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Just then, the sound of booted feet beat a tattoo along the cobbled street, and his mouth turned dry. He would never get used to the sound of approaching Germans, the fear it instilled was primal. Even Marianne, so calm, so collected, had tensed. Together they turned slowly to find a group of Nazi officers marching towards them. He saw, for just a second, the strain show on Marianne’s lovely face, but then she smiled, and it vanished.
One of them, more senior than the others, and bigger – standing at over six feet, with huge arms and legs, his dark blond hair shining in the sun – was one they’d both met before. He’d helped sign off on the restaurant as it fell under his jurisdiction. He was charming and friendly, and sometimes – to your detriment – Gilbert was sure, you could even forget he was a Nazi. His name was Otto Busch, and he came forward with his arms open wide, a huge smile splitting across his tan face.
‘Madame,’ he greeted.
Gilbert picked up the fallen broom, and stifled a sigh. He could forget about that coffee now.
As he approached, Busch let out a low whistle of amazement at the transformation to the building. He looked young for his rank and he was. He had risen quickly, due to his ability to be ruthless – something he’d told them himself the first day they met him, with a great smile of pride. The idea that the Nazi army could consider him ruthless, even by their standards, was somewhat chilling, Gilbert had thought.
As Gilbert looked at him he was struck once again at how deceptive appearances could be. He looked like a fresh-faced farm boy, no trace of the apparent ruthless soldier about him, for now anyway. But he was careful to keep such thoughts to himself, schooling his features to be wary, but welcoming.
Not that it mattered, the officer only had eyes for Marianne.
‘Madame Blanchet, you’ve moved fast,’ observed Busch. ‘I’m impressed – just look at that beautiful sign.’
‘Well, that was young Gilbert’s work – he’s an artist – if it wasn’t for—’ she hesitated, ‘his mother’s illness, he would have gone away to art school. I’m lucky to have him.’
Gilbert could guess that she was about to say if it wasn’t for the war.
It was a good save. The Germans did like to pretend they were here for other reasons, besides the war.
‘That’s good work,’ said Busch, looking at him properly for the first time. ‘Your mother is ill – that’s terrible. Has she been to a doctor? Perhaps there is something I can do to help?’
Gilbert didn’t like being the source of Busch’s attention, even for this. ‘Erm, she did see one but it was a while ago.’
This was months before and it was getting harder and harder to get her heart medicine, there was a shortage of everything – including doctors.
‘Mmh. A lot can change over time,’ said Busch, who turned and started speaking to one of the other officers in rapid-fire German, issuing a demand, so it seemed to Gilbert.
An officer with dark hair and a sunburned nose answered with a salute. ‘Jawohl!’
‘Give him your address,’ Busch told Gilbert.
Gilbert looked startled.
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ said Busch. ‘We’ll just get a doctor to visit her. I know a good one, leave it to me.’
With mixed feelings, Gilbert gave his address. It would be wonderful to get his mother help, but at the same time, he really didn’t want Nazi officers in his house… He tried to keep the thought from showing on his face. But Busch didn’t notice.
Marianne and Busch were standing very close to one another, speaking of other things.
Busch was marvelling once again at how much had progressed with the building – the outside which had been badly worn had been repainted, flower baskets had been added, filled with pink geraniums. The sign had been hung and the clean windows gleamed.
She smiled. ‘Well, we couldn’t have done it without your help.’
He waved his hands. ‘It’s nothing,’ said Busch, dismissing her thanks, ‘I just signed a few papers, spoke to some colleagues, it was easy to convince them that a new restaurant was needed here, madame, you are just what we need, agreed?’
There were enthusiastic calls of approval from the group.
Gilbert felt slightly ill. Especially when Busch left his large, meaty hand on Marianne’s shoulder, and he wondered for a moment how easy it would be for him to hurt her. He resisted the mad impulse to flick it away.
‘Well, I am in your debt. You will always have our best table,’ she said.
Busch clapped his hands in delight. ‘Well, that sounds like a good deal to me.’
Gilbert looked away, Marianne wasn’t being overly friendly but it still gnawed at him, her somewhat subservient tone. The fact was, Busch could have had the best, or in fact every table of hers, every hour of the day, whether she wanted him to or not. Everyone knew that. The pretence annoyed him. But many of the Nazi officers treated the city as if they were on holiday, and were their special guests. If they were, they had long outstayed their welcome. The veneer of respectability slipped sharply when anyone was stupid enough to show displeasure at this idea, however, paying for it dearly with violence, imprisonment or their life.
‘I’m honoured,’ he said.
