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PARIS, 1942
Once Busch had convinced and threatened Madame Géroux, Gilbert’s mother, and her neighbour, Fleur Lambert, to visit the restaurant things began to change, and the locals began to flock in.
It had the odd effect of helping the Germans to begin, in time, to drop their guard.
Busch – who had made it his habit to visit at least a few times a week – was now there almost every night, partly because he could be sure that Marianne would welcome whatever guest of honour he might be entertaining in the correct and gracious manner, and partly because he was beginning to feel that a romance with her was on the cards.
Marianne did her best to try and manage this expectation, walking the tightrope of wanting to curry favour and keep his interest, but also not wanting to give in to too easily. As Sebastien said one morning when she was running errands, such as picking up cigarettes for the Germans in case they ran out in the restaurant, ‘Men like the chase – especially men like that.’
She gathered from this exchange that they had somehow been watching them.
He also told her that her suspicions about Gilbert joining the Resistance had proved right, but that a friend of his was looking out for him, and reporting any of the information he gleaned back to him. ‘We’re worried that there is an informant in that group, but we can’t be sure yet. Right now, he doesn’t really speak German so that’s a help, but you may want to keep an eye out yourself.’
‘Thank you, I will.’
It was good seeing Sebastien; she missed spending time with him like she had before. Right now, apart from Gilbert, he felt like her only friend.
He seemed to read her mind, because he touched her hand lightly and sighed. ‘Stay strong, cherie. I’ll check in again soon. Geoff will be moving on to a new location. I’ll update you here, same time next week.’
Now that the restaurant was busier than ever, it was getting too much for just Marianne and Gilbert, and she suggested that they hire his little brother, Henri. Marianne had met him a few times and she liked him.
Gilbert wasn’t sure at first if it would be a good idea, saying that Henri was a bit of a wild card. ‘He says such stupid things sometimes, Marianne, like he wants to knock the Nazis off their bicycles, or throw a brick through their car windows. I worry he might do or say something stupid.’
Marianne could understand that.
‘He’s a teenager, Gilbert, full of hormones. The one thing I can tell you is that the best thing for that is to be busy and also to be under a watchful eye – at least here we can watch over him. Besides, he’s not stupid, he might be impetuous but he won’t say anything that could get him into serious trouble.’
Gilbert looked at her in surprise. Perhaps she had guessed that it was one of his biggest concerns.
‘That might help, actually.’
She grinned. ‘What’s with the tone of surprise? When am I ever wrong?’
He grinned. ‘Well, actually when it comes to coriander…’
‘Ah, well on that we will agree to disagree. Do you think he’d be interested?’
‘Sure, I can ask. I’ll speak to him tonight.’
It took Gilbert a while to convince not Henri, but his mother, but when Henri started to work with them, he brought a real dash of fun.
His first night there was a busy one with very important guests for Otto Busch – guests who were getting steadily drunker as the night wore on.
They heard one of the Germans singing in a very strained falsetto and they both started to laugh. They laughed even harder after Henri produced a near pitch perfect imitation of the German singing while hugging a bottle of wine to his chest – but in Henri’s case with a large bottle of washing-up liquid.
Marianne saw Gilbert come in, and carried on laughing, but when Busch entered she stood to attention, turning pale. Unfortunately, Henri didn’t notice and carried on with his impression.
When Busch asked, ‘Are you mocking my singing?’ the room grew quiet and Marianne tried to think of something – anything – to say, cursing herself for being an idiot, and not listening to Gilbert’s warning, and risking this young man by hiring him, when she of all people knew what kind of a person Busch was. What he was capable of when he got angry.
She felt like she might throw up.
Henri, however, was a champion charmer. ‘Not yours, sir,’ said Henri, including him in on the joke. He beckoned Busch over to the hatch where they could just see one of the other officers, with a red face, deep in his cups, holding on to a bottle of wine while he sang rather out of key along to ‘La Vie en Rose’ on the gramophone that they had set up in the restaurant.
Busch stared. Then he began ever so slowly to laugh, uproariously. ‘Oh, you are a dummkopf, your accent is impeccable. I think we have done well to have you here. Well done, madame.’ He raised a finger and smiled. ‘This is exactly what we need – more fun, yes,’ and he placed a gentle hand on Henri’s shoulders, and winked at him.
After that night, Henri was a firm favourite. He was invited to do regular impressions of the officers, and was delighted to do so. Marianne wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. She liked the boy enormously but the guilt at having put him in this predicament gnawed at her.
She tried to keep him away, squirrelled at the back, but Busch wanted him out front, amusing the others and insisted that he was better suited as a waiter, at the front of the restaurant rather than in the back, and Gilbert traded places with his brother. As time went by, Henri was often invited on slower evenings to join them in playing cards. Marianne and Gilbert, however, breathed easier when he was away from them.
