The Second Objective

30

Paris, France

DECEMBER 20

The City of Light had turned dark and cold. While the Allies’ Liberation of Paris in August raised the spirits of those who had endured the German occupation, the early success of the Arde

For those who remained, on the eve of what would be remembered as the coldest Parisian winter in modern memory, there was little fuel to heat their apartments and almost no food beyond the barest necessities to put on their table. Unstable gas lines resulted in random explosions that killed dozens every week. Curfews and blackouts, already in place but enforced more rigorously once fighting in the Arde

Every block on every street in every arrondissement produced a broker, someone who knew someone who could co

Montmartre, Paris

DECEMBER 20

As regular as banker’s hours, the man known only as Ververt spent every night from eight P.M. to two A.M. at a table near the kitchen of a jazz club he owned on Rue Clichy at the foot of Montmartre. He chain-smoked cigarettes, nursed one milky glass of pastis each hour, and kept an eye trained to oversee the action on the floor. A squadron of underlings ran interference, screening every supplicant who asked for an audience with their boss. Most problems or requests they were able to handle, but occasionally something crossed the door that warranted Ververt’s personal attention. Like the two thousand in American cash sitting on the table in front of him.

Ververt gestured to a couple of chairs. The two men looked and moved like Americans. Soldiers, out of uniform, probably deserters, like so many others who sought him out. Listening to “le jazz Américain” from the quartet on stage, the audience was filled with the usual assortment of Allied servicemen, more than 50 percent on any given night. None had any idea they were paying for stolen U.S. Army liquor and cigarettes they should have been getting for pe

“Is it always this cold in Paris this time of year? I’m go

Ververt could see that the taller man, who hadn’t spoken, was in charge but wanted to let the little one do the talking. The second man shook his head to the waiter. His eyes met Ververt’s for a moment, before respectfully looking away.

This one is interesting, thought Ververt.

“You speak English, right?” asked Eddie Be

“I speak dollars,” said Ververt.

“It’s the universal language,” said Eddie. “We’re working from the same phrase book, my friend.”

Ververt looked at the two thousand, without making a move to pick it up. “What are you trying to say?”

The man leaned toward him, in the overly familiar way that Americans mistook for charm. “I believe that you had some dealings with a few of my former associates. Captain John Stringer and other officers from the 724th Railway Battalion.”

Ververt stared at him without responding until Eddie felt compelled to take a sudden interest in a book of matches.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” said Ververt, pausing to light his next cigarette from the butt of his last. “Even if I did, and it happened that he had recently been arrested along with every other man in your battalion, why would I tell you about it?”

“Because you needed him,” said Eddie. “It’s left a hole in your supply chain. I worked closely with Captain Stringer, I kept his books, so I know how much business you did together. We never met, but that’s how I know about you.”

Ververt looked back and forth between the two men, as Eddie’s coffee arrived.

“I misjudged you,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“I thought you were military police. I am so relieved to learn you’re not working undercover,” he said, then turned to Von Leinsdorf. “Such a disadvantage in my business. I take everyone at their word.”

Eddie seemed bewildered by the man’s deadpan cynicism, and looked to his companion.

“What is your name?” Ververt asked the other man.

Von Leinsdorf didn’t seem to hear the question, looking toward the stage. “What’s with the jungle music?”

“They’ve played this way in Montmartre for twenty years. Le tumulte noir; the tourists come for it. It’s as much a part of Paris as our contempt for them.”

“I thought the Germans put a stop to it.”

“When the Nazis took over, they decided it is degenerate music. A Negro-Jewish conspiracy to undermine the morals of the French, as if they had any, but a more particular threat to the morals of the Germans. Theirs, as you know, are more established as a matter of public record.”

“That’s rich,” said Eddie.

Ververt glanced at him again, then turned back to Von Leinsdorf. “My personal theory is that it reminds the Boches of the Jazz Age, Paris in the twenties, and the shame they suffered at Versailles. That’s what it’s about for them, this Nazi business. We’re all paying for rubbing their noses in the shit. So American jazz was ba

“The Liberation change that?”

“Now the locals can’t get enough. And the soldiers, the Americans, they like it, too. And they like our women,” said Ververt, looking out at the audience. “Especially the blacks.”

“So why call it American jazz?” asked Eddie. “Sounds the same to me.”

“These days if I called horse shit ‘American’ I could sell horse shit sandwiches. Paris will tire of you soon enough, you’ll see. Liberators quickly turn into occupiers.”

“You get any British in here?” asked Von Leinsdorf.

“Everyone comes to Montmartre. We create a fantasy here; that sin can be packaged, contained, sold like chewing gum. It appeals to a fundamental part of human nature, whether it’s Nazi, American, British, bourgeois, resistance, collaborator.”

“I don’t see any Brits.”

“They’re not allowed to wear their uniforms,” said Ververt. “Some concern that they mustn’t be seen in any boîte de nuit that traffics in this alleged black market.”