Free April in Paris by Michael Wallner Page A

me.
    “Haven’t got a clue. They held me for two days.”
    “In which prison?” The old fellow’s eyes, his boar’s eyes, scrutinized me attentively.
    “No prison. A Lager. A camp in the woods.”
    Details—camp lists, deportation plans, sabotage reports—
    churned around in my head. I examined everything to see what would fit into my story.
    “On the third day, I heard an officer say we were going to be put in a transport convoy.” I struggled against the ropes. “But I had no desire to be dragged off to Germany to make artillery shells.”
    “You escaped?” the barber asked in disbelief.
    Joffo bent forward. “How?”
    “We were supposed to be taken to a transit camp south of A P R I L I N PA R I S . 75
    Moulins. On the way, the tracks went up a steep hill. The train slowed down, and I jumped out.” I lowered my head.
    Silence. I felt the two of them look at each other. “Hmm,” said Joffo. “None of this can be verified.”
    The barber planted himself in front of me. “We can make you tell us the truth!”
    In my mind’s eye, I saw the tub full of water, the broken limbs, the corporals striking blow after blow. The threat sounded phony.
    The small-boned fellow didn’t look as though he’d had much experience in hitting people.
    The old man sat down and made himself comfortable. “You’re staying here until you tell us everything we want to know.”
    That was impossible: I had to be out of there by midnight. A corporal who didn’t make it back to his quarters by lights-out could get away with a reprimand. But not showing up for duty in rue des Saussaies would be no trifling matter.
    “What about the apartment you stay in?” Joffo asked. “The place in the second arrondissement.”
    This revelation was like a blow. Chantal! Clearly, she’d reported on me to her father. No, not to her father—to her cell leader. In a flash, I understood; I realized that it was Chantal who had struck up a conversation with me. She’d lulled me into a sense of security with the Fables. She’d gone out with me for a whole evening, raising my hopes. I cursed my vanity, cursed myself, for letting her take me in like that.
    “The apartment,” Joffo repeated.
    I thought about the key in my pocket. If they searched me more thoroughly, they’d find it.
    76 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
    “Belongs to a friend,” I replied.
    “Is he an informer, too?” the barber asked.
    In a split second, I remembered Hirschbiegel’s mentioning a proxy. His name?
    I laughed. “You think someone named Isaak Wasserlof ’s an informer for the Germans?”
    “He’s a Jew?” The barber was astounded.
    They held a brief whispered powwow.
    “If you live in the second,” Joffo said, “why are you in this neighborhood so often?”
    “You should be able to figure out the answer to that.” My smile was not a success.
    “Chantal?” her father asked. “But why her? There are thousands of other girls.”
    I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know, either, monsieur.”
    The barber butted in. “I don’t believe you’re sniffing around here just on account of Chantal,” he said. “Where do you come from?”
    I invented names. Parents, grandparents. I described the streets of my childhood and evoked my friendship with Wasserlof, who’d invited me to stay with him in Paris. In the hope that the Sorbonne would start holding classes again, I said, I’d come to register for the fall semester. But then my papers had been taken away, and …
    “Have you applied for new papers?” the barber asked. “Show us the thing they give you, the confirmation.”
    I laughed harshly. “Have you got any idea how many hours I’ve spent standing in the application line? And I’ve never once reached the front of it.”
    A P R I L I N PA R I S . 77
    Remarkably, they seemed to believe that one. Typical German harassment. Having to wait days and weeks in the halls of the records office for a new “certificate” that would never be issued: This