11. Drancy, August 1942

Chapter eleven

Drancy, August 1942

"Mathéo, how much are you betting?" Sergeant Pascal turns to me as I exit the police barracks' door and stand on the balcony overlooking the camp.

"On what?" I ask him and look down, checking that my gun belt is properly secured and that I'm ready for duty.

"On her. We started a bet," he laughs and points toward the barbed wire fence and the yard full of people. I slide my fingers over my gun's leather holster, make sure it's secured, and the pistol is in place, then look up in the direction Sergeant Pascal is pointing.

Among all the people strolling the yard, one girl stands by the barbed wire fence and looks out. I know her, it's the wild-haired German girl.

"The girl standing by the fence?" I ask him and go inside the barracks for a moment, taking the rifle for my shift. No one should notice that I know her. This is against our orders.

"Yeah, the girl with the shaggy teddy bear," Sergeant Pascal says as I walk back out, putting the bullet belt over my shoulder. "She's been hanging around the fence for three days now," he says and sits on the bench on the wooden porch, lighting himself a cigarette. "We think they put her parents on the train to the East, and she was accidentally left behind. Do you know her?"

"No," I lie to him. I remember her and her mother.

Since I've arrived here, eighteen months ago, I've managed not to think about the people inside the fences. I've made sure to treat them as nameless people without an identity until the day her mother tried to get out and talk to the camp commander, and I stopped her. I have no idea why I did it; maybe her act surprised me. Her desire to go outside the fences, her confidence that she won't be harmed. A few days later, I saw her again in the roll call in the yard; this time, she was holding on to a wild-haired girl. Later, I was once again surprised when the girl approached me - the same girl who's now standing alone by the fence.

"What are you betting on?" I ask him and look at Sergent Pascal's big fingers holding his cigarette. He sits on the wooden bench and leans back, his belly protruding above his leather belt. The reduction of food in Paris in the last two years didn't seem to have affected him.

"We started betting on how long it would take her to collapse and go kaput ," he says and laughs. "I don't believe it will take long. So, how much do you bet?"

"How do you know they took her parents?" I ask him while I keep looking at her. Was her mother sent to the East? Does she even have a father? "Are you sure they took her parents?" I ask him again.

"Trust me, I've been here long enough to know," he laughs and inhales from his cigarette. "A new policeman arrived here today. His name is Fernard," he gestures at a man standing on the grass in front of the barrack and waiting. "I want you to take him and show him the camp, show him the ropes."

I give the girl another quick look. She rests one hand on the barbed wire fence, and her other hand is holding on to something, some vague stuffed animal. Maybe it's the raggedy bear that Sergeant Pascal mentioned. "She looks like an abandoned stray cat to me," I say.

"Someone suggested that we just throw her on the train, but then we wouldn't have a bet. I informed everyone that no one is to touch her, so that the bet would be fair," he looks at me. "The minimum is five Francs. Cigarettes are also allowed."

"Thanks, but I'm not betting," I reply and put the rifle on my shoulder.

"Do you like Jews? I didn't think you were one of those Jew supporters," he says as he remains seated on the wooden bench.

"No, I don't like Jews. I like my money," I turn my back to him and go down the porch stairs. I have work to do.

"Good morning. Are you Fernard?" I ask the new policeman standing beside the police pick-up truck parked near the barracks. He's about twenty-one or twenty-two years old, his hair is fair, and he looks excited in his newly ironed uniform.

"Yes, sir, good morning, sir," he replies as I approach him.

"Don't call me sir. I'm not your commander. I'm a policeman, like you, and I'm only older than you. Mathéo," I shake his hand, "let's go inside, and I'll show you how things work here. Is today your first day?"

"Yes, I finished training, and I was assigned here," he answers as we approach the camp gate. "How long have you been a policeman?"

"Ten years," I reply. "Long before they arrived," I point at the Nazi barracks and their flag waving above it. "Let's go inside," I signal to the policeman at the guard post to open the gate.

"It's crowded here," Fernard looks around and says as we walk among the people strolling in the yard. The people anxiously watch us. I hate seeing the fear in their eyes; it makes me ashamed of myself.

"Yes, it's crowded here. There are a few thousand prisoners in the camp," I tell him.

"Is everyone here Jewish?"

