by Richard Wake
They dropped me a couple of hundred yards from the station, where I would climb into a lorry and make the journey back to Limoges as the companion of who-knew-what piled in crates in the back. Paul walked me over and said goodbye. We hugged, and I just had to ask him.
“But what good is all of this?” I said. “That blown bridge will be repaired in what? A week? Two weeks?”
“A week. Maybe five days.”
“Is that really making a difference?”
“I have to think so,” Paul said.
“Why?”
“What choice do I have?” he said. I handed him the suitcase and climbed into the back of the lorry.
11
This was the fourth safe house. Our “room” was a space under the eaves, the top floor of a five-story apartment building, hot as hell even on a cool night. The way you reached our perch was to climb a steep staircase hidden in a closet in one of the flats below us. That flat was also where we used the bathroom — and let’s just say that the residents, the Lauriers, a nice-enough pair of fossils, would just as soon not deal with either of us clomping down the stairs for a midnight piss. So they left us a bucket with a note pinned to it: “For nocturnal emissions.” Leon and I didn’t know if they intended the joke or not.
The furnishings consisted of two unstable cots (along with the bucket). There were no light fixtures. I was half-dozing and Leon was reading a newspaper by the light of the moon. He was squinting so hard that it made my eyes hurt just looking at him.
“Didn’t your mother tell you that you’d go blind that way?” I said.
“Yeah,” Leon said. “She also told me I’d go blind another time, when she walked into the bathroom and found me scrubbing myself in the tub with, well, enthusiasm.”
“So she was wrong on both counts.”
“Wise woman,” he said. “Loved her to death. But not infallible.”
The remnants of our dinner lay on two plates on the floor — broth, bread and fake coffee. And by remnants, I meant a stray crumb or two and maybe a drop of broth. The soup was swill, the bread stale, and the coffee tasted as if it had been flavored with dirt from the garden — but neither of us cared. To be in France in 1943 was to be hungry all the time. We were happy to have what we had.
“Which rag is that?” I asked. He held it up for me to see, but as I told him, “I can’t fucking see in the dark.”
“It’s Sud Ouest,” he said, almost sheepishly, as if I had caught him in the tub.
“How many pictures of de Gaulle on the cover?”
“Just one,” he said. I could barely hear him even though he was about four feet away.
I snatched the paper from him and held it close to my face. The picture of de Gaulle easily took up 20 percent of the square footage of the front page. There were a dozen stories on the page and de Gaulle’s name was in six of the headlines. My favorite was the story about German losses on the Russian front that said, “de Gaulle Encouraged by Allied Gains in East,” as if he was somehow responsible. My greatest disappointment was the inability of the editors to spin the story aimed at women to say, “de Gaulle’s Favorite Rutabaga Recipe.” But I’m sure they thought about it.
I liked to give Leon and the rest of them shit about it, mostly because I believed it, and this was a prime example. They were so busy creating a kind of cult of personality around that guy that they didn’t really care about the rest of it, the rest of us.
“It’s a very flattering pose—”
“Now listen,” Leon said.
“Can’t you be honest about this for five minutes anymore?” I said. “You used to be the skeptical asshole journalist. That’s who you were. You used to see through shit like this in 30 seconds. But now—”
“That’s not fair—”
“It is fair,” I said. I threw the newspaper back at him. “Look at that fucking picture and tell me that this whole thing isn’t about setting him up to be the president when this is all over.”
“It’s not only about that—”
“I heard that ‘only.’ You know it’s true. Thank God, the cynical asshole is still in there somewhere.”
“It’s about a lot of things,” Leon said. “And one of them is being smart and having a bit of military discipline and not getting people killed for no reason.”
“It’s a war,” I said.
“It doesn’t have to be a stupid war,” he said.
Leon went back to reading his paper. He still hadn’t figured out a way to get us out of Limoges but he was confident he’d come upon an idea once we were done with the Resistance meeting the next week in Saint-Junien. He had already warned me, though, that I was the silent partner and that he was probably not going to say much, either. It was to be a meeting of a half-dozen branches of the local Resistance, half of them probably Communists, and we were to report on our recent activities, take mental notes about the rest and get back to Limoges.
“Remember the last place we stayed in?” I said.
“You mean two nights ago? Yeah, I remember.”
It had been a palace by comparison to our current spot, a two-bedroom flat with a living room and a kitchen. We could have had a party there, a big party — you know, if we weren’t hiding from the Gestapo, and if we had any friends.
“Did you look around the kitchen?” I said.
“I guess.”
“Did you see the dog dish?”
Leon smiled. I could tell because I could see his teeth in the moonlight. There was no dog — nobody seemed to have a dog anymore, mostly because there was nothing to feed a dog given that all the humans were going hungry — but there was still a dog dish. And inside the bowl was painted the picture of Marechal Petain, the hero of the first war, the quitter of the second.
“You saw what they did with the Marechal, right?” I said. “It’s like they turned him into a god. A decrepit old man who bent over rather than fight the Germans, but a god. Our god! People in this country used to cherish playing cards with naughty pictures on them, and now we get playing cards with the Marechal on them. Our god! And, and—”
“Come on, we’re nowhere near that.”
