the terrace, the floors above rising up vertically to a very ornate double window and balcony that could have been the bridge deck. It reminded him of a childhood visit to the docks of Rostock during a summer holiday on the Baltic coast of Germany. Just six or seven years old, he had been awed by the incredible size of the luxury liners berthed there, standing there on the dockside with his young neck tilted all the way back to peer up the towering steel sides. He had dreamed through his childhood that he would one day roam the vast oceans of the world at the helm of one of these, even considering applying to the Kriegsmarine on the outbreak of war.
An early patrol of troops clattered past him on their horses, the sight and sound thrusting him forward in time to his first days in Paris. As well as his reasonable French language skills, it had been a rising tide of attacks against German military personnel that had led to him being posted here. In those initial months he had often worked undercover amongst the crowds lining the avenue during the frequent military parades of German men, armour and horse-mounted guards on the Champs-Élysées. His mission had been to watch for any potential insurgent action against the parade. There had been none, although he had heard jeers from the crowd over the thundering vibration and noise of the machines and horses’ hooves. There were always numerous calls and looks of contempt and hatred, as well as both men and women openly weeping whilst their children gaped and pointed at the spectacle.
At that time he had partly believed what he had heard quoted of the French: that by declaring Paris an open city in response to the German invasion, they had demonstrated that they were a weak and decadent people who deserved to be subjugated. He no longer credited any truth to this, but what to conclude about the German army now ceding Rome in the same way?
He had to admit that he had been proud to be German in those heady days, proud of the display of conquering might, even as he had acknowledged the grain of truth in his ex-wife’s words. Katrin had been an open critic of the war, had clashed furiously with Marner’s father on the subject, eroding the last tenuous strands holding their young marriage together. She had declared the aggression and ambition of Germany to be unjust, criminal, and was convinced that they would one day be called to account.
Marner had succeeded in resisting the military for two years, aided by his record and reputation in the detectives’ brigade in Berlin, protected by his necessary civilian job. It had become increasingly certain that he would have to submit to either forced conscription or voluntary application and his superior officer in the bureau had prevailed on him and secured him a logical place in the Kripo. The obligation to join the SS had been the only sour note in his natural transfer from the civilian version of the police to its military analogue. He had been wary of the stupidity and fanaticism he had seen through the ‘30’s, but had told himself that he was still just a policeman, albeit in a uniform once more.
It was this twist of fate that meant that he was now posted here in Paris, had been since late 1941 when he had graduated from the military academy. He was amazed that this city and its incredible architecture and culture had been spared thus far from the ravages of war, a peaceful and elegant oasis at the centre of, but barely touched by, the tornado of death and destruction sweeping across Europe. He wondered how his family were faring now under the nightly onslaught of bombings in Berlin.
He shook off this gloomy thought as he traversed the circus around the grey granite bulk of the Arc and set off down the Champs-Élysées. Forcing his mind to shift to the present issue, he considered again whether Schull’s murder might be politically motivated. Odewald was a Nazi party man through
An early patrol of troops clattered past him on their horses, the sight and sound thrusting him forward in time to his first days in Paris. As well as his reasonable French language skills, it had been a rising tide of attacks against German military personnel that had led to him being posted here. In those initial months he had often worked undercover amongst the crowds lining the avenue during the frequent military parades of German men, armour and horse-mounted guards on the Champs-Élysées. His mission had been to watch for any potential insurgent action against the parade. There had been none, although he had heard jeers from the crowd over the thundering vibration and noise of the machines and horses’ hooves. There were always numerous calls and looks of contempt and hatred, as well as both men and women openly weeping whilst their children gaped and pointed at the spectacle.
At that time he had partly believed what he had heard quoted of the French: that by declaring Paris an open city in response to the German invasion, they had demonstrated that they were a weak and decadent people who deserved to be subjugated. He no longer credited any truth to this, but what to conclude about the German army now ceding Rome in the same way?
He had to admit that he had been proud to be German in those heady days, proud of the display of conquering might, even as he had acknowledged the grain of truth in his ex-wife’s words. Katrin had been an open critic of the war, had clashed furiously with Marner’s father on the subject, eroding the last tenuous strands holding their young marriage together. She had declared the aggression and ambition of Germany to be unjust, criminal, and was convinced that they would one day be called to account.
Marner had succeeded in resisting the military for two years, aided by his record and reputation in the detectives’ brigade in Berlin, protected by his necessary civilian job. It had become increasingly certain that he would have to submit to either forced conscription or voluntary application and his superior officer in the bureau had prevailed on him and secured him a logical place in the Kripo. The obligation to join the SS had been the only sour note in his natural transfer from the civilian version of the police to its military analogue. He had been wary of the stupidity and fanaticism he had seen through the ‘30’s, but had told himself that he was still just a policeman, albeit in a uniform once more.
It was this twist of fate that meant that he was now posted here in Paris, had been since late 1941 when he had graduated from the military academy. He was amazed that this city and its incredible architecture and culture had been spared thus far from the ravages of war, a peaceful and elegant oasis at the centre of, but barely touched by, the tornado of death and destruction sweeping across Europe. He wondered how his family were faring now under the nightly onslaught of bombings in Berlin.
He shook off this gloomy thought as he traversed the circus around the grey granite bulk of the Arc and set off down the Champs-Élysées. Forcing his mind to shift to the present issue, he considered again whether Schull’s murder might be politically motivated. Odewald was a Nazi party man through
Similar Books
