by Kate Mosse
But now she was aware of a weight on her chest that she couldn’t identify, a despair. As if the air had all been sucked out of her lungs.
She would have liked a child, a daughter. She and Raoul, a little girl, with her father’s lopsided smile and his passion. They could have called her Sophie, perhaps, to remind them of how life once had been. Sandrine shook her head. No, she would have a name for the future, not for the past.
‘Vida,’ she whispered to herself. The Occitan word for life. She thought Raoul would like it.
‘Are you still there?’ Lucie whispered.
Even though her voice was faint, Sandrine jumped at the sound.
‘I’m here.’
‘What time is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s not night?’
‘No, it’s daytime. The sun is still high.’
Overhead, Sandrine heard the sound of an aeroplane. Why could she hear a plane? Hadn’t they all gone now? Hadn’t they?
‘I don’t think anyone’s coming,’ Lucie said, a heartbeat later.
‘Raoul will have found out where we’ve been taken,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘Marianne, too. They’ll work it out and they’ll come. You’ll see.’
‘If we’re patient . . .’ Lucie spoke so softly now that, despite the silence of the room, Sandrine could barely hear her.
‘That’s right.’
‘But it’s not night?’
‘No.’
‘The thing is, kid, I can’t see anything. Everything’s dark.’
Sandrine felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘It must be the shadows of the trees.’
‘Ah . . . that’s good then,’ Lucie said. ‘I think I can hear the wind blowing through the trees, it must be that.’
‘That’s right,’ Sandrine said, trying not to cry.
Motes of dust danced in the slatted sunlight coming in through the windows high up in the tiny room. Like dancers, Sandrine thought, spinning silver in the white haze.
‘Thanks, kid,’ Lucie said softly, too softly now.
Sandrine heard Lucie’s breathing falter and knew she was dying. Knew there was nothing she could do. The bullet shifting beneath Lucie’s skin in the cartilage and bone of her shattered knee, the muscles and skin screaming around the entry wound. The infection setting in.
Sandrine knew her pain would pass soon too. Feared it would pass. And she was wondering now – after everything that had happened, the blackness that had engulfed them – if France could ever recover. If there could be forgiveness. If all those thousands, millions who had died would all be honoured and remembered. If their deaths would count for something, mean something. Their names on a wall, on a street sign, in the history books. Sandrine tried to bring each face to mind, one by one, like the names on the marble wall in the Place de l’Armistice.
She smiled and felt her mind drifting free. She didn’t believe in God – could not believe in a God that allowed such things to happen – but, at the same time, the seductive thought that her father might be somewhere, waiting for her, brought a smile to her parched lips. He would have liked Raoul, if ever they had met. Would have been proud to have him as a son-in-law.
She knew Liesl would care for Jean-Jacques like her own son until Max came back. With Marieta’s help, of course. Suzanne and Marianne would be there too. She wondered what Max would tell J-J about his mother. The diaries that Lucie had painstakingly kept would help. About how brave Lucie was, how she fought every moment of her life to keep him safe.
And Raoul, would he talk about her?
Sandrine looked down at her ripped clothes, at the tartan socks rescued from the house on the rue du Palais, threadbare and through at the heel now.
‘Really something,’ she murmured, remembering Lucie’s words on the day they’d first met.
She wanted more than anything to reach out and hold Lucie’s hand, though she didn’t seem frightened. All Sandrine could do was turn her head and watch. Lucie’s features seemed to be changing, shifting. She looked suddenly young, all the worry lines falling away from her eyes, the corners of her mouth. A girl with the world at her feet.
‘They’ll be here soon,’ Sandrine said.
Lucie didn’t answer. Sandrine wasn’t sure she was breathing any more.
Sandrine was floating in and out of consciousness, not tethered any more to the tattered, beautiful world. Not any more. She hoped it would be quick. And that, when it was all over, they would come to Baudrigues and find them. Know who they were. Remember their names.
‘Not much longer now,’ she whispered, finally allowing the tears to come. ‘Raoul will be here soon.’
