The Tiger Claw

  Caring or not caring did not absolve me. I had to choose between tragedy and disaster.

  It was past twenty-four hours. By now, Madame could have moved the English books, the maps and my transmitter to her daughter’s home. But what if she had not? I had warned her, explained what she must do if I did not return—but what if she had done nothing?

  For two days, I said the Istikhara prayer so many times, pleading with Allah for guidance. Then back to Vogel’s office.

  Saturday, October 16, 1943

  Noor sat before Vogel’s desk, hands in shackles. “Für Elise” played on the gramophone in the corner.

  “You have indeed impressed me—why resist more?”

  Vogel seemed to believe he was the natural and only audience for her actions.

  “You see, my dear, at heart I am an idealist, like you.”

  “We believe in very different ideologies,” said Noor. And regretted the word instantly.

  Would Anne-Marie Régnier say “ideologies”? No. The vocabulary of a nursemaid from Bordeaux wouldn’t stock such grandiloquent words.

  “Mademoiselle, we know exactly who you are now. You are an Indian princess.”

  Indian princess—where had he heard this? Archambault.

  Trying to help, no doubt.

  She kept her face completely without reaction.

  “I am Anne-Marie Régnier. I came to Paris to find work as a nursemaid and”—here she broke into tears—“I want to go home. I don’t know any princesses.”

  “Archambault,” said Vogel, “tells us you’re a princess.”

  “You believe someone who tells you I’m Cinderella? That man—I met him for a few minutes, once in my life. Il est fou! He should go to Pigalle and indulge his fantasies.”

  “The time for lying is past, mademoiselle—although we know you do it well. Archambault went to the lycée in Suresnes—not Bordeaux, mademoiselle, but Suresnes—and he knew you there. He says you became an accomplished, though charming, liar by writing stories for children. You live, he says, in a fantasy world, in which you may fancy yourself a secret agent working for all kinds of foreign powers, but that is delusion.”

  Noor blinked at him but said nothing.

  “In fact, I believe some of what Monsieur Archambault has told me is the truth. Because he didn’t tell it without pressure, Mademoiselle Khan. Almost as much force as it took to find his real name—what does it matter?—we’ll call him Archambault. Perhaps Archambault thought your German-sounding name, Kahn, would save you. But most interestingly, he says we are detaining a woman who has no desire to see the British win. A colonial completely unengaged in this war.”

  Archambault might have revealed her origins to Vogel, but had she behaved stupidly enough, Vogel might not have believed him. Anne-Marie Régnier from Bordeaux would have been humble, acted stupid, shown more fear.

  “I am glad you can now see I could never spy for the English.”

  Vogel’s face cracked in an approximation of a smile. “Non, non, non. You see, that is where I stop believing Archambault. You’re a spy—you fought so hard, you bit Cartaud’s hand! I wish I’d been there to see it. And,” he added, “Archambault said your father is a maharaja and it was therefore even more impossible that you would collaborate with the British. This information explains many things.”

  She gave him a baffled glance.

  “It explains your posture, your bearing. A certain flash in your eyes.”

  His gaze stroked her from head to toe. Vogel had mistaken her anger at herself for aristocratic imperiousness.

  “And if you aren’t a spy, just what were you doing with a transmitter? Using it to listen to the BBC? Even if you could use one for that, it is forbidden.”

  Everything is forbidden unless permitted by you.

  “I found it,” said Noor. “Someone left it in the apartment and I was trying to understand what it was. I thought Monsieur Cartaud was a thief.”

  “In an unfurnished apartment? What was there to steal?”

  “I had just rented it, I didn’t have money to furnish it yet.”

  “Non, mademoiselle. A princess can afford to furnish any apartment she chooses. You are a British subject living outside a detention camp, not obeying orders to report to the Kommandant every week—you’re a spy. What other interpretation can there be?”

  Armand. Not a single hint about Armand or Drancy.

  A woman in a feldgrey skirt, jacket and high wedge heels entered—quiet, deferential, functional. She placed an armful of manila files at Vogel’s right hand. A stenographer, perhaps.

