by Kurt Magenta
‘At least now our boys can come home.’
‘That old fox – he’s going to pull a fast one on Adolf!’
François snapped off the radio with a shrug of disgust. Grumbling, his clients shuffled back to their tables to debate the news over a carafe or two of wine.
Moments later, Dédé looked up from his lunch and saw Elizabeth Cortel sitting opposite him. He almost dropped his cutlery.
‘Hello Dédé,’ she said.
‘Lisette.’ His French name for her, ‘Elizabeth’ having too many sharp corners for his taste. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. Will you drink with me? A toast to the end of the world?’
‘I don’t see why not. Buy me a cognac?’
‘Avec plaisir.’ He beckoned to François, who looked faintly queasy as he limped over to take the order.
‘So,’ Dédé continued, when François had retreated, ‘I won’t pretend I don’t know why you’re here.’
‘Will you even try to talk him out of it, Dédé?’
‘You know how he is. His mind is set.’
‘Just like his father. And my father, too. Did I ever tell you about him?’ Dédé shook his head. ‘A metalworker from the East End. Oh, don’t be fooled by my bourgeois veneer – the core is pure working class. Sometimes, to make extra money for us, he got involved in bare knuckle fights. A small man, driven by gin and vexation. He’d come home with his eye blackened and his cheek split. Occasionally I catch glimpses of him in Lucien. I hate it.’
Her drink arrived and she raised the glass in a bitter toast to her father, tossing back half the liquid and wincing.
Dédé looked her in the eye at last. ‘He could just as easily die here, Lisette. We all could.’
She shrugged. ‘You never had children, did you, Dédé? From the moment they arrive, you worry about losing them. The weight of responsibility falls on you like a steel collar and it never goes away – not ever. No doubt that’s what drives them away.’
‘Lisette…’ he reached out a hand.
She drained her glass with a jerk, stood up.
‘When it’s time, come to the apartment,’ she told him. ‘Don’t let him sneak off like a thief.’
When Dédé heard the rumour he could hardly believe his ears. It was the perfect concurrence of circumstances; a fortune of war. After that, he caressed his plan. He nurtured it, watched it grow in his mind. It was bold, risky, imperfectly formed. But he could discern its shape, the way a shadow suggests a solid object. Out of loyalty to Lucien’s family he pretended to hesitate.
Then he got to work.
Dédé had always known how to improvise. He had grown up on the fringes of Pigalle, his father long gone before he could form any memories of the man, his mother an actress – although ‘courtesan’ might have been a more accurate term, if you were being polite. For a while he thought she was some kind of magician, as their little apartment was always hopping with caged songbirds and tiny dogs. His sister, far older than him, was a dancer. Other women, too, came and went for varying lengths of time – sometimes for a drink, sometimes for a month. Occasionally a man tried to replace his father, but they never lasted.
Still, his mother put him through school, such as it was, and even helped him with his homework; he could still recall the scent of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleu as she leaned over his books.
He learned to steal early on: fruit from the market stalls lining the rue des Martyrs, knick-knacks from the brocantes – the flea markets – in Montmartre and Saint-Ouen, whose stallholders always seemed too busy gossiping or tippling to pay attention to their wares. His mother never asked him where the little gifts came from: a crystal ashtray, a china cup, a string of amber beads.
One of the putative fathers set him up with a job in a furniture store on boulevard Poissonnière – dusting, polishing, a bit of sales patter – but by then he was making almost as much money selling the objets that clung to his sticky fingers. After a while he found that he didn’t have to steal at all: he could haggle and barter, buy and sell. He was well known in the nightclubs of Pigalle, where patrons occasionally wished to buy – but more often needed to sell, and quickly, an item in their safekeeping. They paid him for knowledge, too. Where had he seen this man, and who with? Who was squiring this girl around?
When the police came for him, he did a similar deal. This was the notorious ‘tiger brigade’, set up in 1911 to combat the newly motorised gangs. Slowly it evolved into a more sophisticated intelligence unit. Dédé was always on its fringes, working informally, informatively. All through the Great War and after it, he could be relied upon to feel the pulse of the underground world.
