Free Gypsy by J. Robert Janes Page A

heart was racing. ‘Either to rob for them or to set a little souricière for someone.’
    A mousetrap … ‘But he’s decided to rob for himself – is this what you’re saying?’
    â€˜Perhaps, but then … ah mais alors, alors , Hermann, is it not too early for us to say?’
    Unsettled by the thought, they went up the stairs more slowly. Hermann wouldn’t use the lifts, not even in a place like this. Caught once and left hanging by a thread, nothing would change his mind, not even the most modern and best maintained of elevators.
    When they reached the sixth floor, the only sounds they heard were those of their shoes. No longer was there that din of hammering typewriters, telexes and the constant ringing of telephones. No one hurried past. No one shouted in German or French. Even from the cellars, there were no sudden screams of terror.
    Records occupied the whole of the top floor. Its grey labyrinth of steel filing cabinets, card-index drums, shelves and mountains of dossiers was separated from all outsiders by the brown and unfeeling plateau of the linoleum-topped counter all such governmental edifices held.
    Turcotte and every one of his clerk-detectives, all thirty or so of the day shift, were standing rigidly to attention, grim-faced, some with tears.
    â€˜ What the hell has happened ?’ breathed Kohler – he couldn’t believe it. Usually Turcotte fiercely guarded his domain and acidly fought off all requests to hurry.
    The intercom brought answer via Radio-Vichy and the shaky voice of the aged Maréchal Pétain, now in his eighty-seventh year. ‘Mesdames et messieurs, it is with deep regret that I must report the nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad has been lifted. Though the population has been dying at the rate of twenty thousand a day, this is expected to lessen in the weeks ahead.’
    â€˜Effort brings its own reward,’ whispered Kohler, giving a well-known phrase of the Maréchal’s. ‘ Les Russes are no longer food for the fish of the Neva and the Teutonic generals of this war are being taught a damned good lesson.’
    Hermann was still bitter but seldom showed it. He had just recently lost both of his sons at Stalingrad where von Paulus was about to surrender the last remnants of the Sixth. He had tried to convince the boys to emigrate in ‘38 to Argentina but being young, they had replied, ‘You fought in the last one; let us finish it in this one.’
    The moment of silence following the broadcast was rigidly observed. Not a one of the clerks would have broken it. They were all terrified of their boss and afraid of being sent into forced labour or worse. ‘A far different response than last Wednesday, Thursday or Friday, eh, Louis?’ he whispered. ‘They’re not patting each other on the back and saying, “I told you so.”’
    The Wehrmacht, on a violent whim of the Führer, had dynamited the whole of the Vieux Port of Marseille, evicting thirty thousand souls with but a two-hour notice, and sending most of them to camps at Fréjus and Compiègne. An altercation in a whorehouse had started it all, the Resistance shooting up the place and others paying for it. So many, no one could have predicted it.
    â€˜Well?’ demanded Turcotte, lord of his empire.
    Kohler winced. ‘We’re having trouble, Émile, and need a little help.’
    â€˜Such subservience is rewarding but we can do nothing for you today.’
    â€˜Oh, sorry. Berlin were asking. It was Berlin, wasn’t it, Louis?’
    The little ferret got the message, but when the wheels were turned, the index cards of most gypsies had been stamped with one big black word and Turcotte had his little triumph. ‘ Déporté ou fusillé, c’est la même chose .’
    Deported or shot, it’s the same thing.
    â€˜We’re looking for a mouton ,’ said St-Cyr, hauling him out of harm’s