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‘Not yours, sir,’ said Henri, beckoning Busch over, like he was including him in the joke. He led the officer to the hatch where they could just see one of the others, with a red face, deep in his cups and 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.
For a long moment, Busch stared and they all held their breath. Then he began ever so slowly to laugh, uproariously. ‘Oh, you are a dummkopf, but 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. Gilbert thought for a moment that his knees might buckle in relief.
Henri, however, didn’t seem to realise just how much of a close shave he’d had.
Busch looked at Gilbert in amazement. ‘Like night and day, you two.’
‘Yes sir,’ he said.
‘Mhm,’ he responded, before leaving, and singing ‘La Vie en Rose’ beneath his breath and chuckling.
After that night, Henri was a firm favourite of Busch’s. He was christened Dummkopf and invited to do regular impressions of the officers, which Henri was only too delighted to do, having, as Busch had discovered, a natural knack for accents and mannerisms. Busch roared with laughter, falling to his knees and gasping for breath when, emboldened, Henri impersonated him, mimicking his frequent hand movements, open face and the smile that showed most of his teeth.
Gilbert thought he was playing with fire.
At first, he’d worried that Henri would let his temper fly, but he didn’t. It seemed, for now at least, he did seem to know where to draw the line, and perhaps being allowed to openly mock the officers offset some of his emotions.
Soon it was clear that he would be better suited as a waiter at the front of the restaurant than at the back, and they switched roles, which worked better for Gilbert, who had never enjoyed serving. At least in the kitchen he didn’t need to work so hard to school his expressions, which often looked worried, thanks to the sound of Henri’s loud voice carrying and the moment of silence before the Germans laughed, when relief finally followed.
As time went by, Henri was often invited on slower evenings to join them in playing cards. This proved quite useful to Gilbert, who could hear them as they discussed their plans, while Henri kept them entertained.
On one afternoon, he was standing just behind the kitchen hatch, where Henri would leave the order slips – mostly for wine and other beverages, as there remained just one food option. Though there had been the rare occasion that a senior official had requested something else, like a steak, and Marianne had obliged. Usually, Busch would give her fair warning before he brought an important guest to visit, and she was given time to acquire any ingredients beforehand. There had been one or two occasions, however, when she had had to make a plan – involving Gilbert scurrying out, with a wad of cash, to bribe a butcher – the money supplied by the General in order to meet the requirement. In these instances, a bottle of wine or a few entrees usually filled the necessary delay.
If Marianne was ever annoyed that sometimes the Germans forgot to play by the rules, she never showed it.
On this occasion, however, the visiting officer, a man by the name of Harald Vlig, who had dark brilliantined hair and inscrutable button eyes, appeared satisfied to nurse a beer and discuss what sounded like important plans. Gilbert listened from the hatch, tensing when he heard the man ask after Henri. ‘You sure he can’t speak German?’
‘Definitely not. He’s a hot-head, and I’m quite sure if he knew my nickname for him meant half-wit he wouldn’t be all that happy.’
At the word ‘dummkopf’Henri raised a brow and said, ‘Sir?’
Vlig and the others stifled their laughter behind their cards and he replied, ‘Very well.’
Gilbert closed his eyes as he continued washing a beer mug. There was no way he’d tell Henri that. He also thought it was slightly alarming that Busch had picked up on Henri’s quick temper. He wondered when his brother had given that away.
But soon his thoughts were taken up by Busch and Vlig, who began discussing plans for what sounded like a covert operation. He looked up when he heard something about a map. Standing on tiptoe, Gilbert watched as Vlig and Busch bent their heads together. He saw the map, and heard the word ‘kinder’ which he knew to mean ‘children’ and then something that sounded like ‘eradication’.
He forgot to breathe. He heard something about a school.
He took one of the order slips and started to write it down.
It happened so fast, he almost yelped. Marianne snatched the slip out of his hand and then set fire to it on the gas stove. It faded to ash.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he hissed, whispering.
‘Saving your life, don’t be an idiot,’ she said, smacking him on the side of his head.
Her face looked completely different from its usual sunny disposition. Her face like cut glass. Her eyes cold fire.
‘Marianne – you don’t understand. They’re planning something – something to do with children. It could be Jewish kids.’
Jewish people in France, like the rest of Nazi-occupied Europe, had suffered dreadfully. From being listed as ‘undesirables’ to being declared third-class citizens, forced to identify themselves and live under curfews to now – the steady deportations to concentration camps.
Sara was now living in Guillaume’s basement in fear of her life. Her aunts and uncles had already been taken. She’d only managed to escape because she had fallen asleep at the library the night before and got home too late. When Gilbert had heard, his stomach had twisted into knots. He’d been sworn to secrecy not to tell anyone, especially Louisa, which he’d agreed to, not because he really believed that Louisa was a threat to Sara but because of his loyalty to Sara. There was a plan in place to sneak her out of the country through the mountains. Not that she wanted to go, she still wanted to fight. She was talking of ramping up their operations, and going military, even purchasing ammunitions.
Gilbert had been stealing food to take to them whenever he could, and telling her not to do anything stupid. It was his turn to warn her to be cautious, it seemed.
Marianne pulled him aside now. ‘Listen to me. It is unforgivable what they are doing – monstrous.’ Her face flashed with such hatred that he actually recoiled. ‘But you will get yourself killed,’ she said, snapping her fingers, ‘if you deliver that information to the Resistance.’
