by Allan Massie
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Michel said.
‘I don’t know that I do either.’
Michel squinted along the sights of his rifle. He squeezed the trigger.
‘That’s one Ivan less,’ he said. ‘You talk too much, you know.’
***
François said, ‘The General’s an extraordinary fellow, you know. Did I tell you that when he was leading the march along the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe, little Georges fell in step beside him. Without giving him so much as a glance, the General said, in his iciest tone – and tones don’t come icier – “A few paces back, Monsieur Bidault.” And poor Georges obeyed, even though as Chief of the National Council of the Resistance, he thought he had every right to be at de Gaulle’s side, sharing the honour of the day. That shows what the General thinks of us in the Resistance; he thinks he’s Joan of Arc and has saved France all on his own. He doesn’t like me, as I’ve told you, Dominique. And he’ll get rid of me as soon as he can. But he’s not going to beat me, remember that. We’re France too, those of us who served in Vichy and then organised the Resistance. You stick by me and I’ll make you a great man. Our business is to effect a reconciliation between the France of Vichy and the France of the Resistance, the France of St Louis and the France of Voltaire. That’s going to be my life’s work, and I look to you to accompany me on what will be a long journey.’
He picked up his glass.
‘Did you manage to telephone your mother? Yes? And what did she say?’
‘She couldn’t believe it was me, and then she burst into tears.’
***
Léon said, ‘You’ll like her, I’m sure you will. She’s endured an extraordinary war. Well, I suppose we all have. But an Englishwoman, here in Paris throughout, it’s remarkable. Of course I haven’t ever asked her just what she has had to do to survive. But then,’ he took hold of Anne’s hand and squeezed it, ‘my own last year since they broke the network and you were arrested has been shameful. Being Chardy’s boy – that’s not something I’m proud of. Yet I don’t know what I’d have done without him. Anyway I’m sure you’ll like Priscilla and in any case if it hadn’t been for her and what she taught me about myself, I don’t know that I would have dared to kiss you. Does that sound mad?’
‘Only a little. And actually if you remember, I kissed you first.’
She leaned over and kissed him again.
‘All the same,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure that I want to meet your Englishwoman.’
There was a knock on the door. For years now everyone had feared that sound, and for a moment they clung to each other in silence. The knock was repeated. Anne slowly disengaged herself, slipped from the bed, and opened the door. Two armed men in the uniform of the FFI stood there.
‘A little love-nest,’ one of them said.
He pushed Anne aside with the muzzle of his gun.
The other pointed his at Léon.
‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘We’re taking you in for questioning.’
***
‘It’s hard to believe we’re in Paris.’
The boy, Vincent, looked wide-eyed at the Boulevard St-Germain, and the girls who walked past them with a swagger that had survived years of malnutrition. He was a country boy and it was all strange to him.
‘I never thought we’d escape from that cattle-truck,’ he said, not for the first time.
‘We were destined to be lucky,’ Alain said. ‘Anyway I never yielded to despair. I believe in France, you see.’
His arm was still in a sling, and he smiled with happiness as they sat outside the Flore watching the world go by as people savoured the reality of Liberation.
‘I’ve always believed in France,’ Alain said again, ‘if not in the French people.’
‘This friend of yours we’re meeting, what’s he called?’
‘Jérôme, he’s all right. Ah, here he is.’
Jérôme approached them, strolling, elegant in a bottle-green cashmere jersey, open-neck cream-coloured shirt and grey flannel trousers. He embraced Alain and said, ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘This is Vincent, we’ve been through hard times together.’
‘Delighted to meet you.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s extraordinary,’ he said. ‘I’ve just come from London, you know, and Paris seems less war-battered than London. It’s like waking up from a bad dream. Do you have any word of Léon, Alain?’
‘None at all. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Too many of us aren’t.’