"Most of them, but not all."

"Where are they from?"

"From all over France," I watch the long line of people waiting for water. "It seems that they send here anyone they don't want in France: Jews, communists, intellectuals, gay people. Anyone that doesn't fit their race policy."

"They're definitely cleaning up France."

"Yes..." I stand momentarily in front of one of the entrances to the large concrete building. This is the entrance where she waited for me in the rain, begging for medicine for her sick daughter. I feel the weapon strap with my fingers. I can still feel her warm skin on my fingertips, where she begged me to touch her that rainy night, holding my hand forcefully, making me feel her body. Where is she now? I look up at the windows full of people standing and looking down at the yard and us, but I can't see her.

"And how long will they be here?" Fernard asks me as we keep walking.

"Until the Germans decide; they make the rules here," I answer, thinking we're just their servants, even though they treat us well.

"Are they making any trouble?"

"The Jews inside? No, they're usually quiet and polite."

"They know who's in charge here," he smiles at me.

"Yes… although, sometimes there are quarrels and shouting..." I say and think about how she yelled at me when I took her girl to play with the camp commander's daughters. She was a proud woman in this place, struggling to keep her dignity. "Let's start heading back. My shift at the watchtower is about to start," I turn toward the entrance gate.

"Who's that girl standing by the fence and looking out? Are they allowed to touch the fence?" He points to the wild-haired girl.

"Yes, they're allowed to approach the fence. It's just one girl," I signal to the guard at the gate to open it. I stand in front of him as we get out of the camp, "Listen, Fernard, this place isn't a nice place. It's an internment camp. There are many people here who were free, proud French citizens and then were one day arrested. They don't get a lot of food or supplies here, and sometimes male or female prisoners try to contact us, the policemen. You must remember one thing."

"What?" He looks at me.

"Don't get attached to them, the prisoners," I watch him.

"What do you mean? "

"You'll understand after some time here," I pause for a moment. "Always remember, they're here temporarily, and we didn't bring them here. They're not our problem."

"I'll remember. Thanks for the patrol."

"Now return to Sergeant Pascal. Good luck to you," I say goodbye to him and walk toward the watchtower. My shift is about to start.

Time passes slowly as I stand on the tall watchtower and look around. The tower's wooden floors creak under my boots each time I move from one side to the other in the small space. Every now and then, I look at her. She remains standing by the fence, holding on to the barbed wire with her hands. What is she waiting for? For the German commander's daughters? Doesn't she know they went on a summer vacation in Bavaria with their mother?

She leaves the fence for a few minutes and approaches some children, trying to play with them, but they chase her away, and she goes back to stand by the fence, clinging on to it as if it was her safe place.

"Mathéo, you can get off. Sergeant Pascal is waiting for you in the pick-up truck," the policeman who replaces me at the tower arrives and climbs the ladder. "Is everything quiet around?" He stands beside me on the tower and places his rifle on the wooden floor, leaning it against the wall.

"Yes, everything's quiet. See you tomorrow," I take my rifle and put it on my shoulder. The little girl keeps standing by the fence. I must remember not to get attached to anyone here, just like I told the new policeman, Fernard.

Back in the barracks, I return the rifle to its stand and go outside, walk over to the black Peugeot police pick-up truck parked on the grass. Sergeant Pascal is already sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for me to drive him to town. I look at the big camp's ugly concrete building. The afternoon sun paints it a pleasant cream color.

"How was the shift?" Pascal asks as I sit in the driver's seat, slam the metal door, and start the engine. The engine comes to life with a monotonous rumble, and the car slightly shakes as I press the accelerator and move the vehicle from the grass onto the road leading to the village and Paris.

"It was quiet," I answer. With him, I'm always careful with what I say. He's the sergeant in charge of us at the camp. He's also in daily contact with the Nazis.

"Yes, we've had a few quiet days. It'll end tomorrow. Captain Becker is coming back from Berlin," he says, lighting himself a cigarette as the rambling car passes the village's small train station.

I look at the station's building, with its triangular roof and large black letters spelling ‘Drancy' on its stone wall. The platform is now empty. There was no transport to the East today.

