Red rainbow, p.6
Red Rainbow, page 6
“You’ve done nothing wrong. There won’t be a second chance if you don’t show today.”
“They told me to put my affairs in order. It’s serious.”
“They wouldn’t let you go if that was the case. Come with me and forget about it.” Mthandeni downplayed the seriousness of it, not fully comprehending the gravity of the situation. She wasn’t a morning person, hence why she ate a sandwich on the bus, lacking time to have breakfast at home. She was more awake as they walked the final strait of the two-stage journey, her stance completely changed upon weighing it all up. “I wouldn’t go home if I was you.”
“I have nowhere else to go. If you have somewhere to hide, I’m open to suggestion.”
“Not really. The Resistance.”
“Sure. Where do they hang out?”
“I can try and find out.”
Patience shook her head. She’d involved her enough and still didn’t know if she was making a mistake attending this interview. The only good thing about it, and it was very minor, was that she wasn’t stressing about the outcome. She had far bigger problems on her mind. She answered the foreman’s questions succinctly and was passable on the practical demonstration. There was no immediate position available, but he was impressed enough to offer her ad hoc work when needed. He would notify her through Mthandeni.
Patience considered the long commute on the way home. Perhaps occasional work there would be better than a fulltime working week. Father had paid off the house just before his health deteriorated, she could get by on parttime work. It would be less stimulating than her old job, but the designs they worked on were cutting edge. There was a bit of glamour to it, amidst the inevitable sweat and toil. There were several black women on the factory floor, more than in any other job she’d held. That wasn’t a requirement for her accepting the position, it was just nice to see it wouldn’t just be her and Mthandeni.
Patience made it home in the early afternoon – and saw their car outside her door! Turning around was so tempting. She didn’t, though, greeting Big Ears and his driver and accepting the lift back for round three. Big Ears led her to Kretschmer in a new interview room, this one down in the basement. No windows. It was smaller too, she could feel the warmth of Kretschmer’s breath as he sat facing her. Kretschmer didn’t have his notes this time, though had a book ready to write things down in as soon as she said something relevant. Big Ears remained standing, apparently not staying. He spoke to Kretschmer in German, Kretschmer stopping him.
“In French. She’s keeping secrets from us, let’s not copy that.”
“I’m really not,” Patience protested.
Kretschmer raised his brows doubtfully before looking back to Big Ears – she still didn’t catch his name upon his second introduction, something long ending in Eiss, maybe? “She went out in the morning.”
“An interview,” Patience admitted, suspecting they may already know. Lying to them about the small things wasn’t the best way forward.
“Ah. How did it go?” Kretschmer asked, seemingly genuinely interested.
“Fairly well.”
“Good luck. I take that as a good sign that you’re planning for the future. I’m taking that to mean that you intend to help us this time, then we can leave you alone to get on with your life.”
“What would you like to know?”
Kretschmer excused Big Ears and said to her, “We’ve told you about the massacre. How do you think those men died?”
“I’d be speculating.”
“That’s what I’m asking you to do.”
“Poison? Gas?” She felt like both had already been ruled out yet had nothing else to say. Apart from the truth, that Florence claimed them for her own. She wasn’t quite at the point where she could bring herself to say that. There was no way of saying it without it sounding like she was involved – and Patience had known it was coming before it occurred.
Kretschmer shook his head. “Neither. Mass heart failure is the current medical assessment. Bar Gardo Weller. He was shot dead by Tobias Markel. Markel was in the seat behind him. The bullet hit his spine, the theatre seat only slowing the bullet down so much. We know of no issue between the two men. Why do you think he shot him?”
“An accident?”
“I agree. I believe it was when he was dying. He may have been aiming for Florence and lacked the strength to raise his hand any higher. Her father was criminally insane. He was a cannibal who believed consuming human flesh gave him the strength and lifeforce of his victims. They shot him eight times in the chest when they arrested him. He survived without serious injury.”
“I genuinely didn’t know any of that.”
“Neither did we until recently. We’re the ones sharing again. Please, for your own sake, copy our example. Tell me everything you know, and I’ll do my best for you.”
“I don’t have another name to give you. I understand that’s what you need, but they’re all dead. My father could talk to spirits, that’s true. It was real. Sometimes they talked through him. I didn’t like that. He kept that side away from me when he saw how much I didn’t like it.”
“Transfiguration.”
She nodded. “His features changed, it wasn’t... I don’t think anybody could act that.”
“And Florence?”
“I don’t know.”
“85 Germans died. Somebody has to pay.”
“Even if that somebody has nothing to do with it?”
“There have been many reprisals of that ilk the last few years. If you try telling me everything you know without pausing to spin it favourable ways, it may help your case.”
“I think that you know that my involvement in this is so minimal that there’s next to nothing I can tell you.”
“I believe you are on the periphery of this, Miss Condeh. But even there your view is better than what you’re reporting back to me.”
Patience tried to help them, tried to be honest without incriminating anyone. Kretschmer still didn’t seem satisfied as the hours passed. He had tea brought in for both of them and informed her of a development as she drank her cup.