It was perhaps inevitable that his path should cross that of Jean-Louis Cortel, Lucien’s father. Cortel had a similar taste for the darker corners of life, which he liked to examine in writing. They even came from the same quartier of Paris, although radically different ends of it. And now, it seemed, one of their mutual friends had reappeared.
A man Dédé could use.
He could not be approached directly, of course. After all these years, Dédé did not fully trust him – and he knew the feeling was mutual. Stealth would be required, along with a little luck. Or a better word: ‘fate’.
Their conversation was brief, and took place in a reeking cobblestoned alley near the harbour, bright with sunshine at each end but shaded and chill under peeling grey walls.
The Englishman was as Dédé remembered him. Elegant, somewhat insouciant, but with the ingrained authority of an officer.
‘You look well,’ the Englishman told him. ‘A little more haunted than I recall.’
Dédé ignored this and made his pitch. He was careful not to sell the idea too hard.
Finally the Englishman said, ‘Very well. But the boy can’t know about this conversation. He’ll have to prove himself first.’
Dédé accepted these terms with a shrug. They did not shake hands, for it was not their way. They exited the alleyway at separate ends.
The period might have resembled the vacations of Lucien’s childhood, were it not for the advancing threat of the Germans, like sheet lightning flickering on the horizon. A week away? Three days? Less?
He wandered the hot town, occasionally dropping in at the café but often finding Dédé absent, or being told that no progress had been made. It was a case of finding the right vessel, a willing captain. A knot of anxiety settled in his stomach.
Finally, on June 20.
‘There is an unusual ship in the harbour,’ Dédé told him. ‘A Polish freighter: the Korzeniowksi. English voices have been heard aboard. As for the destination, it is either Algiers or Portsmouth, depending on who you ask. But I’m told the chief officer is organising passage for refugees, at a price. Come back tonight.’
For some reason Lucien had imagined a swarthy, dark-haired man. But the chief officer of the Polish ship was fair-skinned, with light blue eyes and a wispy golden beard that failed to hide the constellation of acne scars on his cheeks. Tobacco had stained his teeth beige and his guttural voice jarred with his youthful looks.
‘Two fifty,’ he said to Dédé in English, stubbing out his hand-rolled cigarette and not looking at Lucien.
Lucien said, ‘But I only have two hundred francs, I –’
‘He has the money,’ Dédé interrupted.
‘He goes in the hold. No baggage. The ship is overloaded.’
‘For two fifty he is allowed one bag,’ said Dédé.
The chief officer considered this. Finally he nodded. ‘As you say.’ Then he added, ‘Half now.’
Dédé pulled the roll from his trouser pocket, counted out 125 francs below the table and handed them over.
They all stood. The man shook Dédé’s hand, then Lucien’s. ‘Tomorrow night. Nine thirty. Do not be late.’
When Dédé knocked on the door the following evening, Eli
zabeth Cortel opened it. She smiled at him sadly.
‘Bonsoir, Dédé,’ she said.
‘Lisette.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I’m sorry…but if he still wants to leave, it’s the hour.’
‘Try as I might, I can’t seem to stop him.’ Lucien appeared from behind her, his small suitcase in his hand. He was dressed in grey twill trousers, a dark blue cotton shirt and the old canvas jacket that he wore for sailing, faded with wear and sun.
He embraced his mother, feeling her tight grip through the clothing. Now Liliane was in the doorway too. He kissed her forehead.
‘Goodbye, little sister,’ he said.
Lili said nothing, shaking her head and biting her lip. He couldn’t tell if she was furious or determined not to cry.
Finally, Madame Brechignac came forward, pressing into his free hand a half-baguette wrapped in greaseproof paper. He assumed it was filled with ham and cheese. ‘I hear the food in England is dreadful,’ she said. ‘At least take this for the voyage.’
Dédé glanced at his watch. ‘Lucien, we must go.’
Lucien kissed Madame Brechignac’s cheeks and stepped back to take a final look at his family. Without another word, he turned and followed Dédé down the stairs.