"I thought he went with the family on vacation to Bavaria," I look away from the empty platform onto the road passing between the small buildings. There are only a few people walking or riding bicycles in the streets. There are many abandoned wooden carts in the houses' yards. Since the German invasion to Russia, which began last summer, the Germans confiscated most of the horses and sent them to the Eastern front. Fuel also hardly reaches Paris anymore, only for the needs of the German army and the police .

"He went to Berlin for a commands' meeting, and his family went to Bavaria," Pascal replies as I slow down the car and overtake two men pulling a wooden cart. I smile at them, but they look at the police car and don't smile back. "His wife will also come back with the girls," Pascal keeps talking and laughing. "She doesn't trust her husband to be here alone with all the beautiful French women of Paris," he keeps laughing as I speed up the bumpy road again.

"I thought he was busy commanding the camp and not the women of Paris," I politely say to him. Sergeant Pascal often goes to the German and Captain Becker's barracks. The German soldiers usually ignore us, the ordinary policemen. Maybe it's better this way.

"Everyone should do their job," Pascal says while looking at a young woman riding her bicycle on the narrow road. "Captain Becker is doing his job with the Jews. We're doing our job by serving the Germans, and his wife is doing her job by watching him. This way, everyone's happy, and order is maintained."

"Yes, that's how everyone's happy," I say. I shouldn't think about the Jews imprisoned inside the camp. We, policemen, are just doing our job.

Two German transport planes pass overhead, approaching the landing at the nearby Le Bourget airport, their engines roaring and are heard above the car's rumble. I look at their light, blue-painted bellies. They seem like big whales to me. Only the big, black German crosses on their wings remind me that they're our conquerors, and that we're being conquered. Another moment passes, and they disappear behind the village's low buildings, and only the rumble of our car's engine remains .

"Have you ever flown on a plane?" Sergeant Pascal asks me.

"No," I shake my head, "Humans aren't birds. I think humans should stay on the ground."

"They, the Germans, do not lack planes."

"They don't lack anything," I reply. I don't want to add that they take everything from us and rob us of everything they can. Even though I've been working with Pascal for over a year, and he treats me well, I don't know how much I can trust him. The Gestapo is searching for informants all around Paris. Once they receive a name, they take them for an inquiry in their terrifying basements.

"These days, you have to know how to get along," he sighs and throws the cigarette out of the car window as we slow down and approach the German roadblock before entering Paris. "If there's a need to talk, I talk," he says.

A thick wooden post is laid out on the road, a checkpoint with barbed wire fences on both sides. Behind it is a wooden shack and the guard post, painted in white, black, and red stripes. A large red Nazi flag leisurely waves above in the afternoon sun, as two Germans soldiers start walking toward, signaling us to stop.

One of the soldiers approaches the vehicle, holding a gun with a long bayonet attached to its barrel. He's wearing a field teal uniform and a helmet, ready to fight in case something goes wrong. The second soldier, a sergeant, also walks slowly and approaches the vehicle from the other side, holding a submachine gun in his hand. They're the ones who decide who gets in and who doesn't in my country, at the entrance to Paris.

"Where are you from, and where are you going?" The first one asks, in broken French .

"To Paris, we're from the Drancy camp," Pascal sticks his head out of the open window and replies.

"Turn off the engine," he instructs me, and I obey. "Papers, please," he reaches out his hand. Pascal takes his policeman's ID from his uniform pocket and hands it to him.

"They look fine," the soldier tells the sergeant after looking at Pascal's ID.

"What do you have in the trunk?" the sergeant asks, his fingers resting carelessly on his submachine gun.

"Nothing," Sergeant Pascal replies.

"Look in the trunk," the sergeant orders the soldier, and the latter walks over and picks up the tarp covering the trunk. Two more German transport planes are approaching to land at the nearby airport. The noise of their engines is deafening for a moment.

"Commander, there's a sack of potatoes here," the soldier tells the sergeant, and I look at Sergeant Pascal surprised; the trunk should be empty.

"What's this sack of potatoes?" The sergeant asks me. What should I answer?

"It's from the village, intended for the police headquarters in the city," Pascal replies. "You know how it is in the city; we want to help."

"Commander, shall I stab the sack and see if they're not hiding anything inside?" The German soldier asks the sergeant.

"Can I offer you a cigarette?" Pascal smiles at the German sergeant and pulls a cigarette box out of his uniform pocket, holding it out to him.

