by Alan Furst
THE ESCAPE
18 June, 1941.
He met Mathieu at dusk, in the waiting room of the Gare d’Austerlitz. They walked in the Jardin des Plantes.
“They know what happened,” Casson said. “That an agent was brought in.”
Mathieu walked in silence for a moment. “Who is it?” he said at last.
Eddie Juin? Lebec? Angier? “I don’t know.”
“It will have to be shut down.” Mathieu was very angry.
“Yes. Perhaps it’s only—you know, the French talk too much. Somebody told somebody, they told somebody else. Each time, ‘now, don’t tell anybody.’ Or, just maybe, it could have happened in London. People in offices, people who work at airfields.”
“Yes, it could have,” Mathieu admitted. Too many people, too many possibilities. “At least we found out. They would have taken over the network and run it.”
The gravel path was bordered by spring beds, tulip and daffodil, poet’s narcissus, the air heavy with manure and perfume.
“They want me to go to Strasbourg,” Casson said.
“Did they say why?”
“No.”
“Will you go?”
“I have to think about it, probably I will.”
They walked in silence for a minute or two, then Casson said, “Mathieu, how long does this go on?”
“I can’t say.”
“There’s a record being built—a wire recording they made in Vernouillet, I’ve been seen with them. What if the war ends?”
“We’ll vouch for you.”
They reached the end of the path, a wire fence. Beyond were rakes and shovels and wheelbarrows. Mathieu took his hat off, ran a thumb around the lining to secure it, then put it back on, pulling the brim down with thumb and forefinger. “Don’t do anything until the twenty-third, then we’ll talk again. That’s the night—all hell’s going to break loose and we’re using that to get our job done. Meanwhile, you should go on as usual.”
They came to the gate, shook hands. “Be careful,” Mathieu said.
Casson couldn’t sleep the night of the twenty-third. He went to an after-curfew bar and drank wine. The bar was in a cellar off an alley, it had a packed-earth floor and stone walls. A long time ago, some madman had managed to coax an upright piano down the narrow staircase—perhaps he’d taken it apart. Clearly it was never going anywhere again, and that gave somebody the idea for a nightclub. The piano’s sounding board was muffled with a blanket, and an old woman in a gown played love songs and sang in a whispery voice. The cigarette smoke was thick, the only light from a single candle. Casson paused at the bottom of the stairs, then a woman took him in her arms and danced with him.
She smelled of cleaning bleach and brilliantine, had stiff hair that scratched against his cheek. They never spoke. She didn’t press herself into him as they danced, just brushed against him, touched him enough so he could feel everything about her. When the sirens started up, she froze. A man nearby called out in a hushed voice, “No, please. One must continue,” as though that were a rule of the house.
The rumbling went on for a long time, sharply felt in the cellar because stone foundations built in the Middle Ages carried the vibrations of the bombs and the gunnery beneath the city. A plane went down that night on the rue St.-Honoré, a Lancaster bomber made a fiery cart-wheel along the street, sliced through a jeweler’s and a millinery shop, then came to rest in the workroom of a dress designer.
Walking home after curfew, Casson stayed alert for patrols, kept to the walls of the buildings. The streets rang with sirens and ambulance bells, searchlights swept the sky, there was a second wave of bombers, then a third. The southern horizon flickered orange just as he slipped into the rue Chardin, and he felt the concussions in the marble stairs as he climbed to his apartment.
Later the telephone rang. He’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, still dressed. “Yes?” he said, looking at his watch. It was twenty minutes past five.
“Jean-Claude?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me.” It was Marie-Claire, she was crying. He waited, finally she was able to speak. “Bernard Langlade is dead, Jean-Claude.”
He went to the Langlades’ apartment at seven, the smell of burning was heavy in the air. At the newspaper stands, thick headlines: VILMA AND KAUNAS TAKEN, WEHRMACHT ADVANCES IN RUSSIA. Then, just below, PARIS BOMBED, REPAIRS TO FACTORIES ALREADY BEGUN.