  Wet thumps alternated with the stamp of rubber on paper.

  Grignon, the day of the arrests. Vogel standing beside Kieffer in the sandy courtyard before the main château, threatening immediate execution of the third man, Odile’s aristocratic amour, Louis de Grémont. A moment of hesitation—the only such moment either had shown in the entire event—when they saw de Grémont was no peasant who could be labelled a Communist once executed.

  Yes, she could perform like an aristocrat. She wasn’t a princess, but Abbajaan’s family was noble enough, a courtier-artist clan. Vogel wouldn’t know the difference between her performance and the airs and graces of actual Indian royalty. He wouldn’t know Baroda was ruled by a Hindu raja, not a Muslim nawab. He wouldn’t know a Hindu from a Muslim. And wouldn’t have any way to verify it. But to employ the same tall story Mother had invented so long ago—Oriental mystique …

  Allah is showing a way; take it.

  Give Vogel’s small mind a large, unfamiliar idea with which to grapple.

  Vogel recapped his fountain pen. The stenographer collected the files, closed the door behind her.

  Noor gave an exaggerated sigh and switched to English. “Herr Vogel, your intelligence is indeed excellent. I can no longer deny I am Princess Noor Khan of the independent Kingdom of Baroda. My father and my government will be anxious for my return.”

  Electric daring crackled in every nerve. She held Vogel’s eyes for a very long moment.

  Vogel stood up and gave a slight bow, as if they were meeting for the first time. He came around his desk.

  Her wrists—so heavy on her lap. She tried moving her fingers.

  The scent of kerosene changed to a burning smell as Vogel flicked his lighter, cauterized a cigarette and held it out to her.

  She turned her head away.

  He shrugged, then switched to English. A new phase had begun.

  “I don’t understand why you work for your conqueror,” he said. “Millions of Indians are fighting for independence. Your Mr. Gandhi has been imprisoned many times for attempting to unite Hindus and Muhammadans.”

  Mr. Gandhi, Mr. Nehru and thousands of others had not been imprisoned for attempting to unite Hindus and Muslims, but for exhorting the British to quit India. Correcting Vogel’s grasp of reality or politics wouldn’t help Prosper, Archambault or anyone else. So she lifted her good shoulder a little and said, “Baroda is independent, a British ally, neutral in this war. I request diplomatic immunity.”

  Vogel waved a hand. “It’s subjugated by the English, I’m sure—no immunity. As for you, perhaps you believe the English have come to understand your colonial resentment. But they are not Germans—I assure you they understand only themselves.”

  Mr. Churchill didn’t understand Indian resentment despite their continuing, thirty-year independence struggle. But Vogel was implying the Germans would have had more empathy. He’d be convincing if she hadn’t experienced the rule of both colonizers.

  No matter who the colonizer, no matter who the colonized, there is no such thing as benign occupation.

  Aloud, she said, “Many English people now sympathize with India’s need for freedom from tyranny. The British have promised India freedom once Hitler surrenders.”

  “Herr Hitler,” corrected Vogel. “Once Herr Hitler surrenders?” He crossed his arms on his chest. “Oh, mein schatz, the Führer is just falling back a few times to make the Allie
s believe he is being beaten.”

  Had he called her his darling? Perhaps she could use it.

  “It is all part of his plan, don’t you see?”

  “Ah,” she said, matching his tone with one of inscrutable Oriental omniscience.

  She couldn’t tell if she was hollow from hunger or fear.

  Could her sudden elevation to princess help Prosper and Archambault? She had to try—but try while protecting Madame Aigrain.

  “Herr Vogel, I need a small favour.”

  “Prisoners do not receive favours, my princess. And prisoners captured in combat without insignia are entitled to no favours at all. You are an illegal combatant—an enemy soldier who does not follow the civilized rules of war. You should be shot! Shot immediately!” His right eyelid drooped into a long, slow wink. “But all the same, you may ask me a favour.”

  Noor pouted for effect. “I know all prisoners are allowed one suitcase. I was unable to bring mine. Monsieur Cartaud would not allow me.” Then she held her breath.

