Page 14 of The Resistance Book Club

1941

Margot had headed down the corridor that ran beside the bookshop, out through the street door, to avoid coming through the closed shop. It was barely dawn and the village was clinging on to scraps of the night. She’d go to the bakery early and see if she’d be in time to get some bread.

She drew her scarf tighter round her neck. The late October cold was starting to bite, and there wasn’t much warmth in Cordeval anyway since the SS had arrived. Another poster had been glued to the window of Margot’s shop, a sharp reminder of the curfew. And when she’d been at the fish market the day before, she’d overheard one of the women at the stalls telling her friend that her husband had been dragged off for questioning in the middle of the night.

On the other side of the street, she saw Felix Lauterborn coming out of the bar. Margot froze. He was straightening his uniform, and looked very pleased with himself. He had the look of a man who’d passed a very enjoyable evening.

He glanced up at the window that Margot knew wasJoséphine’s as the gleaming staff car that had been a regular sight in the village since his arrival last week purred round the corner. The car drew to a halt and he climbed in and closed the door before it carried him away. Lauterborn had claimed the finest suite at the Grand Hotel in Clarenville-sur-Mer as his headquarters and it made Margot sad to think of such a fine establishment playing host to a man like him. The Grand Hotel had been reserved for the most glittering names in high society and, if one was lucky, the odd visitor from humble Cordeval too.

Margot and Serge had stayed there for two nights as newlyweds and, though they couldn’t dream of affording the palatial suite that now housed Obergruppenführer Lauterborn, they had loved the little room that had been theirs for one perfect weekend. They had barely left it for two days, revelling in their first hours as husband and wife as the sea lapped the shore beneath their open window.

Those days seemed so far away now, yet she tried to hold the precious memories close. She couldn’t bear to think of them being stained by the Nazis. She’d lain awake last night, listening to marching boots echo through Cordeval’s streets, and had heard barked orders hurled at whoever had been unlucky enough to encounter Lauterborn’s soldiers.

Margot went along the blustery street, a basket over her arm. Everyone she passed was wrapped up in hats, scarves and gloves, brought out of mothballs every year at the first sign of colder weather. It was optimistic, she knew. The last time she’d been to the bakery, the SS soldiers had pushed their way to the front of the queue and demanded the best bread in the shop.

She had a long wait in the cold, and, once she finally reached the front of the queue, bought only a half-sized baguette. There wasn’t much else left. She came home, walking past more posters that the Nazis had put up. One of them showed happy children gathering around a smiling German soldier, and fury boiled inside Margot. She would’ve torn itdown if she could’ve got away with it, but, as she glanced over her shoulder, she saw a curtain twitch. It always felt as if someone was watching.

When she arrived at the shop, Margot opened up and drank chicory coffee at the till, waiting for her first customers of the day. She could only dream of drinking proper coffee again, but she was sure it was a feature every morning at Lauterborn’s breakfast table.

Madame Guerin came in and bought a Maigret mystery before she headed off to start her shift at the café. By early afternoon, Margot had sold a couple of novels and an exercise book. It really wasn’t enough to keep the shop going, but she had to cling on. She had to hope.

There was a lull and the shop was empty for a while. Closing time was fast approaching, so she went down to the cellar to collect some of the banned books, and put them in her basket. She covered them with a large striped handkerchief and left it on the counter.

Then she went over to her window display, and tried to rearrange it so that the wanted posters on the outside wouldn’t obscure her stock. Just as she’d moved the last book, she saw the Professor riding up the street on his bicycle, a stripy scarf wrapped round his neck. As ever, his dark blond hair was neatly combed and his moustache trimmed.

Margot pretended not to watch him, but she saw him slow down, then come to a stop directly outside her shop, precise as ever.

He climbed off his bicycle and leaned it carefully against the wall, then opened the door and stepped inside. As he entered, he took off his hat in his usual, gentlemanly way, and greeted her with a polite nod.

‘Good afternoon, Madame Dufour,’ he said politely. Then he glanced back over his shoulder as though checking there was nobody else in the small shop but them.

‘Monsieur Lauterborn,’ Margot replied. Even though his surname caught uncomfortably in her throat, she’d have to treat him like she would any other customer. ‘Can I help? I’m waiting for a delivery of Liszt sonatas from Paris, in case you’re interested?’

The Professor nodded. ‘You’re very kind to think of me,’ he said and smiled. Beatrice had told the book club that the Professor hadn’t been to Petit’s to play the piano for the first few days since his brother’s arrival, and that even now the two men barely exchanged a single word. But Margot knew that walls had ears in wartime and, just because they didn’t drink and carouse together, it would be dangerous to reach any conclusions. ‘I wonder, Madame, whether you have heard anything about…’ He glanced around again, then whispered, ‘TheListe Otto.’

Margot pretended to be casual, even as the words struck her like ice. She tried to stop her glance from roaming to the basket that stood on the counter between them. ‘Of course I know about the list. All bookshop owners know about it.’ She gestured to her shelves. ‘And you won’t find any titles from that list on my shelves.’

‘I found this today. Out on the stile beside the pony field.’ He reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket and took out a parcel wrapped in newspaper. Margot’s heart skipped as she recognised one of the little packages that the book club members had been leaving around the village. The paper had obviously been removed and the book rewrapped after the Professor had examined its contents.

‘Grand Hotel,’ he said with a smile. ‘My late wife adored this book. We went to the cinema together when it was?—’

Just as Margot was wondering if she should admit that she loved the book too and it was a shame it had been banned, the bell jangled above the door.

Her eyes widened in alarm when she saw Felix Lauterbornin his jet-black uniform coming into her shop. He seemed so out of place, surrounded by shelves of books.

She had to stay calm. She wanted to move her basket under the counter, but that would draw his attention right to it. And the Professor, with his back to the door, seemed to have no idea who’d just walked in.

The Professor pushed the wrapped book into his pocket and turned as his brother threw out one hand and barked, ‘Heil Hitler!’ He was looking at the Professor as one German to another, awaiting a reply. Instead, the Professor merely offered him a nod of acknowledgement.

Margot tried to cover her surprise. Shouldn’t the Professor have responded with a Sieg Heil of his own?

‘Good afternoon, Madame Dufour.’ He took off his peaked cap and put it beneath his elbow before performing a neat, polite bow. ‘Herr Lauterborn.’ He smiled, then lifted one black-gloved index finger. ‘Forgive me –ProfessorLauterborn.’

The Professor nodded again, his mouth set in a tight line of silence.

‘What can I do for you?’ Margot said with an effort, her mouth suddenly dry. She gripped the edge of the counter. Her legs felt as if they’d turned to wet string and it was all she could do to keep standing.

‘How like my brother to be haunting the bookshops still. Our father would always say, if you have lost Felix, look at the rifle range. If you have lost Theodor, look in the library,’ chuckled Lauterborn. Then he turned and strolled across to one of the shelves. ‘I have a special interest in books, Madame.’