He was the last to arrive. Arnaud opened the door, Casson could see the Pichards, Véronique, a few friends and relatives talking in quiet voices. The Langlades’ two grown children were said to be en route to Paris but the bombing had caused havoc on the railroads and they weren’t expected until nightfall. When Casson entered the living room, Marie-Claire hugged him tight. Bruno was in the kitchen, he shook his head in sorrow. “This is a rotten thing, Jean-Claude,” he said. “Believe me, there will be something important done in his memory, a subscription. I’ll be calling you.”
Yvette Langlade sat on the end of the couch. She was white, a handkerchief gripped tight in her fist, but very self-possessed. Casson pulled a chair up next to her and took her hand, “Jean-Claude,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m glad you could be here, Jean-Claude.”
“What happened?”
“He went out to Montrouge, to the factory.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Something went wrong earlier in the evening—a door left open, or maybe an alarm went off. I’m not sure. A detective called, demanded that Bernard come out to Montrouge and make sure everything was secure. Because of the defense work, the police are very sensitive about things like that. So, he went—”
She stopped for a moment, looked away. The friends who’d arrived first were busy, had claimed the small jobs for themselves: Marie-Claire and her sister making coffee, Françoise Pichard straightening up the living room, her husband answering the telephone.
“He had to do what they told him,” Yvette said. “So he changed his clothes and went back out to Montrouge. Then, then they called. This morning. And they told me, that he was gone.” She waited a moment, looked away. “They asked a lot of questions.” She shook her head, unable to believe what had happened. “Did Bernard store explosives in the factory, they wanted to know. I didn’t know what to say.” She took a deep breath, pressed her lips together, squeezed Casson’s hand. “It’s madness,” she said. “A man like Bernard. To die in a war.”
Véronique brought him a cup of coffee—real coffee, courtesy of Bruno—and they exchanged a private look. He didn’t know exactly what part she played in the British operation, but she could have known that sabotage was planned under cover of an air raid. Now, he thought, her look suggested that she did know. He read sympathy in her eyes, and sorrow. But, also, determination. “Careful with this,” she said, handing him a cup and saucer. “It’s very hot.” She turned to Yvette. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to bring you some.”
“No, dear. Please, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. I’m going to go and get it. And Charles Arnaud has just gone out for fresh bread.”
After a moment of resistance, Yvette nodded, accepting, giving in to the inevitable. Véronique went off to get the coffee.
My fault, Casson thought. His heart ached for a lost friend. Not that he would survive him very long. They would meet in heaven, Langlade would explain what was what, the best way to deal with it all. Casson wiped his eyes. Merde, he thought. They’ll kill us all, with their stupid fucking wars.
24 June, 9:10 A.M.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning. I’m looking for a copy of the Decameron, by Boccaccio.”
“Any particular edition?”
“No. Whatever you have.”
“I’ll take a look, I’m sure we have something.”
“I’m at 43 09 19.”
He was in a café on the boulevard St.-Germain, noisy and crowded and anonymous. The phone rang a moment l
ater.
“Yes?” It was Mathieu on the line.
“I’ve decided to go to Strasbourg. Right away, because I need to be in Lyons on the first of July.”
“Please understand, about Strasbourg, that we really don’t know what’s going on there.”
“Perhaps I can find out.”
“It will help us, if you can.”
“I’ll call Millau this morning, let him know I’m ready to go.”
“All right.” There was a pause, a moment’s hesitation. “You have to walk very lightly, just now. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I know.”
All day he felt numb and lifeless. He went to the office, though it seemed to him now a dead place, abandoned, without purpose. He looked in the bottom drawer of his desk, found the notebook with the last version of Hotel Dorado and began to read around in it. A few days earlier he’d tried to locate Fischfang, but now he really had disappeared. Perhaps gone underground, or fled to Portugal. Maybe arrested, or dead. Perhaps, Casson thought, he would never know what happened.