"No need, they're fine," the sergeant reaches out, takes a few cigarettes, and puts one in his mouth. He bends down and lights one for himself. "Let them go," he gestures, and the soldier quickly returns and opens the wood post blocking the road.

I start the car again, and we slowly cross the checkpoint, and go on driving in silence. What's in that bag he brought with him?

"There're so many Jews in the camp," he says after a while. "They won't notice one missing sack of potatoes."

"Yes," I say, thinking about the long line of people in the camp waiting for their meager daily meal every day.

"And our police officers' salary is never enough. A little extra always helps."

I nod and don't say a thing. It's none of my business. I just have to do my job. I turn the steering wheel, and the vehicle goes on the main road leading into the city. In the distance, on the hill, I can already see the Basilica du Sacré-C?ur, which for me symbolizes the entrance to the city.

Inside the city, there are hardly any cars on the main avenue. Only German army vehicles drive on the roads, and here and there you see a car with a special fuel permit, a supply truck, or someone connected to the German authorities.

We overtake two German army trucks and pass several cafés full of German soldiers sitting around the small tables and enjoying the afternoon sun. A few French women sit next to them, but most people ignore them, and some move to the other side of the street.

"They're our friends. They're not going anywhere," Pascal says as he notices me watching a group of German officers sitting outside a café, laughing while raising their glasses of wine.

"No one will beat them, certainly not us," I say. I don't like sitting in cafés anyway.

"And we have to decide which side we're on," he looks at me.

"We're on the side of the law. That's why we're on the police force. We've already decided," I look back at him before looking back onto the road and turning to his street.

"Exactly," he says to me as I slow the car down and stop in the quiet street in front of his building's entrance.

"See you tomorrow. Are you going home from here?" Pascal gets out of the car.

"Yes," I reply.

"How's your mother doing?"

"She's fine, thanks."

"Say hello to her," he slams the car door, then goes to the back of the car and takes out the sack of potatoes.

"Thanks, see you tomorrow."

"Mathéo, one more thing," he calls me through the open window, the sack of potatoes on his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Place a bet on the Jewish girl. Everyone placed a bet. It doesn't look good that you're the only one who doesn't. The other policeman might think you love Jews," he looks at me with his dark eyes, then turns away and enters the building. I watch the building's big, brown, wooden door close behind him and drive slowly down the street, leaving behind me a whiff of gasoline.

I stop the vehicle on a small street next to Mrs. Sophie's hair salon, pull on the handbrake, and turn off the engine. The street's almost deserted and quiet in the afternoon. The hair salon is closed, and heavy beige curtains cover the display window facing the street. Since they've occupied Paris, people prefer to hide behind curtains and closed doors. The grocery store is also closed by now, and only a few empty wooden carts stand outside, one full of empty glass bottles. Only Luc, the boy who will become a teenager in a few years, plays football with himself in the street. He kicks the ball at the wall, and the wall faithfully returns it. I get out of the car, take out my small leather bag, and walk to the house entrance, next to Mrs. Sophie's salon. On the large, wooden bulletin board is a series of government posters showing a French worker shaking the hand of a German worker and calling for cooperation.

"Good evening, Mr. Allard," Luc stops kicking the rag ball he's playing with, stands in front of me, and salutes. He's about ten years old, and his simple, button-down shirt peeks out of his shorts.

"Good evening, soldier," I salute him back.

"Shall we play?" He kicks the ball at me.

"Two passes," I reply and kick the ball back at him, "How's your mother?"

"Mom's fine, Mr. Allard. She says she heard on the radio that the Germans have reached Stalingrad and will soon take it over," he kicks the ball to me.

"Luc, the Germans are strong, but we'll still beat them in football," I kick the ball back. "Did she hear anything?"

"No, nothing, but she won't stop listening to the radio. One more pass? "

"Last one," I kick the ball to him. "Goodbye," I approach him and caress his brown hair. "Take care of your mom; you're the man of the house now."

"Yes, Mr. Allard," he holds the ball in his hand and salutes me again. I smile at him and enter the building, climbing up to the third floor.

"You're late. I was getting worried," Mom calls me from the kitchen as I close the door behind me and lock the bolt.

