Paris: The Novel

so afraid that any delay might put his little family in danger, that he resolved to go straight to Abraham and, if possible, to flee at once.
    He just needed to get a message to his wife. A couple of hundred yards away he could see a telephone kiosk. He glanced toward the police vans. A couple of policemen were standing beside one of them, watching him idly. That was a nuisance. As a Jew, he wasn’t allowed to use the public telephones. It would be ridiculous to get arrested for some tiny infraction like that.
    But there was another fellow standing not far from the telephone. Perhaps he could be of help. It was worth a try.

    Luc gazed down at Jacob. He remembered him now. Their meeting had been very brief. He’d called to see Marc Blanchard at his apartment, a few years ago, just as Jacob was leaving. Marc had introduced him as his dealer. They’d spoken for only a few moments before Jacob had to go.
    Evidently Jacob didn’t remember him, and he was just debating whether to introduce himself, or whether it might be a bore, when the dealer started speaking.
    “A terrible business,” Jacob said, nodding toward the stadium. He looked distressed, and agitated.
    “I believe they’re all foreign Jews,” said Luc.
    “Ah. Yes. Perhaps,” Jacob replied absently. “I wonder if you could dome a small favor,” he said suddenly. “I should like to tell my wife that I shall be home late. But you know I can’t use the phone over there. If I gave you a number …”
    “But of course,” Luc spread his hands. “No problem.”
    “Well then, my wife’s name is Sarina. If you could just tell her that I am delayed until this evening, but that I have not forgotten we are going to see her cousin Hélène in the morning.” He smiled. “She thinks I forget everything.”
    “All wives think their husbands are forgetful.”
    “You are very kind. Here is the number.” Jacob wrote it on a scrap of paper. “And the price of the call.”
    “No payment, monsieur. It’s a pleasure. I’ll do it right away. If you stand over by that street corner, the police won’t see you, but you’ll be able to see me make the call.” He smiled.
    “You are very kind, monsieur.”
    Luc made the call.
    “Am I speaking to Sarina?”
    “Yes.” The voice sounded cautious.
    “Your husband was just here, by the Vel d’hiv. He can’t use the public telephone, you understand? He asked me to give you a message.”
    “I see.” She still sounded a little doubtful.
    “He is delayed. He won’t be back until this evening.”
    “This evening?” She sounded very surprised.
    “That’s what he said. And something else. He said to tell you that he hasn’t forgotten he is going with you to see your cousin Hélène in the morning.”
    “Our cousin Hélène? He said Hélène?”
    “Oui, madame.”
    “Oh my God.” Her voice sounded terrified. “Oh my God.”
    “Madame?”
    “Nothing. Thank you.” She hung up.
    Luc glanced toward Jacob and nodded. He saw the Jew give a grateful nod in return, and hurry away.
    Now what, Luc wondered, was that all about?

    Sometimes Schmid despaired of the Vichy French. Not that the government of France was being uncooperative. Far from it. Pétain was asplendid figurehead. The respect he’d earned in the Great War meant that the French were glad to follow the old warrior. And it was evident that, as a realist, Pétain had decided the only way to save his country was to become a German satellite. The French police were keen to do Germany’s will. Almost too keen, sometimes.
    Yet they kept missing the point.
    Karl Schmid leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and sighed. “It’s partly our own fault,” he murmured to himself. “We didn’t have a proper plan for the Jews.”
    Nobody wanted them in Germany, of course. They were kicked out of there. But there was so much to accomplish that the problem of what to do with them had been rather shelved. And since they had been fleeing there from Eastern Europe anyway, France had, rather by default, become a dumping ground for the Jews of the Third Reich.
    But now it was time to tidy things up. At the start of that year, Schmid knew, a final solution to the Jewish question had been secretly agreed, and this very summer the methodology was being perfected. Officially however, the Jews were to be sent as workers to the East, or kept in labor camps.
    There was only one problem. The French did not understand the Jewish question. It had been