White Mouse

by Nancy Wake

  We had dozens of friends who were business or professional people living in the south of France and although we used to watch the antics of the shady characters with great delight we kept very much to ourselves, at the same time enjoying the fantastic life to be seen going on around us.

  I found it hard to settle down when we returned to Marseille. I had been keyed up for so long, with the declaration of war while I was in London, the trouble getting back to France, the drawn-out formalities at the Town Hall, the wedding reception, the brief honeymoon. Now I was a French housewife: such a contrast to the giddy life I had been leading. Furthermore, I missed Paris and my friends, and all our harmless activities. I contented myself by giving our maid the orders for the day, then racing into town where I would meet my girlfriends and gossip over an aperitif or two. Then I’d return home for an extended midday meal with Henri, and then back to town, where my friends and I would do the rounds of dressmakers, hairdressers and tea salons until it was time for us to meet our respective husbands. No woman could have been more useless or frivolous than I was during those winter months, although I did continue to take my cooking lessons.

  I had met Pepe Caillat, the accepted master of the great chefs of Marseille, who had taken me in hand once he realised my keen interest in Provençal cooking. Amongst other things, he taught me to make a real bouillabaisse à la Marseillaise. My moment of glory came when months later my father-in-law asked me if I would make one for a luncheon party to which Maurice Chevalier had been invited. That delightful singer and entertainer could not believe that the bouillabaisse had been made by an Australian. Pepe had taught me well.

  Except for the families whose menfolk had been called up or who were already in the battle zone, the war did not exist in Marseille. Outwardly it appeared to be business as usual, although shortages of food and other goods were becoming apparent and prices were too high for the average person on a low or fixed income. We dined in town every night. Sometimes the dinner would be a farewell to a friend leaving for the front. Henri’s turn would be coming soon and I determined to find something useful to do during his absence.

  France was ridiculously short of ambulances and drivers. I managed to catch Henri in a weak moment after he had consumed too many brandies, and made him promise to buy me a vehicle that could be converted into an ambulance. He tried to wriggle out of his promise later on but I kept him to his word.

  Eventually he was called up and all the farewell parties were in swing. Frankly, there was a lot of false gaiety in the mad things we did during the phony war. Rumours were flying all over the countryside and we were all letting off steam because we were bewildered and unable to believe in the leaders any longer.

  Since my return to Marseille I had been accumulating enough tinned foods to last us several years. Sacks of coffee, sugar and tea were in every available cupboard. We had enough cigarettes to stock a tobacconist’s shop and the cellar held every imaginable aperitif and liquor as well as hundreds and hundreds of bottles of wine. I don’t know whether I’d been intending to barricade myself in the apartment, living on our provisions until the end of the war, but it certainly did not turn out that way. Most of the provisions were passed over to people who had not had the foresight or the money to fill their cupboards. And as the war and occupation continued our home always seemed to be full of visitors at meal times. Henri was hospitable by nature and I cannot bear to think people are going hungry, so between the two of us we had very little to eat ourselves by the end of 1942.

  Although Henri had received his call-up papers, his class was deferred until sometime in 1940. We could, therefore, plan our first Christmas, which we were going to spend high up in the mountains in the Alpes Maritimes at the home of the friend who had been my witness when I married. He was a doctor of medicine and the mayor of the little village where he practised and lived, and all our mutual friends were coming from Cannes to join in the festivities.

  This doctor was loved by his patients, many of whom lived higher up the mountainside. If they could not pay his fees they would give him food instead. That Christmas we feasted on a variety of game and delicious baby lambs, a speciality of the area. He was also a member of the municipal government in Nice and in later years he helped me in dozens of ways when I became a courier for the Resistance.

  All the guests shared the same views so we could talk freely about the war and the Germans, but everyone agreed there was not much we could do at this stage. So why not enjoy ourselves?

  Several weeks later Henri was notified to collect his uniform as his departure date was drawing nearer. By now everyone with any common sense at all knew that France was short of planes, tanks and armaments, and so on, but we had not thought of uniforms until we saw Henri return from the barracks with the issue of clothing he had been given. Although it was in the middle of winter he had been issued with a pair of white summer breeches as worn by the Legion. The boots were too small but the clerk had said he should try to change them with someone else. No socks, but puttees from World War I. No shirt, tie or jacket but a greatcoat which was twice his size, and a képi.

  We phoned our close friends and invited them for dinner, and after coffee Henri dressed in his new uniform. We laughed so much the next-door neighbours rang, not to complain but to know why we were so merry. We invited them in and Henri paraded once more. Then he wore my gas-mask and my best fur-lined gloves. It was an hilarious dinner party. Henri took his greatcoat to a tailor, who unpicked it and made it fit him perfectly, and then ordered everything else he needed. He had the money to do so, but hundreds of other men were not so fortunate. Although we’d enjoyed the farce we were disgusted to see how casual and inefficient the military establishments could be.