"How are you?" I go into the kitchen and bend down a little to hug her. She isn't young anymore. She's already a little stooped and slower than she used to be, but she still dresses in the same clean, black dress she always wears, and her gray hair is neatly pulled back.

"Stay away from the pot. Your glasses will steam up," she tries to push me back.

"I managed to get some cheese, some vegetables, and oil," I take the ingredients out of my small leather bag and place them in the pantry. "Did you use the coupons I gave you?"

"No, he ran out of groceries at the grocery store. I'll try again tomorrow."

"I'll try to get some more coupons next week."

"Wait in the guest room. The food will be ready soon, don't disturb me," she kicks me out of the small kitchen, and I walk around the house and close the blinds and curtains. Night will soon fall, and lights shouldn't be seen from outside.

After moving through all the small apartment rooms, I sit in the green armchair and close my eyes for a few minutes. I used to like to listen to songs on the radio while I waited for the food to be ready, but since they've occupied Paris, they've been broadcasting German propaganda non-stop, and I prefer leaving the big device turned off. They arrest anyone they find listening to the BBC.

Beside the radio on the dresser, inside a dark wooden frame, stands a yellowed picture of Dad. He stands proud in his uniform. I hardly remember him. I was a child back then, and I vaguely remember the touch of his uniform's rough fabric when he came on vacation from the war and picked me up in his arms, hugging me tightly.

"Mathéo, come to the table. The food is ready," Mom touches my shoulder and walks to the table, taking off the apron she wore while cooking.

We both sit down and eat the soup, which mainly contains water and some potatoes and vegetables. I'll also try to get more food in the next few days.

"Thank you, Mom, the food's delicious," I say after a while.

"How was work?" She asks.

"It was fine."

"It's always fine. You don't tell me anything about your work."

"Because not everything can be told," I say to her and think about the people between the fences and the little girl with the wild hair.

"Will you come with me to church on Sunday? You haven't been there in a long time?"

"I had work."

"God wants to listen to his followers," she sips her soup and watches me.

"I know. I'll try to come," I say, and once again, we go back to that same silence .

"I met Fleur today, the pharmacist," Mom says after a few minutes.

"What did you need at the pharmacy? Is everything okay?"

"Just a bit of a sore throat, nothing to worry about," she sips from her soup. "She told me you were at her place a while ago because you needed some medicine."

"Yes," I reply. Fleur shouldn't have told her that.

"Why did you need medicine? Are you sick?"

"No, I'm not sick, I'm perfectly fine."

"Then why did you need the medicine?"

"A friend asked for my help," I keep on sipping the soup. I don't want to tell her about that woman; she won't understand.

"And did you eventually manage to get the medicine? She told me you can't get this medicine anywhere in Paris."

"Yes, I finally succeeded," I reply, sipping from my soup. Pharmacist Fleur has a big mouth. What happened to the girl's mother?

"I'm glad you helped someone with their medicine at least."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Fleur is very nice. She's a good woman and still single."

"Yes, she's very nice."

"Then why don't you ask her out?"

"Where? To a café full of German soldiers on Champs Elysees?"

"You don't have to be angry. I'm just trying to help, you're already thirty-one, and she's really nice. She also asked me about you."

"Thanks, but no need," I say, even though I know she's right. But I can't .

"It's not good to live alone," Mom continues.

"You've lived alone for many years."

"Because I had no choice, and I had to raise you," she tells me after a moment.

"Sorry, Mom, I didn't mean that," I get up from my seat and hug her. I shouldn't have said that to her.

"It's okay. I'm used to being alone, and I have you," she wipes away a tear.

"I'll try to talk to Fleur," I return to my seat, knowing I won't talk to her. Mom won't understand.

"What about Colette, Luc's mother?"

"They haven't heard anything. They're still looking for information," I finish the soup. "She keeps listening to the German radio, praying it would turn out that he's a prisoner in Germany. Thanks, Mom, for the food."

"She has to raise their child alone in wartime. It's hard."

"You did it too," I look at the picture of Dad in uniform. He stands proudly in his French army uniform, on his last vacation before the great Somme battle in the previous war. Did he know he wouldn't come back from battle? Did he know the Germans would return after twenty-four years and conquer France and Paris?

"Yes, I did it too," she says quietly, and I get up and hug her again.

