'All in good time we shall see who is a Jew and who isn't a Jew, but right now it seems to me the priority is the apprehension of a communist fugitive from German justice. A murderer. Isn't that right, Captain Gunther?'
'That's right, sir. He killed two policemen.'
As it happens,' said Knochen, 'this department is already in the process of drawing up a list of wanted war criminals to present to the French. And in the establishment of a special joint commission – the Kuhnt Commission – to oversee these matters in the unoccupied zone. A German officer, Captain Geissler, has already gone down to Vichy, to begin the work of this commission. And in particular to hunt for Herschel Grynszpan. You will perhaps recall that it was Grynszpan, a German-Polish Jew, who murdered Ernst vom Rath, here in Paris, in November 1938; and whose actions provoked such a strong outpouring of feeling in Germany.'
'I remember it very well, sir,' I said. 'I live on Fasanenstrasse, just off the Ku-damm. The synagogue at the end of my street was burnt down during that strong outpouring of feeling you were talking about, Herr Colonel.'
'A representative of the German Foreign Ministry, Herr Doctor Grimm, is also on Grynszpan's trail,' said Knochen. 'It seems that the little Jew was here in Paris, in the Fresnes Prison, until early June, when the French decided to evacuate all of the prisoners to Orleans. From there he was sent to prison in Bourges. However he didn't arrive there. The convoy of buses transporting the prisoners was attacked by German aircraft, and after that the picture is rather confused.'
'As a matter of fact, sir,' said Bomelburg, 'we rather think that Grynszpan might have gone to Toulouse.'
'If that's the case then what's Geissler doing in Vichy?'
'Setting up this Kuhnt Commission,' said Bomelburg. 'To be fair to Geissler, for a while there was also a rumour that Grynszpan was in Vichy, too. But Toulouse now looks like a better bet.'
'Bomelburg? Karl. Correct me if I'm wrong,' said Knochen. 'But I seem to recall that this French concentration camp at Le Vernet – where Captain Gunther's quarry may be imprisoned – is in the Ariege department, in the mid-Pyrenees. That's near Toulouse, is it not?'
'Quite near, sir,' agreed Bomelburg. 'Toulouse is in the neighbouring department of Haute-Garonne and about sixty kilometres north of Le Vernet.'
'Then it strikes me,' said Knochen, 'that you and Captain Gunther should both get yourselves to Toulouse as quickly as possible. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. Bomelburg? You can remain in Toulouse and look for Grynszpan while Gunther here travels further south, to Le Vernet. Have the marquis find someone to go with Gunther and Kestner to smooth over any ruffled French feathers. Meanwhile I shall send a telegram to Philippe le Gaga in Vichy and inform him of what is happening. I dare say that by the time you get down there we will have a clearer idea of who to arrest and who to leave where they are.'
'Any trains running down that way yet, sir?' This was Kestner.
'I'm afraid not.'
'Pity. That's rather a long drive. About six hundred kilometres. You know it might be an idea to take a leaf out of the Fuhrer's book and fly down there from Le Bourget. In a couple of hours we could be in Biarritz where a motorised detachment from the SS-VT or secret GFP could take us on to Le Vernet and Toulouse.'
'Agreed.' Knochen looked at Hagen. 'See to it. And find out if there are there any motorised detachments of SS operating that far south.'
'Yes, sir, there are,' said Hagen. 'In which case the only question that remains is whether these men should be wearing uniforms when they cross the demarcation line into the French zone.'
'An officer's uniform might lend us more authority, sir,' argued Kestner.
'Gunther? What do you think?' asked Knochen.
'I agree with Captain Kestner. In a surrender situation it's as well to be reminded that the surrender began with a war. After 1918 I think the French would do well to learn a little humility. If they'd treated us better at Versailles then we might not be here at all, so I don't see any sense in trying to sugar- coat the pill they have to swallow. There's no getting away from the fact that they just got their arses kicked. The sooner they recognise it the sooner we can all go home. But I came here to arrest a man who murdered two policemen, and I don't much care if some Franzi doesn't care for my manners while I'm doing it. Since I put on a uniform I don't much care for them myself. I can take the uniform off again and pretend to be something I'm not in order to get the job done, but I can't pretend to be diplomatic and charming. I never was one for French kissing. So to Hell with their feelings, I say.'