The deepwater harbour at La Rochelle – La Pallice, to give it its official name – had nothing to do with the pretty fishing port the tourists so admired. Situated to the west of the town, it was a giant commercial dock, complete with skeletal derricks and hulking warehouses. This evening they were etched against a midsummer sky that was just beginning its slow fade to bruised indigo.
‘I can get you past the barrier,’ Dédé had told him in the car. ‘But after that, mon ami, you are on your own.’
He handed over an official-looking document, signed and stamped by the harbourmaster, confirming that one CORTEL, LUCIEN JEAN had been given permission to depart ‘on a vessel bound for North Africa or Great Britain, on the understanding that his papers conform to the regulations in force at his destination’.
Sure enough, a pair of gendarmes loafed at the barrier. Dédé motioned Lucien to stay put and went to talk to them. Identifying the man in charge, he drew him gently aside and spoke to him in a confidential manner, indicating the car. After an intense exchange, Lucien saw the gendarme laugh. The two men shook hands. Lucien never saw the wad of notes, but he was almost certain it was there. The barrier lifted, the gendarme glanced briefly at Lucien’s pass, and they were through.
Dédé halted the car a few metres later. They got out and hugged, Dédé planting stubbly kisses on Lucien’s cheeks. ‘I cannot say I wish I was coming with you.’
‘I’m sure you’ll find your own unique way of fighting the Nazis, Dédé.’ He slapped him on the back. ‘Adieu.’
‘Au revoir, my young friend. And bon voyage.’
Lucien picked up his suitcase and walked off in the direction Dédé had indicated.
The older man waited until the tall, slender figure had merged with the attenuated shadows of the cranes. After another moment he got into the car and started the engine. He sighed, his eyes glistening. Then he pulled himself together, did a quick u-turn and accelerated away.
It was gloomier here and the light breeze carried with it the deep chill of the ocean. Lucien sensed water slumping heavily against the piers. Silver rails pointed the way. As he drew closer to his goal, he thought he heard the mutter of voices.
He passed the grey silhouettes of stranded ships, silent and brooding. Finally he reached the vessel Dédé had described: a weathered tramp steamer with a single funnel, its name clearly visible on its rust-streaked stern. He had expected guards, but there was nobody.
It was almost as if the ship didn’t want to be noticed.
His heart thumping, he climbed the steel gangway. At first the deck seemed empty. And then it did not: three men, sailors, approaching from different angles, all of them firing questions in a language he didn’t understand. They were closing in when two more figures broke through their ranks: the chief officer and a tall man whose bearing and tone of voice left Lucien in no doubt that he was the captain.
‘Bonsoir,’ said Lucien calmly. He decided to try English. ‘Permission to come aboard?’
‘And who the hell might you be?’ snapped the captain, glaring at him.
‘Cortel, Lucien, sir.’ He indicated the chief officer. ‘This man offered me passage to England.’
‘Did he, indeed? Then I am afraid he was wasting your time. We are going to North Africa. And we are overloaded.’
Lucien’s heartbeat quickened. ‘But that’s not possible. I already paid him half the –’
‘I’m afraid it’s extremely possible. I decide who goes and who stays. The rest is your affair.’ He turned away.
‘But captain, listen! I need to get to England!’ He took two steps forward.
In a swift movement a gun appeared in the captain’s hand. He pointed it at Lucien’s chest.
‘I’m warning you, boy. Get off my ship.’
Chapter 4
Rough Crossing
An urbane English voice floated through the cool evening air. ‘For heaven’s sake, captain, there’s no call for that. Put the cannon away, would you?’
The speaker stepped into the dim light. He had a lean, bony face, his eyes shadowed by the brim of a panama hat. The rest of his clothes were a strange assemblage: army trousers and boots, worn with what looked like an English businessman’s blue and white striped shirt, open at the collar, and a double-breasted navy blazer with brass buttons.
‘Captain,’ he repeated. ‘The gun, if you will.’
The weapon wavered and slowly lowered. For the first time, Lucien noticed that the captain’s eyes were bloodshot and that his face glittered with sweat.
