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PARIS – TWO YEARS LATER
They were good legs, thought Otto Busch, as the woman before him spoke of her plans. Slim, yet shapely in their stacked brown brogue heels. The stockings looked new or well cared for and he appreciated that almost as much as he did the fine shape inside them. No pucker marks or runs – he hated that, thought it said something about character. Like the women who drew lines on their bare legs, it made him feel slightly ill for some reason, like it was indecent. He knew there was a bit of a shortage but still, you’d think that would just make them all the more careful with them. He despised sloppiness, especially in a woman.
She didn’t seem to suffer from that affliction, and it made her presence all the more enjoyable for him.
She was speaking now, her voice girlish but not high, like there was a touch of whisky to it, delicious. He made sure to lean in close so that he could sample that perfume again. It was expensive. Some kind of floral scent. Light but not overly sweet. Smelled a bit like geraniums. They had them at the hotel he was staying in.
He looked up from his coffee and his blue eyes danced when she parted her red lips in a smile. It was not every day that you got to sit across from an attractive Frenchwoman who wore the kind of lipstick you wouldn’t mind (too much) getting on your shirt. After all, he lived near an excellent laundromat.
The café was just around the corner from his hotel. The bistro chairs faced the pavement and everyone here knew how to dress. You might even forget for a moment that a war was being fought, even as they spoke. He didn’t, though, wars weren’t just for battlefields, the war he was fighting was on people’s thoughts and ideas, getting them to see the world the way the Party wanted them to. It was slow and he had never been a patient man but progress was being made every day.
But sometimes progress happened quickly and easily and it made him grateful for his new role. Like now.
Her blonde curls shone in the sunshine, done in the latest style, and her eyes were such a rich blue, like the flowers that used to grow in his mother’s garden every spring.
The business proposal that she had prepared was detailed, and convincing. Efficiently typed up and showing a real understanding of how to run a successful restaurant, she clearly knew what she was speaking about. Busch wouldn’t have to do much to convince anyone to support her.
She had a bit of her own money to add to the project, nothing substantial but enough to prove she was serious.
It made the goal of collaboration child’s play.
They would be pleased if he pulled this off, he was sure of it. A feather in his cap – actually helping to open a new restaurant? It was exactly what they wanted – to show that German-French collaboration could be to everyone’s benefit. And the fact that he had brought it about should help the one small stain on his reputation considerably. He was thought as tough, even by Nazi standards, something he was proud of. What he wasn’t proud of, though, was the belief, whispered behind closed doors, that he was something of a loose cannon. It had served him well in the beginning, helping him to rise quickly, because the Party knew they could trust him to do what needed to get done, no questions asked. Still, what had happened in Heligoland had left a mark.
He’d been sent to work with the navy as they fortified the island and restored the military base, important work that Hitler, personally, was interested in, so the post was especially significant for Busch who longed to gain the Fuhrer’s trust and respect.
The official directive was that their work took precedence but they should be mindful of being respectful of the islanders, and the researchers stationed there who were studying the patterns of the bird population.
He tried, he truly had. He even went so far as to show an interest in seeing what they were doing in the hopes that he could better understand. He was shown around their research facility by an enthusiastic man who confused politeness with interest and shared anecdotes and statistics from their studies, his eyes lighting up as he told Busch what they had discovered and how important the area was for the breeding populations of so many bird species. By the end of his tour, Busch’s frustration with their presence on the island had grown into irritation. These were grown men spending their days watching birds, leaving others to do the vitally important work their country needed to restore their standing as a proud and productive nation – rebuilding their military, factories, agriculture, family and social values and restoring the reichsmark to be a currency worth more than the paper it was printed on. And yet as he watched them, these able-bodied men wasting their time ogling birds… something in him started to snap. They may as well have wasted away their time in a pub for all the good they were to the Fatherland. And then there was that Frenchie, who looked almost Jewish in his colouring, despite the paperwork that said otherwise, whose eyes seemed to bore into his own as if he could tell what Busch was thinking, and worse, judge him for it, it was all just tinder.
When one of them, a young man, younger even than he, named Herman Ludho, flew at him one morning, wagging a finger at him for disturbing a few birds’ nests while he was laying cable, the spark ignited, and the rage grew inside his soul at their total disrespect as he carried out the real work that needed to be done. Still, Busch might have been able to bring himself back from the brink, if Ludho had had any sense and not confronted him again. Then the Frenchie had got involved and it was just too much, he’d just seen red. He wasn’t proud of his actions, the regret he felt was more to do with the fact that he’d let them get to him – what he should have done was proven his authority by having them shut down and that damned Ludho shipped off to a detention centre.
That was the lecture he was given by his superior officer, Harald Vlig. ‘You’re an asset to us, and loyal to a fault, those men should never have been allowed to stay on, but next time you have to learn to control the beast within – right now, we have a lot of work to do, my boy. And we can’t afford getting embroiled in international affairs. There was even some government Englishman poking his nose around, after the Frenchman was killed, we can’t have that… officially it’s on record as an accident – but you need to make sure that no such accidents occur again. Do you hear?’
He had, loud and clear.
His new role as a cultural liaison officer was partly an attempt to change that wild-cannon impression. His family friend, district leader of Berlin, Joseph Goebbels had put in a good word for him personally, but this too had come with a warning. ‘Otto, diplomacy is the knife hidden in the velvet glove. If you can convince us that you have what it takes you could go far but if you let your emotions control you, you will peak soon.’
So this was his punishment and also his reward.
He didn’t expect it to be quite this enjoyable, if he were honest.
He picked up the business proposal again, and downed the last dregs of his coffee.
‘Madame, I am impressed. It is not far from my base – lots of important men are visiting this city, and I can tell you a restaurant with this kind of menu, in this slightly more discreet location would be just what we need.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ she said with a smile. Her large blue eyes were full of hope. That was what respect looked like, he thought, as she seemed to wait for his approval, which he was happy to give.
‘I hope that it could be useful to you and your men, you all work so hard. The food is good for the soul, and it’s something very close to my heart; simple, yet nourishing country fare. Like my grandmother used to make.’
He smiled, he really did like the sound of this.
‘You are married, Madame Blanchet?’
‘Not anymore.’
His eyes flared with interest.
‘You leave this with me, madame, I can tell you already I look forward to working with you, I am pleased you got in contact with me.’
‘Call me Marianne, please,’ she said, with a smile, ‘and I assure you, monsieur, the pleasure is all mine.’