She heard the sound of boots in the corridor outside, leather heels on the black and white tiles, then a key turning in the lock. A German soldier in a grey uniform, or was it green, coming towards them. Something in his hands, two hand grenades, and Sandrine realised they meant to leave no evidence. Nothing at all.
He leant forward to force one into Lucie’s mouth.
‘Leave her,’ she said quickly. ‘She’s gone. There’s no need.’
The soldier hesitated.
‘Please,’ Sandrine repeated, in a whisper this time.
The young man took a step back, then another, towards the open door. She thought she saw pity in his eyes, shame even. He paused on the threshold and put one of the grenades carefully down on the floor, then he shut the door and ran. The sound of his boots echoing in the distance.
The room seemed to be vibrating beneath her. Outside in the park there was a wave of explosions, glass shattering, wood ripping through the gardens. Fireworks, firecrackers, a sequence of snapping, cracking, bursting. Then, a single all-encompassing blast and Sandrine realised they were blowing up the entire munitions store.
‘Raoul,’ she whispered. ‘Raoul.’
The grenade came to rest against her leg. Now, she saw that the soldier had pulled the pin after all. There was to be no reprieve.
‘Mon còr,’ she said. The only words that mattered any more.
EPILOGUE
August 2009
CHATEAU DE BAUDRIGUES
19 AUGUST 2009
On Wednesday morning at 9.20, people are gathering in the clearing at the Château de Baudrigues. Flags and a band, official colours and decorations and a sense of purpose.
The president of the delegation and the Mayor of Roullens are laying wreaths at the three gravestones: one for Jean Bringer – ‘Myriel’, one for Aimé Ramond; the last inscribed to the ‘Martyrs of Baudrigues’.
Men and women in their official sashes and chains remembering, on the sixty-fifth anniversary of their murders on 19 August 1944, those who gave their lives so that others might live. Also, representatives of the civilians massacred as the Germans left Carcassonne the following day.
The warrior stone angel – Y Penser Toujours – stolen away from Square Gambetta under cover of night so that it would not be destroyed. The statue stands, now, in the cimetière Saint-Michel, keeping watch over the military graves.
White crosses and white crescents.
The Martyrs of Baudrigues never got to see, only a few days later, the men and women of the Resistance come down from the hills and take possession of their town once more.
The Mayor steps back and everyone bows their head for the minute’s silence. A man in his sixties turns and puts his hand on his father’s shoulder. They are so alike, Max Blum and his son Jean-Jacques, people always remark upon it. Blum is well respected and well liked in Carcassonne. One of the last to be deported from Le Vernet on the ghost train to Dachau and one of the few to survive. Jean-Jacques’ three daughters all resemble their grandmother, Lucie Ménard. They never met her, though they have grown up their entire lives with stories of the sort of woman she was. They think their father and Tante Liesl exaggerate a little, but they play along all the same.
Jean-Jacques smiles at Liesl, Liesl Rousset, a celebrated war photographer. Even though his aunt is in her eighties, she is nonet
heless the most beautiful woman he knows. Her children live overseas, as does she, but she has come home today for this modest ceremony and to visit her oldest friends, Marianne Vidal and Suzanne Peyre, who still live in the rue du Palais.
The sixty seconds of silence comes to an end and the band strikes up ‘La Marseillaise’.
At the back of the crowd, a young woman, named Alice, turns to her husband.
‘Can you take her, Will? I think she’s had enough.’
Will smiles and hoists their little girl on to his shoulders. So as not to disturb proceedings, he walks away into the deep green woods surrounding the park.
Alice moves closer to the front, singing the last few verses of the anthem in her undeniably English accent.
Amour sacré de la Patrie
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs
Liberté, Liberté chérie
Combats avec tes défenseurs!
She is not sure why she has come, other than because she believes Audric Baillard would have wanted her to. Or perhaps it is because, like many others, she has heard stories of a women’s resistance unit said to have single-handedly saved an entire village from being massacred in the dying days of the occupation. Their names don’t appear in any of the history books, but there’s something that makes Alice certain the stories are true.
Sous nos drapeaux, que la victoire
Accoure à tes mâles accents
Que tes ennemis expirants
Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!
