by Martin Lake
Alain slipped the envelope into his coat without opening it. Then he slid another envelope across the table to Chiappe.
‘One hundred thousand,’ he murmured. ‘How much do you and your boys get?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know and I wouldn’t want to tell you. Let’s just say that Le Taureau will be very happy with his cut. As I am with mine.’
Alain drank off the last of his coffee.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you…’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Chiappe said with a dismissive wave. ‘As if there’s anything you could possibly do for me.’
‘These are strange times, Gabriel. You never can tell.’
And without another word, he left the cafe, climbed onto his bike and rode off.
He had only gone two kilometres when he was stopped by a German patrol.
‘Ausweis,’ the soldier demanded.
Alain looked blank.
‘Die Papiere,’ the soldier said. ‘Your papers.’
Alain nodded and passed him his papers.
The German examined them with a thoroughness which was alarming. If anything proved the necessity of getting papers for David it was this.
The soldier stared at his bike. ‘You are the owner of this motorbike?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have proof?’ The soldier was leafing through the papers once again.
Alain gave him the paper-work for the bike.
The soldier studied it, although he could not read French well. ‘All is in order,’ he said, handing the papers back. ‘On your way.’
Alain hesitated. ‘Tell me, friend,’ he asked, ‘why have you come to Marseille?’
‘I am not your friend. And we have come to complete our conquest of the French.’
Alain smiled. ‘I appreciate your honesty, Monsieur.’
The soldier looked at him with cold eyes. ‘On your way,’ he repeated.
Alain kicked the bike into life and rode off.
He did not stop even once on the long journey home.
‘Have you got them?’ Viviane asked before he’d taken two steps into the house.
He grinned and passed her the envelope.
She looked aghast. ‘You’ve not even opened it. How do you know they’re in here?’
‘I know Gabriel,’ he said.
She darted him an angry look and tore the seal of the envelope. She studied the documents and gasped. ‘They’re all here. And papers for his mother.’
‘That was a gift.’ He gave her a hug. ‘The boy’s safe, now. Thanks to that mad old American.’
‘Perhaps you should come and see her.’
‘Perhaps I should. I have two bottles of 1921 Medoc. I think I’ll take her one.’
SEIZING CONTROL
Aix-en-Provence, 25 November 1942
Colonel Weiser climbed out of his car and looked around. The Fountain of the Rotonde was directly in front of him, its waters jetting above the basin, catching the autumn sun in a thousand joyful sparkles. Since being a student, he had wanted to visit Aix-en-Provence. But he had always imagined himself coming in happier times, as a solitary traveller perhaps, discovering the beauty of the Mediterranean region, or later with his growing family, maybe camping in the nearby countryside or staying in some cheap and friendly boarding house.
He had never imagined he would come at the head of an invading army, nor that he was to lead the administration of the city.
The capture of Aix had caused no problems. A number of the French troops offered resistance but the local commander saw that to continue would be futile and within a few hours ordered his men to surrender.
And now, Weiser was waiting to meet him and the civic dignitaries. A lot would depend on this first meeting, he thought. Whether the occupation of the town would be cordial with a minimum of trouble or, as more likely, with constant headaches and hindrances.
Five roads led from the Rotonde, every one of them lined by trees brimming with leaves of red or gold or copper.
Weiser straightened, seeing the line of cars nosing their way towards them. ‘Here comes the welcome committee,’ he said.
Otto Mundt nodded to the junior officers who deployed their men, ready for trouble.
The cars came to a halt, although the drivers did not turn off their engines, and half a dozen officials stepped out and walked nervously towards them.
‘Welcome to Aix-en-Provence,’ said the first official as he held out a hand.
Weiser refused the offer. A conqueror must remain apart, superior. But Mundt shook the man’s hand without thinking. It felt like a mackerel on a fishmonger’s slab, wet, cold and slimy. He did not bother to hide his distaste, wiping his own hand on his coat.
‘Are you the Mayor?’ Mundt asked. ‘This is Oberst Weiser, who will be in charge of the city.’