After dinner, I sit in the guest room and read a book until I feel my eyelids getting heavy. Mother sits beside me, in her armchair, knitting a blue sweater, her fingers holding the knitting needles that are constantly moving.

"Good night, Mom," I finally get up from the armchair, go over to her, bend down, and kiss her cheek .

"Good night, Mathéo," she smiles at me. "I'll stay here a little longer."

Before I fall asleep, I recall the little girl, but I try to banish her from my thoughts. I don't have to think about her. I just have to do my job.

"Has anyone seen the girl with the shaggy teddy bear today?" Sergeant Pascal asks us two days later. He walks into the barracks in the morning, after the briefing with the German commanders.

"I saw her yesterday," one of the policemen answers while Pascal hands him a piece of paper. He takes it and starts writing the shifts for the next few days in chalk on the wooden board.

"And today?" Pascal looks around at all the policemen, who are standing inside the barracks.

"I didn't see her today," the policeman replies.

"Me neither," adds another.

"Has anyone seen her?" Pascal asks.

I look at the faces around me. They all shake their heads. What happened to her?

"Does that mean whoever bet on today wins?" One of them asks.

"It doesn't mean anything," Pascal answers. "Nobody wins until there's confirmation. Fernard," he calls the new policeman and hands him another piece of paper. "This is for you, get her. You're new. That's a task for the new ones. "

"Who is she?" Fernard reads the name on the paper and looks up at Sergeant Pascal, embarrassed.

"Ms. Suzette, she's in charge of subversion. I got her name."

"What did she do?" Fernard asks.

"It shouldn't concern you. You ask too many questions. That's what they decided," Pascal replies. "Do your job and bring her here. But if you really want to know, she's a pharmacist who gave out prescriptions without permission."

"And what should I do with her?" Fernard keeps holding on to the note.

"Find her among all the Jews here in camp and send her to the train. There's a train leaving today. She'll be happy to travel to the East and perform her subversive acts there."

"Am I going to look for her out there alone?"

"You're a police officer, aren't you? Are you afraid of them?" Pascal laughs.

"Give it to me, I'll do it," I say to Sergeant Pascal, taking the note from Fernard's hand. "You'll do my shift in guard tower number three.

"Thank you," Fernard smiles at me and takes a rifle from the stand, attached to the shack's wall.

"You're too good to the newbies. They need to learn," Pascal tells me.

"I want to place a bet on the girl," I take a bill out of my wallet, attempting to change the subject.

"But you can't bet on today. We have to be fair," Pascal takes the money from my hand and puts it in his pocket.

"Then place the bet on the day after tomorrow." I check that my uniform is tidy and make sure my gun is in its holster, then I go to the gun stand and take a rifle and a bullet belt, placing them on my shoulder.

"I'm putting you down for the day after tomorrow. I knew you were one of us," Pascal lights himself a cigarette. "Let's go, everyone to their positions," he says to all of us. "And Mathéo," he grabs my hand, "be careful not to catch anything from them; I'm sending the new ones inside for a reason."

"I know," I nod. "I'll be careful," I put on my policeman's cap and leave the barracks. In the sun, I check the rifle and adjust the bullet belt on my chest. Only then do I walk to the camp entrance gate while holding on to the note with the pharmacist's name. What happened to the girl with the shaggy bear?

"Going for a walk among the Jews?" The policeman at the guard post near the gate asks me.

"Yes," I answer. "Someone has to do the dirty work."

"There's a lot of dirty work to be done here. They keep finding them hiding in Paris."

"Yeah…, they're trying to save themselves from this place," I say as he opens the gate for me. Is this what he thought about the Jews before the war broke out, or did he change his mind to please the victorious Nazis?

The yard's full of people strolling, and I walk among them and look around. I need to find her. In the corner of the large building, near the registration office, people start to gather for the journey to the East. Soon, the policemen will go inside and escort them to the train station. I think of the pharmacist who still doesn't know that she'll be boarding the train to the East today. She shouldn't have done what she did. She shouldn't have stood out .

The people in the yard pull away from me or stop walking and look down, hoping I'll pass them by and not engage them. They make me recall how I acted when I was young and would cover my eyes, believing no one could see me.

"Where's Mrs. Suzette, the pharmacist?" I stand in front of a woman about thirty-five years old. She's wearing a simple, dirty, mud-stained, dark purple dress, and her black hair is pulled up.

