An Officer and a Spy

‘In a minute.’ He gestures feebly. ‘In the chiffonier over there are a couple of things you ought to have.’ He watches as I kneel to open it. I take out a metal cash box, very heavy, and also a large envelope. ‘Open them,’ he says. The cash box is unlocked. Inside is a small fortune in gold coins and banknotes: mostly French francs, but also German marks and English pounds. He says, ‘There should be about forty-eight thousand francs’ worth. When you run short, speak to Boisdeffre. Monsieur Paléologue of the Foreign Ministry is also under instructions to contribute. Use it for agents, special payments. Be sure to keep plenty by you. Put the box in your bag.’

I do as he tells me, and then I open the envelope. It contains about a hundred sheets of paper: lists of names and addresses, neatly handwritten, arranged by département.

Sandherr says, ‘It needs to be kept updated.’

‘What is it?’

‘My life’s work.’ He emits a dry laugh, which degenerates into a cough.

I turn the pages. There must be two or three thousand people listed. ‘Who are they all?’

‘Suspected traitors, to be arrested immediately in the event of war. The regional police are only allowed to know the names in their respective areas. There is one other master copy apart from that one, which the minister keeps. There’s also a longer list that Gribelin has.’

‘Longer?’

‘It contains one hundred thousand names.’

‘What a list!’ I exclaim. ‘It must be as thick as a bible! Who are they?’

‘Aliens, to be interned if hostilities break out. And that doesn’t include the Jews.’

‘You think if there’s a war the Jews should be interned?’

‘At the very least they should be obliged to register, and placed under curfew and travel restrictions.’ Shakily, Sandherr removes his spectacles and places them on the nightstand. He lies back on the pillow and closes his eyes. ‘My wife is very loyal to me, as you saw — more loyal than most wives would be in these circumstances. She thinks it’s a disgrace I’ve been placed on the retired list. But I tell her I’m happy to fade into the background. When I look around Paris and see the number of foreigners everywhere, and consider the degeneracy of every moral and artistic standard, I realise I no longer know my own city. This is why we lost in ’70 — the nation is no longer pure.’

I begin gathering up the letters and packing them into my briefcase. This sort of talk always bores me: old men complaining that the world is going to the dogs. It’s so banal. I am anxious to get away from this oppressive presence. But there is one other thing I need to ask. ‘You mention the Jews,’ I say. ‘General Boisdeffre is worried about a potential revival of interest in the Dreyfus case.’

‘General Boisdeffre,’ says Sandherr, as if stating a scientific fact, ‘is an old woman.’

‘He’s concerned at the lack of an obvious motive. .’

‘Motive?’ mutters Sandherr. His head starts shaking on the pillow, whether in disbelief or from the effects of his condition I cannot tell. ‘What is he prattling on about? Motive? Dreyfus is a Jew, more German than French! Most of his family live in Germany! All his income was derived from Germany. How much more motive does the general require?’

‘Nevertheless, he’d like me to “feed the file”. Those were his words.’

‘The Dreyfus file is fat enough. Seven judges saw it and unanimously declared him guilty. Talk to Henry about it if you have any trouble.’

And with that Sandherr draws the blankets around his shoulders and rolls on to his side with his back to me. I wait for a minute or so. Eventually I thank him for his help and say goodbye. But he if he hears me, he makes no answer.

I stand on the pavement outside Sandherr’s apartment, mometarily dazzled by the daylight after the gloom of his sickroom. My briefcase stuffed with money and the names of traitors and spies feels heavy in my hand. As I cross the avenue du Trocadéro in search of a cab, I glance to my left to make sure I am not about to be run over, at which point I vaguely register an elegant apartment block with a double door, and the number 6 on a blue tile beside it. At first I think nothing of it, but then I come to a dead stop and look at it again: no. 6 avenue du Trocadéro. I recognise this address. I have seen it written down many times. This is where Dreyfus was living at the time of his arrest.

I glance back to the rue Léonce Reynaud. It is, of course, a coincidence, but still a singular one: that Dreyfus should have lived so close to his nemesis they could practically have seen one another from their respective front doors; at the very least they must have passed in the street often, walking to and from the War Ministry at the same times every day. I step to the edge of the pavement, tilt my head back and shield my eyes to examine the grand apartment building. Each tall window has a wrought-iron balcony, wide enough to sit on, looking out across the Seine — a much more opulent property than the Sandherrs’, tucked away in its narrow cobbled street.