“But think about it,” I said. “You know how small the Resistance is. You know that 90 percent of the people in this town, right here, are for the Petain, for the Vichy. It’s probably more than 90 percent. Some of it is fear. Some of it is just human nature, just calculating the easiest and safest way to survive. But some of it is that goddamn dog dish. You know it and I know it. Petain’s face is everywhere. I keep repeating myself, but they’ve built him into a god.”
“So what you’re saying is, de Gaulle will be next in the dog dishes,” Leon said.
“It’s coming.”
“It’ll be awhile.”
“But when it does—” I stopped when I heard footsteps on the staircase. A head popped up led by a shock of white hair. It was Old Man Laurier.
“Black car outside, two men, banging on the door for the concierge,” he said.
12
I looked at Leon, unsure.
“We can barricade the closet with suitcases,” Laurier said. “If I hurry, we can get it done. But if those men can count the windows…”
You like to think that you have thought of everything but you really never do. You never do. This garret was small and quiet and pretty well hidden, but the old man was right: if the Germans bothered to count the windows to the top, they would see that the last one was the one through which Leon was catching the moonlight. They would ask the Lauriers about the attic, and they would find it even if they refused to answer.
“We need to go,” Leon said, and I agreed. Just like that, just on instinct — and the decision was made. We were down the stairs with our little knapsacks in 30 seconds. From the banging, it sounded as if the Gestapo men were on the second floor. Provided it took a minute or two per floor to get the tenant to open up and make a quick search, we likely had enough time.
“Thank you — and grab the plates and
cups,” I said over my shoulder to the old man. Hopefully he would be able to scoop them up and get them put away in time, as they were the only evidence of our visit. And with that, we were out the back window of the Lauriers’ flat and down the fire escape. I don’t think the metal creaked too badly as we scampered down, although every sound was amplified by my fear.
We held on to the last rung of the last ladder and dropped onto the ground without so much as a turned ankle. Then we began running toward the cathedral. I gave a quick look back when we had gotten about a block away. In the Lauriers’ window, I saw a man in a black uniform pointing in my direction.
“Come on,” I said, and Leon followed me. We ran about two more streets and were in front of the cathedral. I thought I heard shouting behind us and two slams of a car door. They were probably going to catch us within 30 seconds if we didn’t hurry.
“Careful, careful on these cobbles,” I said. We were both in our forties but we still ran like we were in our twenties, especially when being chased — although, come to think of it, Leon outran enough jealous husbands and boyfriends in his twenties to medal in the Lothario Olympics. But we were doing okay, and as long as one of us didn’t stumble on the uneven stone promenade in front of the cathedral, I was pretty sure we’d make it.
Behind the cathedral were the botanical gardens, sandwiched between the church and the Vienne River. The gardens were on about six different levels, with plenty of places to sit and contemplate — the stone wall fronting the river, a dozen benches and eight or ten sets of stairs between the levels. Throughout, there was row after tidy row of plantings identified by neat little signs. But the thing was, I wasn’t all that interested in either the Commelina tuberosa or the Mirabilis belle de nuit — not on a good day and certainly not on that night. I wasn’t interested in sitting or contemplating.
“Just follow right behind,” I said, almost in a hiss, and Leon did as instructed. I knew where the stairs were, and where I was headed. We were at least two levels below the top when I heard the Germans. I was counting on the fact that they didn’t know the layout as well as I did.
At the bottom level, along one of the paths and behind what had once been an old abbey, there was a door. You might run by it if you weren’t looking for it. It was down a couple of steps and framed by a little stone arch, kind of built into the landscape. It led to a series of tunnels that were beneath the abbey, when there was an abbey.
The Resistance was pretty sure that the Germans had no idea about the tunnels’ existence. The door was unmarked and there was some brush growing a bit wildly nearby. To see it was not to suspect what it was. Anyway, the decision was made to leave the door unlocked unless someone was hiding inside — in which case the door could be secured by a massive iron bar. The wood was thick enough to stop the bullet from a revolver, and the iron bar was strong enough to prevent a man from opening it without a battering ram and a lot of stamina. If you arrived, and it was locked, the knocking code was two quick knocks, then a pause, then three quick knocks.
When we arrived, it was unlocked. We were inside, had located the iron bar, and dropped it into place, all within about a minute. The door was thick enough that we couldn’t hear anything, but one sliver of moonlight did manage to leak through a tiny imperfection in the wood. Safe, we believed, Leon and I sat in silence.
Then: Bang. Bang.
It was two knocks. We looked at each other, and I held my breath. The pause seemed like forever, but it was probably only five seconds. Then there was another sound, not a knock but a shaking of the door handle, and then a shove into the wood, like with a shoulder. But the iron bar held easily, and that was it. We couldn’t leave but we could exhale.
We got up to explore. About two steps in, Leon stumbled into a ledge built into the wall and found a candle and some matches. He lit it and it was as if a whole new world opened up. These were not makeshift tunnels but elaborate stone galleries separated by arched passageways. We didn’t go that far in because the place honestly gave me the creeps, but it was quite an example of subterranean architecture. It wasn’t as if they dug this thing in an afternoon.