“I may have to return to Germany shortly for a few days. It won’t be a colleague I’ll be passing this onto after all. We’re going to have the Milice look into it and report back to us. I find them clumsy, to be honest with you, but knocking everything over may be the best way to get to the truth. You are better off dealing with me than you will be dealing with them.”
“I’ll say whatever you want me to.” The Milice scared Patience even more than the Gestapo. Dead Eyes was scary, Big Ears was quiet, a bit of an unknown quantity, but Kretschmer was not that scary. There were avuncular traits to him, a highly astute uncle, even when he threatened to throw her to the wolves. It was threatened with regret, with options of escape, compliance dependent.
“You keep saying that and you don’t follow through. I’m not going to set them on you. I’ll have the details of the case passed onto them to see where it leads them. That may be to your door, it may not.”
“They’ll see you’ve questioned me.”
“I’m not protecting you while you protect someone else. Right now, you have control over how this goes, Patience.”
She dwelled on this, wondering how she could wrest this control he spoke of. She tried the personal approach, asking, “Why are you heading back to Germany? At this time, I mean?”
He gave the question some thought before answering, opting to be honest with her. “My wife isn’t very well. That she’s hung on as long as she has is a testament to the strength of the woman.”
“My father’s fortitude with his illness astounded me.”
“She’s injured rather than ill. A bomb. She lost her arm and will ultimately lose her life. I shouldn’t really be leaving my post, and I’ll stay here as long as I can, but I do want to be at the funeral for the children. Some funerals are worth attending no matter the consequences.”
“I appreciate you telling me that, and you do have my condolences.” It wasn’t the time to tell him that she wished she hadn’t gone to Deveral’s funeral.
“Thank you. I haven’t checked in with the hospital today. I’m going to leave you to have a think about things while I sort that. I don’t expect you to be worrying about any of that. You’ve got your own problems.”
He wasn’t wrong. Could she plead with him to spare her? No, she’d still have to give him something – someone. But there really was nobody. She had no clue where Florence went. It was hard to imagine her discreetly camouflaging herself anywhere, but clearly they’d not found her yet. She had the length of his phone call to come up with someone. There was nobody she hated enough to throw to the wolves, but she couldn’t be the scapegoat for this either. The crime was too huge, the penalty would be... at least death, potentially a particularly nasty way.
The injustice of it shouldn’t have shocked her as much as it did. The Nazis were hardly renowned for their ethics or sense of fair play. She had no reason to be even-handed, but she was able to acknowledge that such injustices occurred the world over. It had been this way dating back to at least the early days of Christianity (no doubt much earlier, but this was the first example that came to mind). Guilt by association. Punishment meted out without any offence having been committed. Having the wrong associates, religion, politics could seal your fate. How many ‘plotters’ still condemned by the history books today were just like her? The history books in soon-to-be liberated Paris would not mark her down as a villain; being a martyr was no more appealing.
Patience heard Kretschmer raise his voice to another officer outside her room, the language barrier preventing her from understanding the words, but the sentiment was conveyed. He didn’t even speak to her that angrily. He returned shaking his head. He explained, “The phones aren’t working again. Someone’s not paying the bills. The wiring in this building,” he said despairingly.
“At least we still have the lights.”
“True. They went out in the theatre, as you know.”
Patience nodded. “Yes, you did tell me that.”
“I did not.”
One second they were talking normally, then he was suddenly abrupt, as now, calling her out on some supposed lie. She knew that he had told her this – none of the survivors claimed that she was there, she knew this information from his account. Well, one of them had told her, maybe Dead Eyes, but Kretschmer had been hovering around and was involved in the conversation.
“I meant one of you, the blond officer, I think.”
“Is that how you usually talk? When you say ‘you’, you mean someone else?”
“I’m nervous. Wouldn’t you be if you were being interrogated over a massacre?”
“A little. More so if I had something to hide.”
“You have power of life and death over me. That’s intimidating.”
“We’re aware of our reputation – and I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending you’re wrong. I would appreciate it if you stopped insulting mine. The majority of cases we investigate are banal. We have had so many cases of neighbours informing on each other, often baseless claims that we dismiss. People claim to hate us, but they’re quick to utilise us in their petty feuds. This case is an outlier, a very heinous crime. We have to get to the bottom of this. It cannot be left unresolved. There are time restraints too due to the obvious climate, the battles we face shortly.”
“I understand all of that, I do. I just don’t think I can help.”
“We’re not asking you to help us. We’re asking you to help yourself.” This was much more motivational, much more personal. “I knew what you meant about the lights, but the lesson there is to think carefully about every word you say to ensure you give us accurate intelligence. You were technically incorrect. Unless we find Florence soon, the next stage of this investigation will be based upon your words.”
“That’s putting me under so much pressure...”