"Please, sir, I don't know; don't hurt me," she looks at me with fearful eyes. "Please."

"Go," I say to her, nauseated from having caused people so much fear. But I must find her. I keep walking in the yard and call out to a man in his forties wearing a brown suit and tie, I ask him about the pharmacist.

"I don't know, sir," he replies. "But some say she's at entrance four," he whispers as he takes off his beret, holds it tightly in his hand and bows.

"Thanks." I dismiss him and start walking towards entrance four.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Suzette, the pharmacist," I stand in front of a woman at entrance number four. She's about thirty and wearing a light brown dress and matching belt. She's listlessly standing by the stairs, leaning against the bare concrete wall, slowly smoking a cigarette butt.

"I don't think you need her," she takes the cigarette out of her mouth and looks at me. "You have a policeman's uniform; I don't see a yellow badge."

"You shouldn't talk to policemen like that, not if you have anything to lose," I place my hand on my holster, feeling the smooth leather under my fingers .

"I'm locked up here. Do you think I have anything to lose?" She keeps looking at me and shows me the cigarette butt she's holding. "I'm picking up cigarette butts from the ground. There's hardly anywhere left to go from here."

"Ms. Suzette has something to lose, and so do you. I can take you to today's train instead of her. Nobody cares who I take. It's all about quotas and numbers."

"What do you want from her?" She tucks the cigarette butt into her dress pocket, "I'll keep smoking that later," she says more to herself than to me.

"Tell Ms. Suzette that people are talking about her," I say to her after a moment.

"What are they saying?"

"It doesn't matter what people say about her; she should stop handing out prescriptions, disappear, and change her name. She should be on the train to the East today. Now go, find her." I keep my hand on my holster. The lump in my throat is somewhat relieved for the first time since I entered the barbed wire fence gate of the camp this morning. I must go up the stairs and find her. I already know how to do that. I've done it before. I'm familiar with their initial look of surprise, and the look of resignation that follows, with the humiliated look in their eyes. I'm familiar with the quick collection of their few belongings in the crowded, stuffy room, and the slow walk towards the gate. But today, for some reason, I can't do it. For once, I'll let her off the hook. I'll tell Sergeant Pascal that I found her sister and that she said she was sent by train a few days ago and that the Germans no longer have to worry about her. I'll tell him I checked and made sure it was true. I've been here enough time for him to believe me. For once, I won't scare anyone.

I remain standing at entrance number four and look at the yard. Some people approach the entrance but move away when they notice me. They'll wait until I've gone.

A few minutes later, I hear footsteps down the stairs, and the woman I was talking to earlier comes down.

"She says that she doesn't know who you are but that you're kindhearted," she says.

"Believe me, I'm not kindhearted," I reply. I don't want to think about all the people I'd sent to the trains.

"You're a good man, I know. I see people," she looks at me.

"Make sure she disappears," I tell her, turn my back, and start walking away, but after a moment, I change my mind and walk back to her. She's still standing there, leaning against the concrete wall, watching me.

"One more thing. Do you know a girl who hangs around alone with a shaggy bear?"

"The German girl?"

"Yes, the German girl. Where are her parents?"

"People here don't like her," she says after a moment. "All the kids beat her."

"Why is that?"

"She cries in German; it gives them satisfaction. You can probably understand them. There are very few things here that give children satisfaction," she points to the fenced yard and the ugly concrete building, "And adults, too."

"Where are her parents?" I once again ask her.

"You took them. You took her mother."

"And her father? "

"You must've taken care of him before."

"And where is the girl? Do you know?"

"I don't know if she's even alive."

"And if she is alive?"

"A few cigarettes might help me," she puts her hand in her dress pocket and takes out the cigarette butt, showing it to me.

"The list for the train is still open. The pharmacist's place is available," I look into her eyes and put my hand on my holster again.

"Try the abandoned places, maybe in the former classroom; you also took the teacher, remember? You accused him of subversion."

"Where's the classroom?"

"Over there," she points toward one of the other entrances.

"Thank you," I tell her, taking a bill out of my pocket and placing it in the palm of her hand. I don't have any cigarettes, "Make sure the pharmacist changes her name."