‘We must find him,’ Jérôme said, ‘all for one and one for all, remember?’ He took out a packet of Player’s cigarettes and passed it round. ‘The General smokes these himself,’ he said. ‘I’ve asked around about Léon, but nobody I’ve spoken to knows anything.’
XXIII
Under cover of darkness, during the night of 28 August, the convoy of German troops rolled out of Bordeaux. The city woke to find itself liberated. As the word spread the streets were filled with people experiencing the strangest and most exhilarating of feelings. Few could even then, however, fail to be mindful of the hundreds of resisters shot by the Occupying army and the Vichy police, and the thousands who had been deported for political or racial reasons. Nevertheless, as crowds surged through the streets laughing and singing the Marseillaise, almost nobody could restrain their expression of joy. Yet, even on this first day of freedom, there was bitterness too. A number of well-known collaborators were arrested and paraded in the Cours de l’Intendance, with placards affixed to their back and chest proclaiming their shame.
Lannes had woken to the unaccustomed sound of Marguerite singing, the happiness with which she had greeted that telephone call from Dominique scarcely disturbed by the continuing anxiety over Alain, of whom Dominique had been able to tell her nothing.
Clothilde said, ‘It’s astonishing to see Maman like she used to be.’
A tremor in her voice warned Lannes that she couldn’t share her mother’s undiluted joy. For months now she had known without doubt that her Michel had joined the wrong side, not only the wrong but the losing one; and he knew that she must now fear that she would never see him again. Such news as they had of the horrors of the war on the Eastern Front made it all but impossible for her to continue to hope. How long would it take her to free herself from his memory? And how terrible it was that she could not share in the unrestrained joy of Liberation! It was as if by loving Michel she had attached herself to the forces of darkness. Lannes took her in his arms and hugged her, but found himself bereft of any words of consolation.
And the man, Sigi, whose influence over the boy had led him so foolishly astray, had, Lannes feared, made his escape to Spain, along with Edmond de Grimaud whose nerve had seemingly, and unexpected by Lannes, failed.
He headed for the office, uncertain of what he might find there, but to his surprise all was normal. The Alsatian was even at his desk and greeted Lannes as if it was an ordinary day.
‘I’ve already had a meeting,’ he said, ‘with the secretary of the newly-appointed Commissaire of the Republic, and our orders are to carry on as usual. It’s essential, he says, that the organs of the Republic continue to function. For a little, he admits, the Resistance will rule the streets. There’s nothing we can do about that, it’s something we have to accept. But it won’t be long before the Resistance is disbanded, its members either incorporated in the regular army, or returned to whatever was their proper station in civilian life. The commissaire’s clear about that, but this is their hour, he says, and it would be foolish to attempt to rein them in. There will be some disorder, but it will soon pass. Do you understand, Jean?’
‘I understand, but I don’t like it.’
He lit a cigarette.
‘You don’t have to like it,’ Schnyder said, ‘just accept this is how it is, for the moment. We’ve come through dark times without compromising ourselves.’
‘Yesterday,’ Lannes said, ‘three young men from a Resista
nce group murdered a priest. They put him up against a wall and shot him. He was probably a bad priest. Certainly I’ve no reason to think him a good man. But this was murder, mob rule and murder, perhaps a revenge killing, I don’t know. But murder, I’m certain of that. And I’ve a witness. Do I do nothing? Do I tell the witness to forget about it?’
‘That’s just what you do. I’m sorry, Jean, but that’s precisely what you do. We must do nothing that will compromise the PJ in the eyes of the new authorities. That’s my prime concern. Now to another matter. I understand that you have the advocate Labiche under arrest.’
‘Yes, as an accessory to murder. Are you happy with that or would you like me to release him?’
‘There’s no call for that,’ the Alsatian smiled, and clipped the end off a cigar. ‘Even two weeks ago it would have been different, but now I’m perfectly happy. You’ve done well. Labiche belongs to the past. His arrest will win us favours with the new regime. It’s all a matter, Jean, of being alert to the way the wheel turns.’