'Bravo, Captain Gunther,' said Knochen. 'That was a fine speech.'
Maybe it was and maybe I even believed some of it, too. One thing I said was certainly true: the sooner I went home, the better I was going to feel about a lot of things, especially myself. Mixing with anti-Semites like Herbert Hagen reminded me just why I'd never become a Nazi. And French victory or no French victory, I wouldn't ever be able to overcome my instinctive loathing of Adolf Hitler.
That afternoon I went to see Les Invalides. It was a very Nazi- looking monument. The front door had more gold than the Valley of the Kings but the atmosphere was that of a public swimming bath. The mausoleum itself was a piece of mahogany- coloured marble that resembled an enormous tea caddy. Hitler had visited Les Invalides just a couple of weeks before. And I can't have been the only person who wished that it had been he and not the Emperor Napoleon who was inside the six coffins that were contained in that overblown mausoleum. Following his escape from Elba, I suppose they were worried the little monster might escape from his grave, like Dracula. Maybe they'd even put a stake through his heart just to be on the safe side. Burying Hitler in pieces looked like a better bet. With the Eiffel Tower through his heart.
Like every other German in Paris that summer I'd brought a camera with me, so I walked around and took some photographs. On Pare du Champ de Mars I photographed some German soldiers getting some directions from a gendarme. When he saw me the gendarme saluted, smartly, as if a German officer's uniform really did command authority. But the way I saw it the French police had an attitude problem. They didn't seem to mind the fact that they'd been defeated. Back in Germany I'd seen cops look less happy when they failed to get elected to the Prussian Police Officers' Association.
I enjoyed another solitary dinner in a quiet restaurant on the Rue de Varennes before returning to the Lutetia. The hotel was a mixture of art nouveau and art deco, but the swastika flag that appeared on the sinuous, broken-art pediment below the Lutetia's name was the clearest indication of the neo- brutalism that afflicted its guests, me included.
The bar was busy and surprisingly inviting. A Welte-Mignon pianola was playing a selection of maudlin German tunes. I ordered a cognac and smoked a French cigarette and avoided the eye of the reptilian lieutenant who'd been on the train from Berlin. When he looked like he was headed my way I finished my brandy and left. I took the lift up to the seventh floor and walked along the curving corridor to my room. A maid came out of another room and smiled. To my surprise she spoke good German.
'Would you like me to turn down your bed linen for the night, sir?'
'Thanks,' I said and, opening my door, complimented her German.
'I'm Swiss. I grew up speaking French and German and Italian. My father runs a hotel in Berne. I came to Paris to get some experience.'
'Then we have something in common,' I told her. 'Before the war I worked at the Hotel Adlon, in Berlin.'
She was impressed with that, which was of course my intention, as she was not without her charms. A little homely perhaps, but I was in the mood to think well of home and homely-looking girls. And when she finished her duties I gave her some German money and the rest of my cigarettes for no other reason than I wanted her to think better of me than I thought of myself. Especially the man I saw in the mirror on the front of the wardrobe. In some pathetic little fantasy I imagined her coming back in the small hours, knocking on my door and climbing into my bed. As things worked out this wasn't so far from the mark. But that was later on, and when she left I wished I hadn't given her my last cigarettes.
'Well, at least you won't fall asleep with a cigarette in your hand and set the bed on fire, Gunther,' I said, with one eye on the brass fire extinguisher that stood in the corner of the room next to the door. I closed the window, undressed and went to bed. For a while I lay there feeling a little drunk, staring up at the blank ceiling and wondering if I should have gone to the Maison Chabanais after all. And perhaps I might even have got up and gone there if it hadn't been for the thought of putting on my riding boots again. Sometimes morality is just a