He began to clean up his files—this actually made him feel better, so he made some meaningless telephone calls to settle meaningless problems. Soon it was time for lunch; he went to the bank for cash, then returned and took Mireille to the Alsatian brasserie on the corner, slipping black-market ration stamps to the waiter, ordering the grandest choucroute on the menu. Bernard, he thought, you used to eat this with me even though you hated it. Warm sauerkraut, garlic sausage, it made him feel better, and he silently apologized to Langlade because it did.
He flirted with Mireille all through lunch. How it used to be when they were young. Going out dancing in the open pavilions in the early days of spring, falling in love, secret affairs, stolen hours. The bones in the backs of her hands sharply evident, Mireille worked vigorously with knife and fork, delicately removing the rind from a thick slice of bacon as she talked about growing up in a provincial city. “Of course in those days,” she said, “men didn’t leave their wives.”
It was still light when he got home. Trudged up the stairs, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. Standing at the threshold, he smelled cigarette smoke and froze. It is now, he thought. Inside, a board creaked, somebody moving toward the door.
“Well, come in.” Citrine.
He put his hand on his heart. “My God, you scared me.” He closed the door, put his arms around her, and hung on tight, inhaling her deeply, like a dog making sure of somebody from a long time ago. Gauloises and a long train ride on her breath, along with the licorice drop she’d eaten to hide it, very good soap, her skin that always smelled as though she’d been in the sun, some kind of clove and vanilla perfume she’d discovered—the cheaper the better, the way Citrine saw it.
“It’s all right I came?” she said. She could feel his head nod yes. “I thought, oh, he’s alone long enough. I’ll just go up there and throw the schoolgirls out—probably he’s tired of them by now.”
He walked her down the hall and back into the living room. They sat close together on the couch. “How did you get in?”
“Your concierge. She will not stand in the way of true love. Especially when it’s movie actresses. Also, she knew me from before. Also, I bribed her.”
“That’s all it took?”
She laughed. “Yes.”
He kissed her, just a little. She was wearing a tight brown sweater, chocolate, with her yellow scarf tied to one side. A pair of very expensive nylon stockings caught the early evening light.
“I don’t care if you’re mad,” she said.
“I’m not mad.”
She studied him a moment. “Tired,” she said. “What is it?”
He shrugged. “I don’t even look in the mirror.”
“A long time by the sea, I think.”
“Yes.”
“Under the palm trees.”
“Yes. With you.”
She lay on her side on the couch and he did the same—there was just room. “Do you want to make love right away?” she said.
“No. I want to lie here. Later, we can.”
The evening came, birds sang on the roof across the street, the sky darkening to the deep Parisian blue. She took the stockings off and put them carefully aside. He could just see her in the living-room dusk as she put one foot at a time on a chair and rolled each stocking down.
She headed back to the couch, he held up his hand.
“Yes?”
“Why stop?”
“What?”
He smiled.
“You can’t mean—” Her “puzzled” look was very good; heavy lips apart, head canted a little to one side. “Well,” she said. She understood now, but was it the right thing? She reached around behind her for the button on the waistband of her skirt. “This?”
“Yes.”
The telephone rang. It startled him—nobody called at night. It rang again.
“They’ll go away,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, but he sat upright on the couch. Answer the phone. On the third ring he stood up.
She didn’t like it.
“I have to,” he said.
He walked into his bedroom and picked up the receiver. “Casson!”
Mathieu screamed. “Get out! Get out!” The connection was broken.
“Citrine.”
She ran into the bedroom.
“We have to leave.”
She disappeared into the living room, swept up coat, valise, handbag. Stockings in hand, she forced her feet into her shoes. Casson went to the balcony, opened the doors, looked out. Two black Citroëns were just turning into the rue Chardin. He slammed the doors, ran back into the living room. “Right now,” he said.
