‘I expect so. But what about you, my dear? Your grandma?’
‘I want her to leave, to go and stay with Papa. She doesn’t want to go, but she can’t stay here alone.’
‘Quite right. I’m glad you’re looking after her. It’s different for me: I will stay, my whole family is here, my husband and sons and daughters. We will keep Colmar alive and French. But Hélène should go back to Maxence. You are at university, aren’t you?’
Juliette nodded. ‘Yes. But I must move on – I’m just on my way to the post office to ring Tante Margaux and ask her to come and get us.’
‘Give her my regards, and your father, when you see him.’
‘I will. Au revoir.’
They parted, and Juliette moved on. She couldn’t help it, however; she looked once more at the Mairie and shook her fist at it, a gesture of utter disdain and defiance. Which did not go unseen.
She had not taken five further steps before two officers in greatcoats stepped into her path.
‘Guten Tag, Fräulein; where are you headed?’
Absolutely none of your business, she thought, but pride must now take second place to sagacity. There was no point in invoking Nazi ire. The words she spoke, clearly, confidently and curtly, were:
‘To the post office. To make a telephone call.’ No wasted words. Eyes glazed, looking straight ahead, not down, not meeting theirs.
‘Papers.’ A gloved hand, held out. She pushed her own hand into her coat, brought out her ID card, student card. Shoved them into the black glove. The officer took it, read it, looked up. Looked down, at the photo, and up again. It was a good likeness, but he pretended to doubt. This time she did meet his eyes, but made sure hers gave nothing away. No emotion. No fear, no irritation. She held his gaze, and he looked down again at the papers.
‘You live in the rue Courvoisier?’
‘Yes.’
‘With your family?’
A slight nod. ‘My grandmother.’
His eyes narrowed, and dropped to the thick plait that fell over her shoulder, long and black. He reached out and gave it a flick with his fingers.
‘Such dark hair. Are you Jewish?’
‘No, I’m not.’
He shook his head as if doubting her, then finally handed back the papers. ‘You may proceed. Do not loiter.’
She retrieved her documents without a word and only a slight flare of the nostrils, turned away, walked a few metres and spat on the ground. Hurried onwards.
‘Fräulein!’ She stopped abruptly. Pushed her hands deep into her pockets because they were trembling furiously, uncontrollably. Did not look back. Held her head up. Waited for the officer to stride up from behind and once again plant himself in front of her on the pavement. She met his eyes with a cold stare.
‘I will have you know,’ he barked, ‘that I have the authority to arrest any citizen who does not comply with my orders, or who in any way resists allegiance to German authority. You have been warned. Go on your way.’
It took all her strength to hold back the retort straining at the tip of her tongue, but she did. She nodded, and since he did not budge but simply stood there blocking her path, she walked around him. Her pocketed hands still trembled and did not stop shaking until she reached the post office.
There was a long queue for the telephone booth; it seemed that many Colmar citizens had similar needs to hers. The waiting people spoke among themselves in hushed voices. Snippets of conversations reached her ears.
‘Do you think…?’
‘Did you see…?’
‘We are leaving as soon as we can.’
‘…the next train. Down to…’
Many of them greeted Juliette with a friendly word.
‘Bonjour, Juliette, how’s Madame Dolch?’ said M. Bordeleau, her grandfather’s former tailor, as he joined the queue behind her.
‘She’s well, but I think it’s better she leaves Colmar. She’s on her own now so she’ll go to live with Papa.’
M. Bordeleau nodded. ‘That is a very good decision. Colmar is no longer what it was. France is no longer what it was. Seeing as how les Boches simply marched into France and took over… well. Terrible times. And now they are here in Colmar too.’
‘Living as we do on the border to Germany, it was only a question of time,’ put in Madame Coulon, who had just joined the queue to stand behind Juliette.
‘So much for the Maginot Line,’ said M. Bordeleau. ‘The Boche simply ignored it.’
‘Well, they might think they own Alsace but they don’t. They never will. Alsace will stay Alsace.’ Juliette’s voice was defiant.
‘There’s Alsace Français, and Alsace Allemand,’ said Madame Coulon. ‘Back and forth, back and forth. A tug of war, which has now literally come to pass. You of course are too young to remember the last time we were German. Do not underestimate the damage that can be done. Why, your own name, Mademoiselle Dolch, is a testimony to that, a German name. When the Germans come they mean business. Everything will change: our names, the language, everything.’
Juliette merely nodded; she’d heard it all before. She was now at the head of the line; the person inside the booth was shouting into the mouthpiece, gesticulating as he spoke as if the person on the other end could see. Juliette rapped sharply on the glass, pointed to the long queue behind her, shrugged a question mark. The man understood. He slammed the receiver into its holder and stormed out of the booth.
Juliette entered, dialled Margaux’s number. She picked up right away.
‘Juliette! Thank God… are you all right? We heard the news on the wireless. I hoped you’d call… How’s Hélène? What’s going on?’
‘We are all right, Tante Margaux, but Grandma’s a bit shaken as you can imagine. I think it’s best she move in with Papa for the time being.’
‘But of course! It’s what I’ve been saying all this time. And you want me to come and get her?’
‘Yes, if you have the time.’
‘For you, always; I just hope the traffic isn’t too bad. I’ve heard everyone’s fleeing Colmar, and the roads are packed.’
‘But the roads coming in to Colmar should be free, don’t you think?’
‘Who knows? It is terrible, terrible.’
‘But it was only a question of time, wasn’t it. If they can take Paris, they can take Strasbourg and Colmar. We are just small fry after Paris.’
‘Not at all! Colmar and Alsace: they are precious to Hitler and to Germany. It’s more than just a small town in their eyes, chérie – for the Germans, Alsace is the crown jewel of France. But we will discuss all that later. I’m going to look after the animals and as soon as I’m finished, I’ll come for you both. Adieu, ma petite.’
‘Adieu, Tante Margaux, and thank you.’ She hung up the phone, left the booth, nodded goodbye to M. Bordeleau and Madame Coulon as she walked past them – many more had by now joined the queue which now snaked out into the street – and headed for home.
Tante Margaux was, of course, not her real aunt; she was, in fact, her father’s employer, but more than that, a good old friend of the family. Margaux’s vineyard Château Gauthier-Laroche produced possibly the best wine in all of Alsace – an arguable estimation, the subject of many rigorous discussions in many a public house in all the Alsatian towns and villages between Thann in the south and Strasbourg in the north.