She nods and disappears up the stairs.

I move towards the entrance the woman had pointed to. I just want to see if she's still alive. I bet on her for two days from now.

Outside one of the rooms, on the first floor, it says ‘Classroom' on the wall in large letters.

I press my ears to the closed door. At first, I don't hear anything, but after a while, I hear rustling. I put my hand on my holster and open the door.

The classroom looks empty. I can make out the green wooden board hanging on the wall in the weak light coming from the lamp, there are several words still written on it. A few dusty tables are arranged in straight rows in the center of the room, and the wooden chairs are vacant, as if waiting for pupils. The room looks empty, but a noise from the corner makes me go there. Two upside-down tables are placed on the floor, as if they were built as a hiding place or a fortress set up by a child who wants to play. I move towards the room's corner, and then I see her.

She crouches behind the tables in her simple, brown dress and wild hair. When she notices me looking at her, she slowly gets up. In her hand, she is firmly holding on to a pencil.

"Do you have a sharpener? Mine got lost," she asks me in broken French with a German accent.

"No, I don't have a sharpener," I reply in German. Only policemen who know German can work for the Nazis.

"Will you beat me if I speak German?"

"No, I won't hit you." I take another step closer, noticing that she flinched a little and slightly raises her hand holding the pencil, although she realizes she has no chance.

"Is your name Mr. Chambu?"

"Who is Mr. Chambu?" I ask her.

"He needs to take me to Angelina."

"I'm not Mr. Chambu," I reply. How did she end up staying here without her mother? What happened?

"Are you a good hunter?"

"I'm not a hunter. I'm a policeman."

"But you have a gun," she looks at the rifle on my shoulder, as if checking to see if she can trust me .

"Right, I have a rifle," I gently touch its wooden stock.

"Will you take me to Angelina?" She asks me and I don't understand what she's talking about. How many days has she been here without her mother?

"Who is Angelina?"

"She has a big house with many rooms and stairs to climb, and in our room, there are small purple flowers on the wall and the burgundy bedspread. Do you know her?"

"Where is your mother?" I ask her.

"I don't know."

"Did they take her?"

"Yes," she nods.

"On the train?"

"I don't know."

"And when was the last time you ate?"

"I don't know."

"Are you sleeping here?"

"Do you have a piece of chocolate to give me?" She asks, looking at my uniform pocket.

"No, sorry," I put my hand in my uniform pocket. I only have an apple I brought with me to eat soon when I thought I'd be in a watchtower. "Do you want it?" I hand her the apple; she grabs it from my hand and bites it ravenously.

"Where do you sleep?" I ask her a moment later.

She doesn't answer but looks around at the empty classroom.

"Are you sleeping here?"

"Yes," she nods. "They kicked me out of my, Mom's and Aunt Charlotte's room," she tells me.

"And where is Aunt Charlotte? "

"Disappeared," she answers and keeps eating the apple. I keep watching her. I have to leave her here. I can't help her anymore.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask her, but she doesn't answer, she just keeps eating the apple.

"Goodbye," I finally tell her, turn around and leave the classroom. She'll have to fend for herself. I'm not responsible for her.

But as I walk across the yard toward the gate and turn back, I see her following me. She keeps a safe distance from me, like a stray cat looking for an owner to adopt him.

"Where are you going?" I ask her.

"I'll wait for the bus. Maybe my suitcase will arrive," she replies. I want to ask her what she means, but I don't think I'll understand. I'm not sure she understands either, and I must return to my shift. She's just another girl among many. She'll be fine. I must also report to Sergeant Pascal that the pharmacist was sent to the East a few days ago.

I exit the compound and resume my shift in the tower. And every now and then, I look at her. She keeps standing by the barbed wire fence, holding the shaggy bear in one hand and the pencil in the other.

"Are you coming to eat?" One of the policemen calls me when my shift is over.

"Yes, I'm coming," I answer and give her one last look before I enter the barracks. I wonder how long she'll last like this.

"Did you see that the girl is still alive?" Sergeant Pascal enters the barracks and announces. "Mathéo, you have a chance to win the bet," he smiles and pats me on my shoulder.

"Yes, I have a chance," I reply, knowing it won't be long before someone wins. Maybe I should've put her on the train to the East, where she'd meet her mother.