They ran out the door, then down the stairs, sliding on the marble steps. Citrine slipped, cried out, almost fell as they flew around the mid-floor landing, but Casson managed to pull her upright. What were they doing? They had no chance, none at all, of beating the Citroëns to the street door. They reached the fourth floor, he pulled Citrine after him, down to the end of the hallway, a pair of massive doors. There was a buzzer in a little brass plate, but Casson swung his arm back and pounded his fist against the wood. Eight, nine, ten times. The door was thrown open, the baroness stood there, wide-eyed with fright, hand pressed between her breasts. “Monsieur!” she said.
Casson was out of breath. “Please,” he said. “Will you hide her?”
The baroness stared at him, then at Citrine. Slowly, the surprise and shock on her face turned to indignation. “Yes,” she said, her elegant voice cold with anger. “Yes, of course. How could you think I would not?” She took Citrine by the hand and gently drew her into the apartment.
As the door swung closed, Citrine stepped toward him, their eyes met. She had time to say “Jean-Claude?” That was all.
Casson did try, tried as hard as he could. Raced down four flights of stairs, footsteps echoing off the walls. When he reached the street, the men in raincoats were just climbing out of their cars. They shouted as he started to run, were on him almost immediately. The first one grabbed the back of his shirt, which ripped as he fought to pull free. He punched the man in the forehead and hurt his hand. Then somebody leaped on top of him and, with a yell of triumph, barred a thick forearm across his throat. Casson started to choke. Then, a cautionary bark in harsh German, and the arm relaxed. The man who seemed to be in charge was apparently irritated by public brawling. A word from him, they let Casson go. He stood there, rubbing his throat, trying to swallow. The man in charge never took his hands out of the pockets of his belted raincoat. A sudden kick swept Casson’s feet from under him and he fell on his back in the street. From there, he could see people looking out their windows.
24 June, midnight.
Midnight, more or less—they’d taken his watch. But from the cell in the basement of the rue des Saussaies he could hear the trains in the Métro, and he knew the last one ran around one in the morning.
He was in the basement of t
he old Interior Ministry—he’d had no idea they had cells down here, but this one had been in use for a long time. It was hard to read the graffiti on the walls, the only light came from a bulb in a wire cage on the ceiling of the corridor, but much of it was carved or scratched into the plaster, and by tracing with his finger he could read it—the earliest entry 16 October, 1902, Tassot. And who was Tassot, and what had he done, in the autumn of 1902? Well, who was Casson, and what had he done, in the spring of 1941?
The wall was covered with it. Phrases in cyrillic Russian, in Polish, what might have been Armenian. There was Annamese, and Arabic. Faces front and profile. Crosses. Hearts—with initials and arrows. Cocks and cunts, with curly hairs. Somebody loved Marguerite—in 1921, somebody else Martine. This one wrote Au revoir, Maman. And that one—a tall one, Casson had to stand on his toes—was going to die in the morning for freedom.
When he heard a deep rumbling sound, he thought for a moment that the RAF was attacking the factory districts at the edge of the city. And under cover of the bombing, said Wing Commander Smith-Wilson, our commando team will attack the Gestapo office on the rue des Saussaies and rescue our valiant agent from his basement prison. But it wasn’t bombing, it was thunder. Rain pattering down in a courtyard above him somewhere. A spring rainstorm, nothing more.
“One thing I will tell you.” A deep voice, from a cell some way up the corridor. Good, educated French, the melancholy tone of the intellectual. Not exactly a whisper, but the voice low and private, confidential. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Are you injured?”
“No.”
“Then I will tell you one thing: sooner or later, everyone talks. And it’s easier on you if it’s sooner.”
He waited, heart pounding, but that was all.
There was no bed, he sat on the stone floor, back against the damp wall. The last Métro train faded away, the hours passed. Perhaps he could have hidden with the baroness, but then, not finding him, they would have searched the building. They had, no doubt, searched his apartment, but there was nothing for them to find there. Now, what remained was a final scene, he’d manage it as well as he could. The post in the courtyard, the blindfold. Farewell, my love.