  The phony war ended in March 1940, shortly after Henri had received his marching orders and left for an unknown destination. The Germans invaded the Low Countries and before long the British were driven out of Europe. The French army collapsed, demoralised.

  I joined a small voluntary ambulance unit, driving the ambulance Henri had provided. As we drove to the north of France we met Belgian refugees already streaming down the highways on their way south. The impression I had formed of the Germans years before in Vienna and Berlin did not improve as I watched their aircraft strafing civilians—old women, old men, children, or anything that moved. It was a horrifying sight, especially the bodies of the children. Our unit was inadequate—there were so many refugees and so few of us; we couldn’t help them all.

  This chaotic situation went on for days and days. There were orders and then counter-orders; no one seemed to know what was going on, except that the Germans were approaching rapidly. We had a brief conference and decided to return to Marseille. But first we took as many people as we could and deposited them in Nimes. I stayed the night of June 13 in a tiny hotel, to be told the next day that Paris had fallen.

  The French Prime Minister, Paul Reynaud, resigned on 16 June, and Marshal Pétain then took over the reins of the country and formed a ministry. Six days later the Armistice Convention was signed. It was intended to remain in force until the conclusion of a peace treaty. I cried for days. My feeling of despair was profound and millions of French people felt even more deeply. On 25 June the line of demarcation was established separating the Occupied Zone from the so-called Free Zone, governed from Vichy. The demarcation remained in force until the Germans occupied the entire country on 11 November 1942.

  When at last Henri returned to Marseille, we gradually settled into our home and tried to take stock of the situation.

  From time to time, since the end of World War II, countless efforts have been made by a variety of individuals and would-be experts to belittle the attitude of the French people both during the German invasion and the subsequent occupation of their country. France was shamefully ill-prepared for the war, but after the people’s initial shock at its declaration, they were frankly unable to contemplate the possibility of defeat. After all, had not a succession of governments a
nd politicians led them to believe the Maginot Line was invincible, and that their army was well-equipped, well-armed and well informed? How misinformed they had been!

  During the phony war, all over France, people seemed determined to reassure each other that there was no real danger and that their magnificent army would stop the enemy from invading France. Just days before the defeat, General Gamelin assured the people that Germany was on the verge of collapse.

  Although Denmark and Norway had been invaded by the Germans in April 1940, no one seemed prepared for the attack on Holland, Luxembourg and Belgium on 10 May. The Allied troops could not hold Hitler’s Panzer divisions as they swooped further south, and the exodus began.

  As far as the French people were concerned their joie de vivre had vanished overnight. They had Germans to the north, Mussolini to the east, the Atlantic ocean to the west, and in the south the formidable Pyrenees separating France from Spain.

  When beautiful Paris had been declared an ‘open city’ by General Weygand and was soon to be under the German boot, few people could control their tears. The French faced a bleak future. The long carefree days were over—now the sorrow would begin.

  The British Expeditionary Force had got out of France from Dunkirk early in June. They withdrew the best way they could, and as quickly as they could. Rightly or wrongly, the French felt let down. So did I. After the war, when all the facts were known, it had obviously been the only solution. Nevertheless, the departure of the BEF was of enormous value to the German propaganda machine as they began to stir up anti-British feelings amongst the French.

  If the declaration of World War II had brought gloom to the people of France, the surrender and Armistice was a hundred times worse; they were literally stunned. When the great French hero of World War I, Pétain, was appointed Head of State by the Germans, many people were convinced he would be astute enough to save his country from further humiliation, but alas he proved to be little more than a puppet figurehead.

  As French soldiers were being demobilised some of them were assured by their officers that Pétain could still save France. They were advised to join the Veterans’ Legion and return to their homes and wait for the signal which would come from the saviour of France, Pétain. They waited in vain. Within a year the Veterans’ Legion had been enveloped by an organisation which did not appear to flourish, so the Service d’ordre de la Légion was created. They swore to fight democracy, the Jews and supporters of de Gaulle’s movement. They were 25,000 strong when in 1943 their organisation was dissolved and replaced by the dreaded Milice, a paramilitary force which arrested many of our Resistance workers.

  On the other hand, over a million soldiers were prisoners-of-war and the Germans were more or less threatening to take reprisals against them if the civilians did not behave. To make matters worse, as the soldiers returned we were absolutely bewildered to hear their stories of mass betrayal within the army. Boxes of ammunition had been filled with stones, road signs and directions had been tampered with, French officers, or men appearing to be them, had issued orders that proved to be false. The stories went on and on, but even so, allowing for exaggeration, some of them had to be true.

  It is history now that the people in both France and England had been betrayed or misinformed by their politicians and people in high places. In any event it is heartbreaking to know that millions of lives were lost because of the dishonesty of some influential officials and well-connected families who looked after their own interests and bank accounts to the detriment of their country and that long-suffering man in the street.