She wishes she had asked Monsieur Baillard about it, but they were caught up in a different story, in a different time. And the time they had together was so short.
There is a polite, awkward smattering of applause. The dignitaries start to leave – there is another event to be held in Carcassonne later in the day – and the small crowd of onlookers starts to break up.
Alice finds herself left alone with two women. One is elegant in blue, her white hair braided at the nape of her neck. The other is tall, with tightly cropped hair and a tanned face.
‘Are you a relative?’ she asks, peering at the names on the tombstone.
Marianne Vidal turns and looks at her, then smiles.
‘Our friend,’ she says, with a quiet dignity. ‘And my sister.’
‘What was she called?’ Alice asks quickly, wondering why their names are not on the memorial. There are only men’s names.
For a moment, she thinks the woman will not answer. Then a smile lights up her eyes.
‘Sandrine Vidal.’
At that moment, Alice’s daughter runs back into the clearing and into her mother’s arms. She scoops Sajhësse up and then turns to make the introductions.
But the two women, arm in arm, are already walking away.
Author’s Note
Citadel is a work of fiction, although the imaginary characters exist against a backdrop of real events. It was inspired by a plaque in the village of Roullens, outside Carcassonne, commemorating the ‘Martyrs of Baudrigues’, the nineteen prisoners who were executed by fleeing Nazi forces on 19 August 1944, a matter of days before the Languedoc was liberated by its own people. Over time, most of the victims have been identified. There are three commemorative stones at Baudrigues: one apiece for the two leading members of the Aude resistance – Jean Bringer (‘Myriel’) and Aimé Ramond – and one listing nineteen other résistants, including two ‘unknown women’. Wondering about who those women might be was the starting point for this story.
Nearly seventy years after the end of the Second World War, estimates vary as to how many people were involved in the Resistance and the Maquis. By its clandestine nature, people could not admit to involvement at the time for fear of reprisal. Subsequently, a veil of secrecy fell over the années noires, which has only begun to lift in recent years. What is clear is that, following the invasion and occupation of the zone libre by German forces in November 1942 – and the introduction of forced labour laws, the hated service du travail obligatoire (STO) in February 1943 – there was a significant increase in Resistance activity in the South. This continued until the liberation of the Aude in August 1944.
It is also clear that, as the history of the Resistance in France was written, the ‘book of myths’ – to use Adrienne Rich’s phrase – women’s roles were underplayed. In part this is because many women themselves wished to forget and return to their ordinary lives, and in part because some historians overlooked the particular, and different, nature of women’s contributions. More than fifty thousand Médailles de la Résistance were awarded, both to those still alive and posthumously, though proportionately few were awarded to women. And of the 1,061 Croix de la Libération – presented by Général de Gaulle for exceptional acts of resistance and bravery – only six were given to women. Anecdotal evidence, not least talking to parents and grandparents of Carcassonnais friends, suggests there were many women involved in active roles in the Aude and the Ariège. I am indebted to contemporary accounts of female Resistance activity, in particular those of Lisa Fittko and Lucie Aubrac, as well as Margaret L. Rossiter’s excellent Women in the Resistance, H. R. Kedward’s In Search of the Maquis and Julien Allaux’s comprehensive La 2ème Guerre Mondiale dans l’Aude.
There was never – to my knowledge – an all-female network such as my imaginary réseau ‘Citadel’, nor is there any record of a Coustaussa Maquis. But there certainly were women involved in active roles in networks in the South. It is also important to note that the Resistance and Maquis in the Midi was far from being an exclusively French affair – German, Belgian, Polish, Czech, Austrian, Dutch and Spanish anti-fascists all fought alongside their French neighbours.
