Cry of the Heart

by Martin Lake

  His posting to France was, therefore, something he considered a blessing. He would have preferred to be sent to Bordeaux or Burgundy and was even prepared to risk being sent to Lyon despite it being a hotbed of the Resistance. But Grasse was pleasant enough he thought and the local wines light and refreshing.

  He spent his first three days in Grasse organising his command and showing the Mayor and his officials, in no uncertain terms, that he was in command now. They seemed to acquiesce in this remarkably easily which aroused his suspicions. Were they pleased that the Italians had taken over their town or just dismissive?

  He experimented with how he dealt with them, at one time pleasant and professional, at others friendly and complicit, on occasion brusque to the point of aggression. Nothing he did seemed to change their attitude to him. It was as if he were an irritant that they knew they must endure before he eventually disappeared, like a summer mosquito or a winter ailment.

  He reflected on this bitterly for a whole two hours but then the smell of a mutton stew wafted into his window and he went off to dine. The meal was so delicious that he left the brasserie in good humour and decided to explore the town.

  He took three soldiers with him, two of them callow young men who had only recently been in school. The third was Fabio Salgari, a sergeant of mature years who had fought in Abyssinia and on the eastern front and could be relied on in an any emergency. He also appeared to like Marinelli, an emotion few of the command shared.

  They tramped the streets for an hour or two. Despite his appearance Marinelli had a good military mind, and his early experience of maps and logistics enabled him to ascertain the salient features of any landscape with barely a glance. By the time they had traversed the street a couple of times he had a good idea of the areas where any insurgencies would have advantage, potential death-traps and also the places where he could best deploy his forces to dominate and over-awe the city.

  Finally, he saw an épicerie, one of the largest food-shops in Grasse and told the young men to wait inside while he and Salgari entered the shop. The scent of sausages, cheese and herbs played over them.

  The owner eyed them suspiciously as they approached.

  ‘I am Capitano Marinelli,’ he informed the man.

  ‘I guessed as much.’.

  Marinelli’s eyes narrowed. