his hands shaking as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his documents.
“Why are you wearing that coat in this weather?” Bergmann asked.
“I don’t want it stolen,” Villere replied. “All that I have is what you see.” He handed his papers across the desk.
Bergmann examined them. “It says here that you are a schoolteacher. What did you teach?”
“Basic elementary topics. My pupils were very small. I’m not much good at technical subjects, so I stayed with the younger children.”
“I see,” Bergmann said with no effort to hide his disdain. “Why are you helping in the search for your fellow countryman?”
“He’s endangering us all, sir. I need to eat.”
Bergmann eyed the man dispassionately. “You look hungry, not starved.”
“I’ve been able to scrounge some food, but it’s gone,” he pleaded. “I don’t have another source.”
The captain continued to scrutinize the man. “Tell me where Boulier is and how you know he’s there.”
Villere hesitated. “Sir, the reward—”
“You’ll get your reward,” Bergmann snapped. “Now answer my questions.”
Villere’s body shook, but he nodded. “I stay in the ruins. There are a few places that have only a little damage, but they’re hard to find and get to. My apartment was damaged, but it’s livable. When my neighbors fled, they left food behind, so I found things to eat, but as I said, it’s gone. I need to buy more.” He took a step forward, his face anxious. “You know it’s dangerous for me to be here. If I’m labeled as a collaborator—"
Bergmann pushed his chair back impatiently and rose to his feet. “You’ve told me your personal problems,” he sneered. “I want to know about Boulier and how you know where he lives.”
Villere’s mouth went slack, and he peered sideways at Bergmann while his head bobbed up and down. “Yes, yes,” he said. “I’m coming to that. He’s staying in one of the deserted apartments that’s still habitable. It’s not far from mine, and he has to pass by to get out to the main street. I’ve seen him several times.”
“Do you know him?”
Villere shook his head. “Only by sight and reputation. He’s an artist and fairly well known in the area. You surely know how to verify his identity.”
“And how would we do that?” Bergmann growled.
Villere looked at him with a startled expression. “His sister-in-law works in this building. You must know that.”
Disbelief crossed Bergmann’s face. “She works here? What does she do?”
“Unless her job has changed, she’s a cleaning lady, a janitor. She tidies the offices, mops the floors... Anyone could have told you that. Her name is Anna.”
Stunned, Bergmann’s eyes bulged. He yelled for his sergeant.
When the SS non-com appeared, he ordered, “Get me that cleaning lady.”
Before dusk, Villere led Bergmann and his SS squad deep into the ruins of Dunkirk. With them, terrified and trembling, was Anna. Her head bent, a handkerchief to her nose and mouth, she struggled to keep up. An SS man pushed her along when she faltered.
Gloom had settled into the bombed-out shell of Dunkirk as the group proceeded through the rubble-strewn, abandoned streets. Shards of glass from storefronts crunched beneath their boots on the cobblestones. Above, intact outer walls leaned precipitously, weighted down by half-roofs and partial floors. Surreal sights met them, of bedrooms half destroyed, with fully made beds teetering at the edges of the floors, and beyond them, views into untouched kitchens and dining rooms. They maneuvered around ruined cars and trucks with heavy crusts of dust and tossed about at impossible angles; and everywhere, the smell of stale explosives mixed with decomposing bodies and other stenches that accompany unbridled warfare. Stray dogs and cats, their bones poking under stretched skin, watched them go by, some desperate, some hopeful, some snarling, all filthy and starving.
Villere turned into an alley blocked by piles of toppled bricks. He climbed over them along a faint pathway and entered a passage that forced proceeding in single file.
The SS men nudged each other for increased alertness as they followed behind Bergmann, with the last two dragging Anna along.
Fifteen minutes later, they came to an area that had been surrounded by the rain of fire and brimstone, but by comparison to its immediate environs, it had survived in fairly good shape. Several of the apartments looked intact.
Villere pointed. “He stays in there.”
Bergmann nodded to his sergeant, who, with a slight motion of his hand, caused his men to line up abreast of each other, their weapons locked and loaded and pointing at the hollowed-out entrance.
“Get him,” Bergmann ordered Villere.
The schoolteacher peered at him in resignation, walked forward, and disappeared into the shadows. Moments later, he reappeared.
He bore a shocked face. “He’s dead,” he said. “Do I still get my reward?”
Anna shrieked her anguish. “No,” she cried, and started toward the door.
Disconcerted, Bergmann swung around to his sergeant. “Come with me.”
The two of them followed the old woman into the deep shadows of the apartment. Above them, the hall opened beyond successive collapsed ceilings to the wreckage of the roof. At the far end, the old lady entered an intact