‘Alas the Mayor is indisposed,’ the man said. ‘I am Marcel Joubert, his Deputy.’
‘That’s not good enough,’ Mundt muttered.
‘He has a virus,’ Joubert explained. ‘Vomiting, diarrhoea.’
Weiser said nothing, wondering if this was the first example of the petty obstructionism he feared he would face.
‘I wish him a speedy recovery,’ Weiser said.
A few of the officials looked at him in surprise, astonished that a German could be so sympathetic. But the Deputy took it in his stride. He nodded, dolefully and then a winning look came over his face.
‘Your quarters are being prepared,’ he said. ‘They are the best in the city. I am to lead you to them.’
‘One minute,’ Weiser said. ‘I hear rumour that there is a camp nearby. At Les Milles. Where your Government interned people they considered undesirables. Intellectuals, dissidents, Jews.’
Joubert’s eyes narrowed. ‘That is now almost empty.’
‘And the inmates.’
Joubert licked his lips, nervously. ‘The authorities, in Vichy, ordered that they be sent to your country. To other camps.’
‘I hear that Jewish children were sent as well.’
Weiser saw Joubert’s Adam’s Apple leap up and down, as swift as dice thrown in a game. He inclined his head in a gesture that could be interpreted in any number of ways.
‘The Reich did not ask for these children,’ Weiser continued. ‘The French volunteered for them to be sent.’
‘By the Prime Minister, Pierre Laval,’ Joubert said. ‘In Vichy.’
Weiser stared at the man for a long while. ‘And locals delivered them up. Men like you, perhaps.’
Joubert did not know how to answer. Again he sought safety by trying to appear uninvolved. ‘By this time the camp was being run by Rodellec Porzic, the Intendant of Police in Marseilles.’
Weiser’s face grew cold. ‘Tell me, Monsieur Deputy, who is worse, the Pied Piper or the king of rats who capers beside him, joyful that it is children and not rats who are going to their doom?’
‘Alas for these times,’ said Joubert.
The air hung heavily over the meeting.
‘I do not wish to see this camp,’ Weiser said, abruptly. ‘I wish it to be closed. Immediately.’
‘And the inmates?’
‘Do with them as you wish. As long as they remain in France.’
Joubert looked jubilant at the news. Weiser and Mundt exchanged glances, questioning the sincerity of his reaction.
‘Now escort the Oberst to his headquarters,’ Mundt said. ‘And see that the camp is closed.’
‘As you command,’ said Joubert.
The Wehrmacht were given an impressive headquarters by the city authorities. Mundt was content. Most of the managers were middle-aged men who were dedicated professionals and followed any instructions quickly and efficiently. There were a dozen women, mostly typists, and he selected the prettiest to be his assistant.
‘She’s not very good at typing,’ he explained to a fellow officer, ‘but she has a lovely face and gorgeous eyes.’
‘Why employ her as
your assistant, though?’ the man responded. ‘Just strip her naked and take her over your desk. If she satisfies you, send her back to the typing pool and summon her whenever you have an itch. If she’s no good just sack her. But there’s no need to employ her.’
Mundt pondered his advice but ignored it. He liked to be surrounded by beauty.
A few days later the itch grew strong and he summoned the young woman to his office. ‘Lock the door,’ he ordered.
She did so and turned to face him, face white with fear.
‘Clear the desk,’ he said. ‘Then take your clothes off.’
The act proved swift and perfunctory. She said no word nor made no sound, throughout. He blushed as he climbed off her, feeling rather ashamed.
She put on her clothes hastily, her face averted in shame. He understood this, for he felt the same.
‘This will not be the last time,’ he warned her, forcing himself to sound hard and harsh.
She nodded and fled from the room, racing past an officer who was striding towards the colonel’s office. He glanced at her in surprise, then rapped once on the door and threw it open.
Weiser leapt to his feet, ready to yell at whoever had the temerity to disturb him in such a manner.