‘Better,’ said the newcomer. ‘Holster it, please. If your crew insist on selling tickets, these things are bound to happen. Let’s calm down and get a closer look at the fellow, shall we? Now, was that an English accent I heard?’
It took Lucien a second to realise he was being addressed. Then he replied, ‘You could say that, sir. I’m half English. Lucien Cortel.’
The Englishman looked at him strangely. ‘And you seem to think you’ve booked passage on this ship. How much did you pay?’
Lucien indicated the chief officer, who remained impassive. ‘He took a hundred and twenty five francs from me last night. I was supposed to pay the other half tonight.’
‘And may I ask where you think you’re going?’
‘To England, sir. To volunteer for the army.’
‘Is that so?’ There was an edge of amusement in the voice. ‘You live in La Rochelle?’
Lucien shook his head. ‘Paris. I got here a few days ago.’ With a touch of pride he added: ‘I cycled most of the way.’
‘Did you, indeed? Any trouble? German planes and whatnot?’
‘A little, yes. The convoy was strafed. I was lucky.’
The man hesitated for a long moment, studying Lucien. Then he came to a decision.
‘Very well, Monsieur Cortel. We’ll see what we can do.’ Turning to the captain, he said briskly, ‘I’ll find a corner for him.’
The captain started to protest, but the Englishman cut him off. ‘You seem to have forgotten that we, too, have an arrangement, captain. He stays aboard. I will take full responsibility.’ Stepping forward, he extended his hand. ‘My name is Jasper Maddox. Major Maddox to some, but I rarely stand on ceremony. Delighted to meet you.’
Lucien felt weak with relief. Nonetheless, he shook the man’s hand firmly. Maddox said, ‘Now come with me. I’ll show you to your quarters, such as they are.’
As they moved across the deck, Lucien noticed another figure, beyond the penumbra cast by the deckhouse. She also wore a hat, but in a broad-brimmed feminine style, and a light belted raincoat. She looked at him for
a moment before wandering off to the far rail.
He was left with an impression of dark eyes under long lashes, and lips that were in all likelihood scarlet.
Maddox led the way amidships, where they entered a low door and descended five short steps to a passageway. The décor here was more like that of a liner: walnut and brass, albeit scratched and tarnished. In response to Lucien’s unasked question, Maddox replied, ‘Senior crew’s quarters. They’ve kindly made way for a few privileged souls. I’m in the chief officer’s cabin.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘I don’t think he likes me very much.’
He threw open the door. Lucien saw a narrow bed with a folded blanket in dark brown wool, a swivel chair before a small desk – both in pale oak – and a green-shaded reading lamp. Over the desk, a calendar with a picture of a glamorous raven-haired woman, presumably a Polish film star.
Maddox gestured towards a pale green divan against the opposite bulkhead. ‘You’ll have to bunk down there, I’m afraid. We’ll be keeping our distance from the coast, so the journey could take a while. Any number of hitches on the way. Subs. Planes. Mines. We’ll be lucky to make dry land at all.’
‘Is it true we’re going to North Africa?’
Again the roguish smile, which brought warmth to the sharp, almost gaunt features. ‘With a short stop at Portsmouth. Precious cargo: everything we could salvage from the British embassy in Paris. Add to that a detachment of Polish soldiers and some waifs and strays we picked up along the way. Looks like we’ll be riding pretty low in the water.’
‘May I ask – why did you take me aboard?’
Maddox fished a packet of Gitanes from his inside breast pocket and nodded at the divan. Lucien sat; Maddox took the swivel chair. His movements, Lucien noted, were easy and fluid. When he removed his hat, his hair was a fairish brown flecked with white, thinning and slicked back sharply from a widow’s peak. His eyes were pale blue and appraising. A little over fifty, perhaps.
‘One of my numerous advantages,’ Maddox said, selecting a cigarette, ‘is a memory for faces. Yours looked familiar. When you told me your name, it rang a bell the size of Big Ben. So tell me: what relation are you to Jean-Louis Cortel, the journalist?’