The Alsatian was right of course. Lannes couldn’t deny that. Nevertheless he felt soiled. Serving Vichy had been inescapable, also compromising, even humiliating. Were these days of Liberation any different? He picked up his stick and left the office. In the streets it was like a day of holiday. The crowd surged to and fro, cheering and singing. But the happiness wasn’t undiluted. There was an undercurrent of anger too. People had suffered. They had experienced shame. Expiation demanded revenge. Anxiety quickened his pace towards Mériadeck.
The street was thronged as he approached the Pension Bernadotte, and he had to push his way through a crowd, mostly of women, who were shouting and jeering. A platform had been erected, and Yvette was tied to a chair on top of it. The upper part of her dress had been torn away. Mangeot stood beside her, smiling. A couple of men stood over the girl. He recognised one as a local butcher. He was holding a pair of shears. ‘Crop the bitch,’ someone shouted. ‘Crop the Boche-loving whore.’ Lannes called out in protest, ‘Stop this at once.’ Yvette raised her head and met his eyes. Her face was without expression; she was like a dumb animal brought to the slaughter. ‘Stop it at once,’ he shouted again. ‘Bastards, it’s you who are a disgrace to France.’
Someone struck him on the back of the head. He fell to the ground and the crowd surging forward trampled on him. The last thing he heard was laughter and the repeated shout, ‘Crop the bitch.’ Then he passed out.
***
When he came to, he was lying on the floor of the bar below the Pension. The proprietor, whom he knew to be a good man who had arranged for the funeral of the old tailor, Ephraim Kurz, said, ‘You’re a fool, superintendent. You’re lucky they didn’t do for you. The mood they were in. Beside themselves they were, with anger and self-righteousness. And you were trying to spoil their fun. Like a fool, as I say. You’ll need to get your head seen to.’
Lannes ran his hand over his hair and it came away sticky with blood.
‘What have they done with her?’
‘Shaved her head, tore most of her clothes off and marched her away to be paraded in disgrace with other women, not all of them tarts, known or suspected to have had German lovers. It’s disgusting if you ask me.’
‘And you did nothing?’
‘I did nothing. Just as we have almost all done nothing for the last four years. She’s a nice girl, I know that, but I did nothing. In face of that mob, I did nothing. You ought to see a doctor, superintendent.’
‘Give me an Armagnac, please.’
‘With a head wound? Not advisable, I’d say.’
‘Give me one nevertheless.’
***
He felt bad, and his hands shook. He had dumped his head in cold water and washed the blood away, dried it with a towel, all the time the proprietor whose name he couldn’t recall insisting he ought to see a doctor.
‘I don’t have time,’ he said.
‘Nevertheless you’re in danger of becoming delirious.’
‘I’ll have to take the chance.’
***
‘Fernand,’ he thought, and walking unsteadily, even though he had been handed back his blackthorn, set off for the brasserie. He had little reason to hope Fernand would be there, but there was no one else he could think to turn to. The crowd surged around him. There was cheering and singing, and he hated them all.
‘Jean,’ someone called out.
He turned and saw his friend Jacques Maso.
‘What’s happened to you? You look terrible.’
‘Nothing,’ Lannes said, ‘merely a casualty of Liberation.’
Jacques Maso took hold of his arm and guided him into the Rugby Bar.
‘Sit down a moment and compose yourself.’
‘I’ve been a fool,’ Lannes said. ‘A thoughtless fool. I was too late. It was horrible.’
Jacques Maso passed him a cigarette and called on the barman to give them two glasses of beer.
‘It’s only a bang on the head,’ Lannes said. ‘Nothing serious.’
‘I don’t know about that. You’re not yourself.’
‘I must see Fernand. You know him, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. Your mind’s wandering, for you know perfectly well we’ve all been friends for years. But what’s happened?’
Lannes stretched out his hand for the glass, but found he couldn’t lift it. He put his head in his hands and began to sob.