Then he saw who it was and gave the Nazi salute. ‘General Blaskowitz,’ he said.
The General touched his cap and drew up a chair.
‘I hear you’ve ordered that the camp at Les Milles be closed,’ he said. He was a man known for getting straight to the point.
‘Yes, my General.’
Blaskowitz considered this carefully. ‘I understand,’ he said, finally. ‘But may I counsel you to be circumspect. You don’t want to get yourself a reputation.’
Like you have, Weiser thought, although he did not say it. It was common knowledge that Blaskowitz would have been made a Field Marshal were it not for his fierce and vocal opposition to the worst excesses of the SS in Poland.
Weiser offered the General a cigarette but he refused it. ‘Is Aix calm?’ he asked.
‘It is,’ Weiser said. ‘There was opposition when we first arrived but it was trifling. The Mayor has removed himself to the hospital but his deputy is proving compliant and effective.’
‘Good. Then Aix can spare you for a few days.’
‘As you wish, General.’
Blaskowitz stared at him thoughtfully before continuing. ‘You will recall, Colonel, that the British Royal Navy attacked French ships in Algeria in 1940 and put five of them out of action. It led to a great deal of anti-British feeling amongst the French, which was of benefit to us, of course.’
Weiser nodded, although he thought that any benefits had been slight, at best.
‘May I?’ Blaskowitz indicated a map of the region and tapped his fingers on the town of Toulon.
‘This is where the rest of the French fleet is berthed,’ he continued. ‘Three battleships, seven cruisers, eighteen destroyers, twenty submarines and dozens of other craft.
‘Grand-Admiral Raeder believes that the Pétain government and the French Navy are still incensed about the British attack and will not allow the fleet at Toulon to fall into the hands of the Allies. He thinks that this sentiment will lead them to hand over their ships to the Italians.
‘Hitler believes otherwise. He fears that the French will set sail for North Africa and put the Fleet in the hands of the Allies. He has sent secret orders that we are to seize the fleet. It will be a great prize. And it may tip the scales in the Mediterranean. Perhaps even make the English and the Americans sue for peace.
‘The ships will be given to our navy?’ Weiser asked.
‘Unfortunately, no. Hitler wants us to hand them over to the Italians.’
Weiser heard this without comment. He had no experience of the Italians apart from the rumours that they were poor soldiers who would have been annihilated in the Desert War if Rommel had not come to their aid. If he ever thought of Mussolini it was with contempt.
‘I want you to go with General Keppler to Toulon,’ Blaskowitz continued. ‘You are to liaise with the Italian forces there. General Keppler is not noted as a diplomatic man and we need to maintain the friendliest of relations with the Italians. You are to leave immediately. The attack on the port will start in thirty-six hours.’
DIVIDING UP THE SPOILS
27 November 1942
General Blaskowitz had made it clear that Weiser was not to be involved in the attack on Toulon so he had stationed himself on the hills to the north of the city to wait for events to unfold.
General Keppler informed him that the operation would start at 4:00 am with tanks and armoured vehicles pouring into the port from east and west. Weiser gave his orderly instructions to be woken at 5:30 to give him time to wash and shave before the light grew bright enough to witness events.
Now, two hours later, he watched open-mouthed with shock. The French had scuttled their ships. Some had their sea valves opened and were already sinking. Others had suffered catastrophic explosions, destroying armaments and fuel.
A thick pall of smoke rose in the morning air above the harbour.
Weiser shook his head in disbelief and summoned Otto Mundt to join him.
‘We’re going down to the port,’ he said.
‘But the General told you not to join the attack —’
‘The attack has failed. We’re going to see why.’
Weiser stared at the ships still burning in the harbour. It was now evening and Keppler’s troops stood beside their tanks, watching as the ships blazed. It reminded him of Berliners watching their homes burn after a bombing raid. They were shocked, numb, could barely believe what had happened.
So much for General Keppler’s much vaunted military prowess. The operation had been a fiasco.
