The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(14)
Hitler nodded. “Go,” he agreed, adding, “and bring me back a tin of those Flavigny anise drops I like so much.”
Chapter Three
The swastika was everywhere. The Nazis had branded the beautiful face of Paris with it, from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc de Triomphe and every public building and church in between. Some of the black-and-red banners shouted in bold, barbaric Fraktur script: DEUTSCHLAND SIEGT AN ALLEN FRONTEN—GERMANY EVERYWHERE VICTORIOUS.
Maggie felt fear, a primal reaction to the changed Paris she could see from the slow-moving vélo-taxi. She managed to control her breathing but could do nothing about the blood pounding in her ears.
Paris was gray now, Maggie realized. The limestone buildings with their rusticated bases and tall windows were grimy, the glass windows of the cafés reflected pewter, and the faces of the few people on the streets were ashen and drawn, their eyes haunted, their step nervous. Their sleepwalking quality reminded her of the people she’d seen on a mission to Berlin.
The massive double doors of the apartment buildings, which were usually open, allowing those passing by a glimpse of courtyard and children running and playing, were locked and chained. Windows were either shuttered or daubed with blue paint for the enforced blackout, the people inside unable to tell day from night. Even the Seine was a blackish gray, like tarnished silver.
Maggie was also taken aback by Paris’s emptiness. Most of the blocks they passed were deserted. They rode in near silence, with only the infrequent long black cars adorned by Nazi banners, a few intrepid bicyclists, the occasional vélo-taxi, and a rare horse-drawn carriage for company.
The people she did see were lined up in queues in front of shops where Pétain’s portrait hung in the windows. All waited, silent, their arms folded, their eyes unfocused. Crude wooden posts with signs bearing German names in Gothic lettering had sprung up everywhere, a forest of thorny branches, indicating the direction of this or that office.
As they wended their way closer to the Place Vend?me, more people appeared on the streets, mostly women of all ages. But the customary blue uniforms of French soldiers were absent. The Feldgrau of the German Army had replaced them—as had black-uniformed SS officers. Well-fed off-duty Germans strolled along the avenues with cameras in hand, gawking in shop windows, whistling at the pretty girls.
Paris was irrefutably under complete German control: signage and posters warned the locals in German and French to obey Occupation edicts, rationing laws, and the rigorous curfews—or face punishment. POPULATIONS ABANDONNéES, FAITES CONFIANCE AU SOLDAT ALLEMAND! ABANDONED PEOPLE, HAVE FAITH IN THE GERMAN SOLDIER!
Maggie gave a grim smile as she saw someone had scribbled underneath in bold lettering, AND THEN WHAT? There were also posters warning of Jews and Communists with ET DERRIèRE LE JUIF, EXPOSITION LE JUIF ET LA FRANCE, and COMMUNISME ENNEMI DE LA FRANCE. They passed a seemingly endless series of red posters on the walls—photographs of people who’d been executed on the order of General Schaumburg, the Commander of Paris, for treason.
As the vélo-taxi passed a cinema, she saw black lettering on the marquee: LEINEN AUS IRLAND. Maggie had read a review about Linen from Ireland, a “comic” anti-Semitic propaganda film directed by Heinz Helbig. In it, Jewish textile company owners try to sabotage the German linen industry by buying linen from Ireland instead of having it produced in “the Fatherland.” A long line of pallid-faced Parisians waited at a makeshift soup kitchen in front of the theater.
It’s like witnessing a death, Maggie realized. The death of Paris, the death of France…Then, seeing two laughing children play hide-and-seek in their mother’s skirts—but perhaps the patient isn’t quite dead, not just yet. The Occupation was a trauma; Paris was numb, paralyzed, in a state of shock. Marianne, the national symbol of the French Republic, an icon of freedom and democracy, was sleeping under a Nazi spell.
As the vélo-taxi inched closer to the Place Vend?me, there was finally some traffic—long black Mercedes and Citro?n saloon cars, their swastika pennants snapping in the breeze; camouflaged Wehrmacht squad cars; motorcycles with sidecars driven by soldiers in helmets and goggles. The Germans owned the chestnut tree–lined streets now.
Without warning, the vélo-taxi veered to the curb and stopped. “Sir?” Maggie called to the driver. “What’s wrong?”
But he was already out the door and wrestling her trunk and suitcases to the damp pavement. “Excusez-moi!” He ignored her. She grabbed her handbag and stepped out of the vélo-taxi. He was breathing heavily.
“Sir, I think we have a misunderstanding—I need to go to the Ritz—”
The man’s face was flushed. He’d taken out a stained handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. “Mademoiselle, you may go to the Ritz—with my blessing.” As he grimaced, his steel tooth glinted. “But I’m not going to take you.”
To be left, alone, in Nazi-occupied Paris? “But, sir, that’s what we agreed on—”
He held up one grimy palm. “I don’t know what you’re carrying in that trunk—rocks and concrete maybe—but I’m an old man. I’m not going to risk a heart attack driving you and your wardrobe around.” He got back into the vélo and tipped his beret.
“But I’ll pay you!”