“There is one bright spot to the phones not working. It spares me calls from Germany about this. Those calls are pressure, believe me. I’m not asking you to act like your countrymen and women who lie and throw their enemies at us. Just give us somebody more involved. Don’t feel guilty about it. Provided they’re not directly involved in the deaths, they’ll be given the same choice until we get to the big fish.”
“There’s nobody. There is nobody. There’s Florence, who I barely knew, and there’s no one else. I don’t know how to...”
“Your father had a power, Florence has a power. Deveral Meyer is the connecting figure between them. Who else did your father or Meyer know in that sphere?”
“He kept it separate. I didn’t like it, I didn’t see much of it.” Patience didn’t need to specify she meant her father, Kretschmer understanding who she meant of the two men.
“But you saw some of it. That’ll do.”
“But I don’t know names.”
He grimaced. “Don’t even tell me the stories then. Not until you’re willing to be truthful.”
“Georges. One was called Georges.” Maurice had told her that he’d recently attended Georges’ funeral – there wasn’t much they could do to a dead man, so she could give this name with a clear conscience.
“Was?”
“He’s old. I can’t say if he’s alive or dead.”
“Surname? Location?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about Maurice Cassard? You sat next to him last Friday, he had his arm draped around you leaving the synagogue.”
“I told you there was someone else at the funeral.”
“You said you didn’t know the name. Yet you did. Meyer’s body was intact in his coffin. Some of my colleagues wanted to desecrate his corpse. I’m pleased to say cooler heads prevailed. It would have been a pointless gesture, like shouting at a brick wall. I’m not one for wasted energy – and I’m coming to the conclusion that talking with you is exactly that.”
“I’m sorry. I truly wasn’t involved in their deaths,” she said tearfully.
Kretschmer pointed with his thumb to the door behind him. “Go. I have other people to question who may be honest. But one of us or the Milice will be calling you back. I would advise starting over when those questions come at you.”
Patience did not know the way out. She didn’t ask for directions, briskly walking to the first set of stairs she found. The Milice – the thought of those wild dogs being unleashed on her terrified her. At least the Germans were not betraying their own people – not here, anyway. The fascist French lapdogs would go very far to please their Nazi masters. Especially in the death throes of the Vichy era – they were probably hoping to be taken back home with them, because France would not be safe for them come the liberation. Sadly, France was not safe for her until the Allies came.
Patience went home. She had nowhere else to go. She wouldn’t jeopardise her friends by going to them. She was suffering through guilt by association and would not put anyone else through it. Big Ears hadn’t talked enough to her, quiet during the drive in and the previous interview, for her to get a handle on him. Kretschmer confused her. Was he terrorising her to force a confession, or were his threats genuine? He came across like a civilised human being, which was scarier in a way. Dead Eyes was the only one she fully understood. Company man who’d do anything he was told to do. He would be fairly handsome, albeit not her type, but would only be so in a photograph – that absence of character and soul made him grey in the flesh.
Patience was alone, unable to go to Mthandeni or Charlotte or any other friend. She looked to the picture on the mantelpiece, a photograph of her parents taken during their final holiday together, a trip back to Africa. They looked so happy – she could have gone with them and didn’t, too busy enjoying her busy social life. Plus, it would have been an extra burden to raise the funds, but they did offer. Amadou and Sylvie Condeh, a fine-looking couple even into their 50s. She missed them terribly – now that she was out of work it hit her harder even after so many years. She liked working, solitude okay every now and again but not too much of it. She walked to the photograph and said to them, her protective father most of all, “Help me.”
Her father would not be able to relate to her predicament, the solitary aspect. He had never been alone. Spiritualist mediums had company all of the time. He had told her that there wasn’t an off switch, that voices were always present. He portrayed it as an honour rather than a hardship. She didn’t feel the same way at all, pitying him the invasion. She was truthful in what she told Kretschmer. The transfigurations sickened her, her father keeping them from her when he saw the effect it was having on her. He fully accepted his gift while compartmentalising it, separating it from his family more and more as the years passed. Her mother would twist a dreadlock for every time he ignored her for a spirit. He’d let her and then tell her she was being unfair, that he wasn’t ignoring her for a spirit, he was just ignoring her, usually winking at Patience as he said this. Happy memories...
Kretschmer had made very few notes during their third interview. He dismissed her words as pointless – and he was right in that for she really was not key to this at all. He was wrong in persisting with her. Why did she go to the funeral, why, why, why?
And how was Maurice? Was he facing the same grilling? That was such an afterthought, and she felt bad for that. He seemed hardy but being hardy in normal circumstances and being hardy as a Gestapo prisoner was a different proposition. And being a prisoner of the Milice was even worse to her. Her colour would be an instant demerit in their eyes, they wouldn’t view her as French.
Desperate times called for... was she really going to do this? Patience opened up a drawer on the sideboard and took out a notepad, sitting with it on her lap, pen in hand. Her father had identified this gift in her when she scrawled as a young child when she was learning to write. He spotted that she wrote before she could write, in many languages. She daydreamed while she doodled and words came out. She did this at school sometimes and got into serious trouble.
