Page 108 of The Ringmaster’s Daughter

‘Curfew is at nine. We must be quick.’ Bertrand checked the time.

‘Only one more place they could be,’ Giordano said. ‘But you should probably wait here.’ He indicated a café – small, clean and quiet.

‘Why?’ Michel asked.

‘It is not, how do you say, for you, I suppose. I know how to get myself inside, but perhaps not you.’

‘I don’t want you to go alone.’

‘I will be fine. Sit, sit. Order some wine. I will be back in less than the time it takes you to drink it.’

‘And if you are not?’

‘I will be.’ Giordano grinned and marched away, turning down yet another darkened alley where disembodied voices drifted on the night air; the ghosts of Paris trying to reclaim their city of light.

Bertrand and Michel ordered a glass of red each and waited, expecting Giordano to return within minutes.

But when an hour had passed, Michel stood and paid the waiter. ‘There is something wrong. I can feel it.’

Before they rounded the corner to follow in Giordano’s footsteps, the voices had changed. They were no longer happy, laughing. The music had gone. The tones were harsh. German.

A crowd had gathered, and Michel and Bertrand pushed through until they could see five men, their hands on their heads, being led away by an armed solider. An officer stood at the entrance of a small house and barked something Michel did not understand.

Two more men were led out, then a woman, and finally Giordano.

Michel moved forward once more, his heart drumming in his ears.

The German officer shouted at the crowd, who began to move away, back to their homes.

‘Giordano!’ Michel shouted.

But Giordano could not turn around to look. The gun was trained at his back and the soldier nudged him forward to walk quicker, away from Michel down a dark, silent alley.

‘Come, Michel.’ Bertrand pulled Michel away.

‘We have to help him! Where are they taking him?’

‘Hush. Come now. Quickly.’

Bertrand dropped his head down and dragged Michel by the arm.

‘Quickly, quickly, Michel. Walk faster.’

As they hurried along, following the shadows to Bertrand’s apartment, the streets had become deserted; the only presence was German soldiers, who relaxed at the bars that were now theirs alone.

The metro had stopped for the night, so they had to walk the six miles to Bertrand’s, always checking over their shoulder, neither wanting to talk.

Once they arrived, Michel slumped into the armchair he had departed in early summer and Bertrand handed him a glass of brandy, then worried at the curtains to make sure no light shone through to the outside. He lit another candle; three now cast ghostly shadows on the walls and bookcases.

‘It is stupid, this curfew.’ Bertrand knocked his brandy back quickly.

‘Where have they taken him, Bertrand?’

‘If it is a round-up, I hear that those taken are questioned first – they find out if there are any resistance amongst them. Then, any Jews. Then anyone they do not like.’

‘We should have gone with him.’

‘He said himself it was not a place for us.’