Free April in Paris by Michael Wallner Page B

was the Parisian reality. For a moment, they were ready to believe they were dealing with a young Frenchman who’d fallen in love with the bookseller’s daughter. Taking advantage of the mood swing, I asked Joffo to untie me. He examined my swollen wrists and gave a sign to the barber, who stepped behind me and began to undo the cords.
    “How do you make a living?” the old man asked.
    “I manage to get by.”
    He tilted his head to one side. “You recently paid for something with a large bill.”
    I felt the knots loosening. “Wasserlof gave me some money.”
    “The bill was freshly printed.” Joffo’s voice sounded more suspicious.
    My hands were almost free. “So what?”
    “I didn’t know about the money,” the barber said.
    I stood up and took a step toward the stairs.
    “Just a minute, my friend!” All of a sudden, I was gazing down the barrel of an army pistol. I reached the bottom stair in one bound, throwing off the rope as I moved.
    “Halt!”
    I ran up the stairs without looking back. Above my head, the dark rectangle, outlined in light. I raised the trapdoor with my shoulders. Felt something strike my leg and, simultaneously, heard a shot. Although the impact almost knocked me down, I scrambled up through the opening, heaving the trapdoor aside. It 78 . M I C H A E L WA L L N E R
    struck the floor with a crash. I was in the stockroom; the barber’s head emerged behind me.
    “Freeze!”
    “I’ve told you everything!”
    Another shot rang out. The bullet struck some books near me.
    I dashed into the shop, jumped behind some bookshelves, and crept toward the door. The barber took aim at me from behind the counter. Still crouching, I tore the door open; the bell sounded. The last time I looked, the bookseller was pushing down the barber’s hand.
    “Not here,” Joffo said.
    I ran out and sprang down the steps. I sprinted past the big rock and down rue de Gaspard, noticed the surprised look on the junk dealer’s face, opened the black gate, and reached the street, the boulevard, on the other side. Once I was among the crowd, my breathing grew calmer. I passed the Lubinsky slowly. On the Pont Royal, I looked around. There didn’t seem to be anyone following me.
    It was getting dark. Only then did I notice that it hurt to walk.
    A dark spot on my trouser leg, gradually spreading. The bullet had ripped a chunk of flesh out of my calf. I reached the ruined building, tore my shirt into strips, and bound up my wound.
    Then I put my checkered suit, my soft shoes, and my hat in the laundry bag and closed it up as though I never wanted to open it again.
    Roth, Wehrmacht soldier, summer 1943. On my way back to the hotel, I thought, the fellow has a nationality. In which he consists. The gray uniform, the hooked cross, the flag. As long as the A P R I L I N PA R I S . 79
    war lasted, those things were my reality. Oddly relieved to have come through my adventure practically in one piece, I limped back to the hotel, dropped off my bag in my room, and went upstairs to see Hirschbiegel. I intended to propose something to the lieutenant: a fun-filled boys’ night out. Two Germans in enemy territory.

11

    Two weeks later, just before I went on duty, Leibold met me in the hall.
    “I was right!” He appeared to be in unusually good humor as he pushed back his cap and rubbed his shiny pate. “The Gascon has led us to his rat hole.”
    Only now did it occur to me that I hadn’t seen the offender’s face for days. I remembered the amazing patience Leibold had shown while interrogating this man, without obtaining any worthwhile result. Hunkered down like a mossy stone, the Gascon made his stolid denials; even the corporals’ techniques made no impression on him.
    “I let him go,” Leibold said affably, “and that’s where he went.
    It’s a shop we’ve had our eyes on for a long time. A barbershop.”
    A P R I L I N PA R I S . 81
    For a moment, I had the feeling that the dead-level floor in front of me