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He blinked. ‘You know I am working for them?’
She went to turn up the radio. Then said in a fake, cheery voice. ‘Oh, I love this one.’ It was Maurice Chevalier’s ‘Paris sera toujours Paris.’ She swayed her hips. ‘You’re right, I think a nice summer stew with courgettes would be lovely.’
He frowned, and was about to ask her if she’d lost her mind, when he saw out of the corner of his eye one of the Nazi officers glance inside, before grunting and going back to his table.
Marianne waited, and then seeing that the coast was clear, motioned for him to join her.
‘What you heard earlier – this is the only place they would have discussed it. Which means we’d be the prime suspects if the information came out. Especially you as he saw you standing by the hatch.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t.’
‘He did. Don’t be stupid. As much as Otto Busch and the rest of the boots play at being gentlemen, they are deadly soldiers, first and foremost – and the first thing they would do is watch out for listeners.’
‘They don’t know I can speak German.’
‘They don’t know you don’t. Promise me this stays here.’
He frowned. It seemed so wrong. He had a chance to do something, finally. But then he thought about that officer, ears pricked like a cat’s.
He nodded.
As the summer wore on, there was awful news of a mass deportation of Jews – thousands of women, children and men, all corralled in the heart of Paris and sent to concentration camps.
Guillaume managed to get Sara out of the country through Spain.
Gilbert never heard anything about that school afterwards. Although he did hear that the brilliantined senior officer Harald Vlig – the one who Busch had locked heads with discussing the school, and had laughed at calling his little brother Dummkopf – had had a heart attack two days after he’d been to their restaurant. He remembered feeling gratified.