“Holy hell,” was all Leon could manage as an expression of admiration. “What do you think they used it for?”
“I think the official line is they hid people from religious persecution,” I said. “The unofficial line is that they used the tunnels to store food and wine, to preserve them during the hot summers. But given that they’re right beneath an old abbey, I think there’s probably a third explanation, too.”
“And that is?”
“I figure this is where the abbots banged the nuns,” I said.
It was on that happy note that we slept, using our knapsacks for pillows and our second set of clothes for blankets. Just before I fell asleep, Leon said, “Cloak-and-dagger, brother.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“You’re always talking about, and I quote, ‘cloak-and-dagger bullshit’. Well, that cloak-and-dagger bullshit just saved our lives.”
I didn’t answer him. Hours later, when a bit of sun began to shine through the imperfection in the wood, we took a chance on opening the door. It was, as it turned out, a beautiful morning.
13
As it turned out, we were a threesome on the jaunt to Saint-Junien. It was supposed to be just Leon and I, but then it was decided that our ride out to the meeting with the other Resistance groups would go smoother with Martin doing the driving, given that Martin was a vice-mayor of Couzeix, and he had all kinds of credentials allowing him not only to obtain petrol but also to visit throughout the region without any real need for explanation to the Germans.
“I’m kind of a regional inspector,” was how he explained it. “Day or night, I’m allowed to be pretty much anywhere. These things,” he said, holding up the various passes that came with the job, “are more valuable than ration tickets.”
“Especially if you’re in the Resistance,” Leon said.
“Yeah, but even if I wasn’t. Who needs ration tickets when you can drive out to your uncle’s farm and bring home a basket of vegetables and a leg of lamb a couple of times a month? Just the petrol itself—”
“And how did you qualify for this plum assignment?” I said.
Martin smiled. “Well, I could tell you that it was because of my intelligence and wit and service to the community — all of which are true, by the way. Or I could tell you that it was because I am married to the mayor’s eldest daughter. I will leave it to you to decide which was more important.”
“And does the mayor know?” Leon said.
“About this? The Resistance? Yes and no. He’s in a bad spot — all the mayors are. The Germans are up his ass constantly, and when they aren’t, Vichy is. They want to make their STO numbers, to get their almighty free workforce for the Fatherland. But on the other hand, he has the people of the town to consider — and every 18-year-old boy is hiding in some cave right now rather than going to work in Germany, and he feels like he’ll be betraying them, betraying his people, if he searches too hard in those caves. Then there’s his police force, half of which is spying for the Resistance, the other half for Vichy — and even if he can guess, he isn’t 100 percent sure who is spying for who. It’s an impossible situation.”
“It sounds, well, like you said… impossible.”
“He’s a good man,” Martin said. “But I swear, he drinks his dinner every night. And I don’t think he sleeps. Every time they hand over a kid to the militia for STO transport to some munitions factory in Dusseldorf, he cries. He literally cries. And then he deals with the crying parents. And then the next day he deals with the Gestapo captain demanding more kids. It’s a nightmare.”
“So what does he tell you?” I said.
“The only time we ever talked about it, we didn’t really talk about it. He just looked me in the eye and said, ‘Just protect my daughter.’ That was it. So he knows, but he doesn’t know.”
“And your wife?”
“She knows I’m bringing home a ham tomorrow,” Martin said. “That’s about it.”
We drove north, or maybe northwest. The built-up part of the city gave way pretty quickly to some farms and then a bunch of nothing. I didn’t know where the official border between the city and the next town began but we had to be past it. It was just a dusty road through empty land — until, in the distance, a dark smudge on the landscape grew bigger and then came into full focus. It was a military vehicle, a German patrol.
“All right,” Martin said. “Show time. If he asks for your identification, just hand it over. But I do all the talking.”
“Jawohl,” I said.
“Not funny,” Martin said.
“A little funny.”
“Shut up.”
Martin and I were sitting in the front seat with Leon behind us. We didn’t have a weapon. This was all going to have to be accomplished with Martin’s charm and with his magic paperwork. I wasn’t great at trusting anybody to do anything for me, but I didn’t have a choice here. Leon and I really were just passengers in this one, literally and otherwise.
We pulled up to the soldier and, before he even said anything, Martin handed over his passes. He had explained during the drive that one was his identification as vice-mayor, another was his petrol permit, and the most important was his universal travel permit — all territories, all hours. The soldier studied them and handed them back.
“Can I ask your business, sir?” the soldier said.
“Fairly routine, corporal. A work detail to retrieve a captured printing press and the accompanying paper and ink. Fewer Resistance newspapers for them, more supplies for our small town. Hopefully, we can fit it all in here.”
“So you’re not going to the quarry?”
“No, no, out farther than that. Much farther — to an abandoned logging camp past Saint-Junien.”
“Ah, good,” the soldier said. “Safe travels then.”
And with that, we were gone. The paperwork truly had been magic. A few miles along, there was a turnoff to the left with a small sign and an arrow: QUARRY.