***
Fernand was in the brasserie, at the head of a table of a dozen young men, no doubt the members of his Resistance group. They were drinking champagne and singing. Fernand had his arm round the girl he called ‘the peach’. He lifted his hand and beckoned to Lannes, an invitation to join his table. Lannes shook his head and sat down at the other side of the room. He crooked his finger towards Fernand who, in a little, disengaged himself from the girl, pausing only to kiss her on the mouth, and crossed over to join Lannes.
‘Not sharing in the merriment, Jean?’
Fernand pulled out a chair, swung it round and sat on it, astride, resting his elbows on its high back.
‘I told you you should have joined us,’ Fernand said.
‘So you did,’ Lannes said. ‘So you did, but I’m a police officer, a servant of the Republic. I have to play by the rules, most of the time anyway. The rules and the law. Some of your boys, not necessarily yours, but some like them, shot a priest yesterday, put him up against a wall and shot him. Just like that. Then they raped the boy he was with, and beat him up. You know the boy, young Karim whom you helped me get out of Bordeaux a couple of years ago. My boss says, “Fine, nothing to do with us.” Nevertheless I’m not sure I’d have been happy if I’d signed up with you as you suggest.’
‘It’s the way things are, Jean. People have been afraid and humiliated for four years. It’s natural that they want revenge.’
‘Ah yes, revenge. A judge spoke of it the other day as wild justice.
Not my sort of justice.’
‘Believe me, Jean, it’s necessary. Necessary. A cleansing of the stables. Why have you come here? You want something from me, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I want something from you. You’re my oldest friend,
Fernand.’
He hesitated, took out a cigarette and lit it, ashamed to find that his hands were still shaking.
‘You’re in a bad way,’ Fernand said.
‘Not really. Just a blow on the head, knocked me out for a moment, but that doesn’t matter. There’s a girl … ’
‘Good.’
‘Yvette. She’s a tart, nice girl.’
‘Good again.’
Lannes drew on his cigarette, felt dizzy for a moment, swallowed twice, a taste of bile.
‘They took her, shaved her head, tore her clothes. I tried to stop them. That’s when someone clonked me. I don’t know what they’ve done with her.’
He was amazed to see that Fernand was smiling broadly.
‘And you’ve come to me for help? You want me to find
her for you?’
‘You’ve got the connections,’ Lannes said.
‘You fancy her, don’t you?’
‘She’s a nice girl, whatever, caught up in the madness we’ve lived through.’
‘But you fancy her. Have you fucked her?’
Lannes stubbed out his cigarette.
‘No.’
‘You should. You should have. Do you know the trouble with you, Jean? Self-denial. You’ve never allowed yourself to live. You take on responsibilities and you’re not happy with them. Marguerite was never right for you, I’ve always known that. So this girl. You want to fuck her, but haven’t allowed yourself to do so. Sad, really, old friend.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. Just at the moment I don’t know anything. Can you do as I ask?’
‘Expect so. Why not?’
The peach came over and settled herself on Fernand’s knee.
‘Mr Policeman,’ she said. ‘Mr Vichy Policeman. What does he want, darling?’
‘He wants me to find his girl.’
‘And will you?’
‘Why not? Why not? It’s Saturnalia time. Besides, a girl who can tempt Jean here off the straight and narrow must be worth a look.’
XXIV
‘We lost contact with him. The wireless frequency was scrambled, and we heard nothing from him. He may be dead or in a German camp, we’ve no idea.’
The Gaullist captain, Colonel Passy’s aide, a young thickset Breton, shuffled the papers on his desk.
‘So I can’t help you. All sorts of people disappear. It’s the way things are.’
Jérôme said, ‘Somebody must know something.’
Even as he spoke, he heard the feebleness, hopelessness indeed, of his words. He looked to Alain for assistance.
Alain said, ‘Was the network betrayed?’