Had he seized control of the French fleet the Allies might have been reluctant to launch an invasion across the Mediterranean. But the scuttling of the ships had ended any hope of thwarting them.
A feeling of foreboding gnawed at him. The war appeared to be entering a more dangerous phase.
A corporal approached and asked him to attend a conference with the General. He signalled to Mundt to join him.
General Keppler was sitting at a table with his staff officers. They were all silent and shocked. Like the Eastern Front, Weiser thought. Three Italian officers were also there, a Brigadier, a General and an Admiral. Weiser and Mundt were instructed to sit next to them.
‘It was a fiasco,’ began the Italian Admiral. Dismay and disappointment were etched upon his face.
Keppler looked at him as if he were some disgusting insect.
‘The French were forewarned,’ the General’s adjutant said. He glared at the Admiral as if it were he who had personally given them the warning. ‘They had plenty of time to lay charges and prepare the sea valves for opening.’
The Italian soldiers glanced at each other. The Brigadier appeared to show some sympathy towards his German counterparts but the other, a Major-General, showed a trace of satisfaction at the outcome. He had suffered more than enough contempt from the ever-victorious Wehrmacht not to feel a twinge of pleasure at their present chagrin.
‘Seventy-five ships scuttled,’ continued the Admiral. ‘It is lamentable.’ He threw his arms in the air. ‘You may have lost the war, Keppler. The ships would have made us the masters of the sea.’
‘They would have made the German Navy masters of the sea,’ said Keppler icily, ‘but, alas, the Führer intended to donate them to you Italians.’ He turned to his adjutant. ‘I doubt Italian prima donnas would have known how to use them.’
‘How dare you!’ cried the Admiral, leaping to his feet.
‘Hush, Leonetti,’ said the Italian General. ‘There is no need for friends to quarrel.’
The Admiral pointed to the dock where the ships were still burning. ‘Beyond that pall of smoke lies the Mediterranean. And beyond that lies vast American and British armies. It took them only a week to conquer Morocco and Algeria. How’s
that for a Blitzkrieg? They could conquer Tunisia in as little time and then they will be less than three hundred kilometres from Sicily.’
‘Enough of this defeatist talk,’ Keppler said. ‘What’s done is done.’
‘And Italy is the loser because of your failure.’
General Keppler clenched his fist.
‘Careful, Admiral Leonetti,’ the German adjutant warned. ‘The Führer will not be pleased to hear how you insult one of his commanders.’
‘And Il Duce will not be happy at this German failure,’ replied the Admiral before storming off.
‘And we are to give you the southern half of France?’ Keppler said to his adjutant. ‘Folly.’
He marched off, leaving his officers staring at the table.
Weiser and Mundt departed from the conference in silence. They did not say a word until their car was heading west towards Aix.
‘So much for the Pact of Steel.’ Mundt said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Tell me, what use are the Italians?’
Weiser shrugged. ‘As Keppler said, they produce the finest prima donnas for the world of opera.’
Mundt laughed, swallowed too much cigarette smoke and choked.
‘But seriously,’ he continued, when he had recovered his breath. ‘The Italians are to be given the French Riviera? General Blaskowitz should move east to the border.’ He gave Weiser a dark look. ‘Perhaps even on to Rome.’’
‘The Führer wants to keep Mussolini sweet, Otto. There’s nothing we nor General Blaskowitz can do about it.’
‘Why does Hitler mollify him so much? The man’s a buffoon.’
‘The English say that about Hitler, don’t forget.’
Mundt raised an eyebrow. ‘True. Except Hitler’s anything but a buffoon. Mussolini would be better employed in a circus. Not as a lion but a chimp.’
‘You’d better keep those thoughts to yourself,’ Weiser said.
Mundt did not speak for a while, staring out of the window at the unfolding landscape.
‘Will we have to leave Aix?’ he said at last. ‘My assistant is a pretty little thing.’
‘You should try to control your urges more, Otto.’ Weiser opened his cigarette case but then thought better of it and put it back in his pocket. There was enough smoke in the car from his friend’s cigarette.