Free The Collaborators by Reginald Hill

in the market or not?’
    ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Melchior.
    ‘Because if I don’t, I’ll be flung off my course by the weekend, if I don’t get flung off a bridge first by the people I owe money to.’
    These were reasons Melchior could understand. He said, ‘I’d need proof.’
    ‘For God’s sake, what’s proof? I’ve got a copy of the plan with timings and locations, if that’s what you mean.’
    ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Melchior who despite everything was quite enjoying getting into his role. ‘You give me the plan. If it works out, I’ll pay you five hundred francs tomorrow.’
    ‘Go and screw yourself, you little fairy,’ said Émile angrily. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to trust someone like you!’
    Melchior smiled, unhurt, and said significantly, ‘It wouldn’t be me you were trusting, Émile. Your payment would be guaranteed, believe me.’
    The youngster weighed this up. Strange, thought Melchior. He knows I mean the Germans and he’ll doubtless end up by deciding he can trust them more than he’d trust me.
    He was right.
    ‘OK,’ said the student reluctantly. ‘Payment tomorrow morning, nine sharp, the Tuileries Gardens, by the Orangerie. And it’ll be the full thousand for extended credit, all right?’
    ‘Agreed,’ said Melchior, holding out his hand.
    A folded sheet of paper was put into it, then Émile turned on his heel and hurried away into the gathering dusk.
    Melchior walked along, studying the paper. There were going to be torchlight processions starting in the Place de la Bastille at 11.30. And once the authorities’ attention had been concentrated on the processions, the Embassy, in the Rue de Lille, and the Hôtel de Ville were going to be the objects of the main demos at midnight. Melchior practically danced along the pavement in his elation. No hint of such early activity had emerged hitherto. This would be a real coup for Bruno. Surely he must show his gratitude by restoring their relationship?
    But now as quickly as it had come, his joy faded as a sense of revulsion swept over him. What the hell was he doing? Giving this to Bruno meant hundreds of youngsters could be walking into a trap. And the Boche wouldn’t be gentle, that was sure. No! He wouldn’t do it. Bruno could go jump in the Seine!
    He walked on, feeling incredibly noble.
    Then he heard the sound of breaking glass. He turned a corner and saw a tobacconist’s with its window shattered. Pasted on the door was a now familiar sign saying JEWISH BUSINESS. Two youths with the armbands of the Parti Populaire Français were standing laughing on the pavement. They fell silent as he walked past. Then he heard their footsteps coming after him. Faster and faster he walked till he was almost running.
    Finally, exhausted by effort and fear, he stopped and turned.
    He was alone. But he had left his feeling of nobility far behind.

7
    Every year on November 11th, Sophie Simonian went to the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior to leave some flowers and make her own personal thanksgiving.
    ‘Bubbah, this year say thanks at home or in the synagogue,’ urged Janine.
    Sophie looked at her in surprise and said, ‘Why should I change the habit of twenty years, child? I owe it to Iakov for his safe return.’
    Realizing she had no hope of winning the argument, Janine insisted on accompanying her, leaving the children in the care of a neighbour.
    As their train pulled into l’Étoile métro station, she saw that the platforms were crowded and the crush of people getting into the carriage prevented the two women from getting out. When Sophie began to grow agitated, a middle-aged man who’d just entered said, ‘Take it easy, old lady. You’re better off down here than up there. You’d not be let out of the station anyway!’
    ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Janine.
    ‘Chaos,’ he said. ‘There’s been demonstrations, students mainly. The Boche are clearing the streets, and not being too gentle about how