Page 62 of Whispers At Dawn
It was Saturday, and he decided he wouldn’t go into the office this morning. He sat at the table, wearing only his white vest and briefs, and spent a few leisurely hours reviewing his little blue notebook. The lined pages contained scrawled notes of his latest findings on suspected enemies of the state. The list of names was growing fast, and he ran one tobacco-stained finger beneath the recent entry of the couple staying at the château.
Armand hadn’t seen the attractive man since the dinner, and decided it was time to escalate his surveillance, if only for the guilty pleasure of watching him. He wouldn’t assign the task to one of his team, but would monitor the couple himself. Armand hoped he would see the lithe young man again when he drove the Gestapo officer to dinner.
After smoking several more cigarettes until the room was a thick haze of smog, and draining his pot of coffee, he washed and dressed and walked slowly, his leg dragging slightly as he manoeuvred the fourth-floor stairs. He had applied for groundfloor accommodation on account of his disability, but had received no notice from the Legion of an impending award of new housing. It was a disgrace, the way the government treated an illustrious ex-serviceman like himself. All of that would change in the new France.
If they were to live up to the Vichy administration’s motto for France:Travail, Famille, Patrie—Work, Family, Fatherland, they would need to do better. Armand believed he had been born with a purpose to restore his country to its former glory, and he was now fulfilling his ultimate duty.
His mind bounced over thoughts of his usual grudges and grievances in the familiar, resentful grooves he revisited every day.
‘Good morning,’ he said to a shabbily dressed man as he passed him on the second flight of stairs.
The man muttered a reply and hurried on without making eye contact.
Ever alert for the enemy, he wondered who he was. Armand had seen him once before, and he looked suspicious. The man must be a new resident, and Armand made a note to check the records of who had moved into the building. He had a swarthy Jewish look about him, and worse still, something of the air of a communist. Being Jewish was dreadful enough, but a Jewish communist was scraping the bottom of the cesspit.
The bile rose in Armand’s throat as he considered the scourge that had overtaken his beloved country. The man was already half a flight of stairs ahead of Armand, when it occurred to him, he didn’t know his name.
‘Monsieur,’ he called in a polite tone.
The man paused and swivelled to look up at Armand. ‘Yes,’ he replied, alarm springing into his brown eyes.
‘I don’t believe we have met. What is your name? It was rude of me to greet you without welcoming you properly to our building. You are new here, isn’t that so?’
Armand thought the man looked shifty, and he studied his face as he stared back at him.
The man coughed and then replied, ‘I’m an ex-serviceman like yourself. My name is Azimov. You need not concern yourself, monsieur. I’m only staying in the building temporarily at my sister’s apartment until I find permanent accommodation.’
‘Are you Russian, by any chance?’
The man now looked terrified as Armand limped down the stairs and grilled him up close.
‘No, I was born in France, monsieur,’ he said, in perfect French, his voice slightly hoarse.
Armand nodded. ‘That is good to hear. One can’t be too careful these days, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ The ominous threat hovered in the stairwell and the man stood there like trapped prey.
Armand switched tack suddenly and smiled as if he were most happy to have made the man’s acquaintance. He then dismissed him and continued with his slow, limping gait down the stairs and out into the narrow-cobbled street bathed in late morning sunshine. His stomach rumbled, and he made a beeline for his regular café. He would be an early diner for lunch and get the pick of the spoils.
Armand signalled to the waiter who knew him from his daily patronage, and he rushed to find a table for him outside, ideally positioned to watch the comings and goings of the Saturday lunch crowd.
A group of women and children bustling about beneath the arcades to one side of the square caught Armand’s eye after he settled down with a contented sigh, apéritif in hand, under theshade of the awning. They looked like trouble if ever he saw it, and he resolved to watch them closely.
The waiter informed Armand the special wasMoules Marinière,and he ordered his favourite dish, a rare treat in wartime, without hesitation. Armand ate the delicious meal, mopping up the garlic and wine sauce with the crusty baguette and licking his lips as he cleaned the bowl and forgot about the troublesome women.
He pushed the plates away and relaxed back into his seat, drawing on a newly lit cigarette. Despite his many grievances, life was proving good for him as a Legion employee. He was feeling quite pleased with his lot, when suddenly he noticed the women converging onLe Capitole, the city hall. They formed rows and were marching near the building.
Armand’s mouth fell open as he witnessed their audacity. Demonstrations were strictly forbidden without prior authorisation, which, of course, wouldn’t be granted. The women and some of the older children held handmade signs protesting against food shortages.
Armand squinted to read the script: We need more food to feed our starving children.
They marched up and down in front of the city hall and no one came out to stop them. For once, Armand found himself at a loss for what action to take. Whoever heard of housewives having the gall to protest the government in this manner? They got rations just like everyone else.
He rallied his thoughts and decided he would investigate in person. This was a new phenomenon as far as he was aware, so it would impress his superiors at the Legion if he were first to report it.
Armand paid his bill and took a receipt to claim back his expenses. He would fudge the date, so his meal would be coveredeven on the weekend. His salary was pitiful and if it weren’t for additional benefits, he wouldn’t have a spare Franc in his pocket.
Armand straightened his cap and set out with his crooked gait towards the small crowd of protestors. It took him longer than he would have liked to reach them, and he noticed a few of them dispersed as they saw him approach.
One housewife was brazen enough to step forward to meet him and introduce herself as if she were proud of her performance.