  We began to receive garbled reports accusing the British of having attacked the French Fleet at Mers-el-Kebir. The Anglophobes were delighted; I was sceptical and could not bring myself to believe the rumours. Soon afterwards the wounded French sailors were disembarked at Marseille. I actually talked to some of them and found to my disgust that it had all been true. I have never been so ashamed and disillusioned by Britain as I was the day I saw the wounded French sailors on the wharf.

  Whatever the reason, whether Britain was right or wrong, I could only remember that we had been allies just a short time ago. I knew how I felt and I could guess how the average French person was feeling. The German propaganda machine had a field day. Is it any wonder they made the most of Mers-el-Kebir? One thing is certain. It made the French people, already suspicious of involvement, think twice before they included themselves in subversive activities.

  When a war is over and all the cards are put on the table and one can see the overall plan it is easier to understand past events—after all, we all know that we cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. But my sympathies were, and always will be, with the average French men and women who were stumbling in the dark, not knowing which way to turn.

  How can anybody criticise the French for not having raced out into the street in 1940 and shouted obscenities at the Germans? Most of us sat in our homes with trusted friends and tried to think of some way of impeding the enemy in the course of his occupation. Another important factor should not be overlooked. Whom does one trust? Families and friends could be on opposing sides, so it was wise to be patient and tread carefully. All this took time.

  Living in an occupied country is not easy. From the time you get up in the morning until you go to bed at night, the feeling of apprehension is always there, however well hidden. Once you are in bed, will that fearful knock on the door disturb you?

  It could never be said that Marseille was typical of any other city in France whether during peace, war or the Occupation. It had always been a city full of graft, of big- and small-time crooks in league with too many city officials and members of parliament. There was a strong Italian community, and many of them appeared to be ardent supporters of Pétain and peace at any price, perhaps because it was an easy and less dangerous attitude to adopt at that time.

  One night I was sitting at the bar in Basso’s, talking to Albert the barman, who was an Italian, and waiting for my friends to arrive. Several of these admirers of the Maréchal were holding forth singing his praises and sneering at the treachery of the British. Albert, who did not agree with their views, remained silent.

  Suddenly we heard the noise of bombs—but who could be bombing Marseille? The war was almost over for us. We trooped over to the window and looked towards the skyline. Sure enough we were being bombed. By the Italians.

  I have never seen a bar empty so quickly. One woman ran out screaming at her husband, who had left her behind. She in turn left her baby, who had been put in the care of the cloakroom attendant. Albert, and the baby and I were the only ones left until my friends arrived. Whereupon we all decided that Italians should stick to singing and not attempt to discuss politics.

  We waited until closing time and as the mother had not returned for the child I took him home, returning him to Basso’s the following morning. His parents never thanked me for my kindness, which we thought extraordinary.

  There were two good things about that air raid: the Italian bomb aimers missed the main street, dropping their bombs on the old city where most of the Italians lived, and the Italians were all noticeably subdued after that night.

  We heard about someone called de Gaulle in London, but in Marseille it was hard to get the news in those early days after the Armistice. However, it was not long before the saviour of France, Pétain, told us that an army officer had defected to England and that he would be duly punished when the war was over between Germany and England. Pétain, presumably, took the defeat of England as a matter of course.

  Actually, as the months went by, Pétain was always good for a laugh as long as his fervent supporters were not within earshot. Most of us were sick of ‘Daddy’ and his portraits, his banners and his preachings of morality and virtue. Personally, I thought he was becoming a real pain in the neck. I was fortunate in one way. Although I was French by marriage all my friends knew I was a loyal British subject. From the beginning of the war I had refused to fraternise wit
h any admirers of the enemy. Therefore, I could face the Occupation surrounded by friends and tradespeople who shared my opinions and faith. With me, they need not be suspicious and could say exactly what they thought.

  Furthermore, in spite of my high spirits and gaiety I would always be discreet and keep a secret. As a matter of fact once I had promised to keep one, wild horses wouldn’t change my mind. Unfortunately, if the other person did not do the same; I would be accused of being dumb, naive, or just plain untruthful. I once promised a girlfriend I wouldn’t tell her husband I’d seen her that afternoon. Without warning me she used me as an alibi. It took us ages to live that story down.

  During the war and Occupation I learned many things about my friends and tradespeople that I never revealed, and my discretion paid dividends.

  Consequently, when I needed extra food, items of clothing, false papers or ration coupons, a source would always be available to me, though on the understanding that I kept these transactions to myself. Even when I got black-market food, I wouldn’t tell my best friends which tradesman had supplied me. But I’d share the food itself.

  My doctor friend had obtained an identity card for me which I used when I travelled. It was authentic in every way except for the place of birth, which was stated as being in Nice. I was now authentically French.

  Not long after the Armistice we met an interesting French Army officer who was staying at the Hôtel Louvre, and we soon discovered he was already involved in some resistance work concerning the army. He had been intending to join General de Gaulle in London but his colleagues had begged him to stay in France as an organiser. His name was Commander Busch; his later codename was Xavier.