  “My apologies, Princess, I will ask Monsieur Cartaud to collect it. You will give him a letter for your rentier, with a list of your requirements.” He sounded pleased with his own magnanimity.

  Noor took a deep breath and inclined her now regal head ever so slightly. “I was living incognito as Anne-Marie—the press, you know. They can be so insistent. My rentier is an old lady who would never have rented me a room had she known I was a foreigner.”

  “The very old and the very young are of no use and no importance to us. Give me her name, Princess. I assure you she will not be arrested.”

  A Nazi’s assurance that old Madame Aigrain would be spared was no assurance at all, but it was all the assurance she would wring from him.

  “Thank you, Herr Vogel.”

  “Princess, I understand you now.”

  He understood nothing.

  “Please, call me Ernst. Soon I hope you will understand me.”

  Vogel would expect any Eastern woman, even a princess, to be submissive as a fantasy odalisque. Let him think so while she searched for a way to escape.

  “Come, we will dine.”

  He snapped his fingers and the stenographer stepped in. Vogel’s directions in German darted at the woman till she came forward and unshackled Noor’s hands.

  Noor stifled a scream of pain, let the waves pass. The stenographer led her to an adjoining windowless bathroom, handed her brush, comb and—wonder of wonders—soap! A creature with wild eyes stared at her in the mirror, cheeks patched black and blue. The woman waited while Noor washed her face and used the toilet, then helped her brush her troll-cloud tangle of black hair.

  Back to Vogel.

  A trolley nosed the door open. A few minutes later, silver cutlery shone beside gold-rimmed porcelain plates, and cut-glass goblets stood waiting for the first swirl from a bottle of wine at the centre of the table. Steam wisps curled from a covered silver gravy boat sitting on Vogel’s desk like a just-rubbed genie lamp.

  Some meat that didn’t smell like pork, petits pois, baby potatoes, spaetzle.

  Vogel snapped his fingers again and pointed at the mantel. The stenographer took the pair of silver candlesticks standing on either side of the gilt-framed mirror and placed them on the desk. Vogel flicked a lighter and two flames plumed the candle wicks.

  Dinner for two, with her captor.

  Noor picked up the fork in her right hand, speared a potato and forced herself to eat. No telling when she’d see a meal such as this again.

  Tuesday, October 19, 1943

  Under the splayed glow of the green-glass-shaded lamp beside Vogel lay Noor’s identity card, ration book, certificate of Aryan descent, tortoise-shell compact, and ausweiss from her handbag. The valise she had requested three days ago in her note to Madame Aigrain sat open and rummaged on a table in the corner.

  A sidelong glance told her the leather pouch had not joined the items on Vogel’s desk.

  This time she stood with her left arm in its makeshift sling and the guard chained only her ankles.

  Could she leap from that window, the one slightly ajar? Only if she could leave her skin behind. She had lost count of the number of escape plans she had made and discarded in the last few days. Even with bound hands, she had tugged her heavy bed to the centre of the maid’s room and jarred her shoulder again by attempting a jump. As if she could seize one of the bars beneath the skylight! Too high, even if she had two good arms.

  “Forgeries. Excellent forgeries.” Vogel looked up and straightened his bow tie. “The English are becoming more and more adept. However, I have learned something that confuses me. I need your help in understanding it—” He broke off. “Princess, I like it when you lift one eyebrow.”

  Vogel had moved from the familiar tu to the more respectful vous. Her princess performance was proving convincing.

  Then Vogel went back to his prepared speech. “Princess, we now know more about you. You see, we have Monsieur Viennot in custody.”

  Viennot as well!

  “It’s unfortunate, as he was an old friend of ours—used to be a buyer for our Bureau of Requisitions. He too tried very hard to save you. From him Cartaud learned a very important piece of information. Would you like to know what it is?”

  “Since you already know everything, how can there be anything left to learn, Herr Vogel?”

  Vogel looked at her askance, but proceeded. “We have determined that you are not only an Indian princess and a British spy, but you are a mischlinge.”