Finally, although the story is based around real events between 1942 and 1944 in the Aude, this is a novel, not an attempt to fictionalise what happened. My principal characters are wholly imagined and I have taken one or two historical liberties for the sake of the story. So although there was a demonstration in Carcassonne against Maréchal Pétain’s collaborationist Vichy government on 14 July 1942, there was no bomb attack and no one was killed. I have deliberately blurred exactly which organisation Leo Authié works for, to ensure he won’t be mistakenly identified with any real person in the Milice, Deuxième Bureau or Carcassonne Commissariat in those years. It is extremely unlikely that anyone would have been allowed into Le Vernet in August 1942, even with a senior-ranking French officer. There was no Couiza Maquis, no massacre of prisoners in Banyuls-sur-Mer or executions in Chalabre in July 1944, and no Gestapo/Milice attack on Coustaussa in August 1944. The stone capitelles do not date back to Roman times and finally, even though a cache of ancient codices was indeed found in caves outside the village of Nag Hammadi in December 1945 – twelve codices, plus eight leaves, containing fifty-two texts – the Codex of Arinius was not among them. That Codex is, I regret to say, entirely imaginary.
Kate Mosse
Carcassonne/Sussex, 2012
Acknowledgements
There are many people who have given help and support over the course of the researching, planning and writing of Citadel.
At Orion, I’m lucky to be looked after by so many enthusiastic, hard-working and professional people – sales, marketing, production, publicity, digital, audio, editorial and the lovely ladies on reception. Particular thanks go to Gaby Young, Anthony Keates, Mark Rusher, Mark Streatfeild, Juliet Ewers, Laura Gerrard, Jade Chandler, Jane Selley, Malcolm Edwards and the legendary Susan Lamb. My publisher Jon Wood and my editor Genevieve Pegg – helped by Eleanor Dryden in the closing stages of the project – have been extraordinary, even by their standards. Their support, speedy work and enthusiasm for Citadel have made all the difference.
Grateful thanks to all at LAW, in particular Alice Saunders and the incomparable Mark Lucas, who has not only been a great support and a wonderful friend, but also a terrier-like editor (despite the digital notes!). Also everyone at ILA, in particular Nicki Kennedy and Sam Edenborough; and all at Inkwell, especially George Lucas (and for
the bike . . .).
In Languedoc, I would like to thank the following friends and colleagues: James & Catherine Kinglake; Kate & Bob Hingson, Le Centre Culturel et de la Mémoire des Combattante, Carcassonne; Chantal & Pierre Sanchez; the Musée Départemental de la Résistance et de la Déportation, Toulouse; the staff at the Hôtel de la Cité, in particular Nathalie Sauvestre and Jane Barnard; everyone at the Jardin de la Tour and at Bar Félix; Patricia Corbett and Jean Dodelin of the Centres des Monuments Nationaux; Miriam Filaquier of the Aude Tourist Board; everyone at Cultura Carcassonne and the Librarie Papeteire Breithaupt; at the Mairie in Carcassonne, Jean-Claude Perez, Maire, and Chef de Cabinet, Christophe Perez; André Viola, Président du Conseil général de l’Aude and Jean Brunel, Chef de Cabinet; René Ortega, Maire de Lagrasse.
At the Defence Academy of the UK, Lt Col. John Starling, Martyn Arthur and Phil. Thanks, too, to Chris Hunter for arranging the best-ever research day out in Shrivenham.
Finally, as all authors know, it’s friends and family who bear the brunt of deadlines and pre-publication jitters. There are so many people who’ve given practical help, encouragement and friendship during the course of writing Citadel that I can’t list everyone – and of course, all errors are mine – but special thanks go to Jonathan Evans (not least for all the photos), Rachel Holmes, Robert Dye (for Coustaussa), Lucinda Montefiore (for the rosé); Peter Clayton (for Amélie and the Mums); the Dancing Queens, Julie Pembery and Cath O’Hanlon (and Tom P and Sam O’H for Chapter 5!); Patrick O’Hanlon; Jack Penny (for Granny R’s G&T and bikes); Suzie Wilde (for The Blue Guide), Harriet Hastings, Amanda Ross, Tessa Ross, Maria Rejt, Sandi Toksvig (for the slippers), Lydia Conway, Paul Arnott, Jane Gregory, Diane Goodman, Alan Finch, Dale Rooks, Tim Bouquet, Sarah Mansell, Janet Sandys-Renton, Mike Harrington, Bob Pearson, Bob & Maria Pulley and Jenny Ramsay (for the Latin!). Also neighbours Jon and Ann Shapiro, Linda and Roger Heald, Sue and Phil Baker.