  “I have admitted I am Princess Noor,” said Noor with a confidence she did not feel. “I repeat I am not a spy for any country. And since I don’t know this Viennot or understand your language, you must enlighten me: what is mischlinge?”

  “Mixed blood—offspring of an Indian prince and an American mother. Princess, why did you not tell me your mother is American?”

  This was said as if she’d been a very naughty girl.

  Viennot had probably given Cartaud this information under torture, and in the belief it would help Noor. Should she deny it? The Americans were coming—and they had tipped the scales against the Germans once before, in the Great War. If she denied it, would that mean more torture for Viennot?

  “You didn’t ask. I didn’t think it important.”

  Vogel stopped and glared at her, then said as if to a child: “The Americans are our enemies.” He pulled a chair behind her. “Sit down.”

  Behind his desk, he paced back and forth. Was Vogel moving, or was his backdrop of Hitler, Goebbels and Göring?

  “Ach, they call themselves the Allies, but it is really the Americans who control. Since the Great War they have poured money into warfare, using England as their surrogate. Always clever, lending Germany money for reparations to France, and then … But that is history. I don’t think you understand the position in which you have placed me, ma princesse. Each mischlinge is a deadly danger to the Reich, and if you are not to be executed as a spy, my duty is to deport you immediately. Those are the orders. Without delay, vous comprenez?”

  A cold blade of fear entered Noor. Those buses, people crowded like cattle, the old, the sick and the children … Yes, she was afraid. In France she stood a chance, even now, of talking her way out of the avenue Foch. But if Vogel sent her to a camp or prison in Germany, she’d be closer to Armand but imprisoned indefinitely, with no hope of communication or reunion with him.

  Vogel was still pacing, talking. “But American blood … this confuses the picture. It is not so easy to deport you … American blood. It could be useful. But tell me—how did your mother come to be pursuing happiness, as they call it, in France? I find this difficult to believe.”

  Noor’s eyebrow rose involuntarily, then lowered; she wouldn’t make a single gesture Vogel liked.

  Evade his question.

  “You said you lived in France for many years before the war. Did you not come seeking happiness?”

  “That is tellement différent,” said Vogel. “Ve
ry different. I live in exile here. I had to leave Germany long before the Führer came to power. Twenty years ago I was your age—about twenty-four? Those were difficult times, très difficiles. You know, I had to stand in line three times a day at the factory where I worked to get paid? My money was worth half its value by the end of the day. No, I didn’t come to France to seek happiness—I left my home and my family to find work. And where did I find it? In the Rothschild’s bank. I was a clerk in a cage, counting Jewish money all day. Now that Jew is in a cage and my office is in his home. That is the kind of justice I wanted, and the Führer made. The Führer understands—he is my megaphone. But happiness? I never pursued happiness, or expected any—”

  His tone, like Uncle’s, placed the word “happiness” in quotes. It was true Mother had pursued her own happiness, by running away to marry Abbajaan; but she hadn’t pursued it at the expense of everyone else in the world. Whereas Nazis like Vogel …

  Vogel went on, “—and not the state’s happiness, but their own—so frivolous! Now in Germany, we aim for greatness, the grandeur of all Germany. America aims for mediocrity in the name of individualism. Fascism is like democracy—it expresses the will of the majority, nein? We have so much in common—even the eagle as our symbol. The tidal wave of Fascism is rising in America too, you know. They appear to worship Herr Roosevelt, they too would like to deport all foreigners—Germans, Japanese, Jews, Gypsies, Negroes, Indians—leaving just enough of other species and races to do the labour that soils their hands.”

  The world reflected in a funhouse looking glass, a mirror-world.

  “I wouldn’t know, Herr Vogel, I have never been to America.” This, at least, was true.

  Vogel came around the desk and stood before her. A little too close, especially at hip level. “Tell me, how does it feel?” His voice had deepened. He breathed from his mouth, shallow and quick. “To be a mischlinge, I mean?”

  His accent had thickened.

  “It must feel terrible,” he said in a musing, intimate tone, “not to belong anywhere, to be a rootless cosmopolitan, never to be satisfied anywhere, to always be comparing one place to another.”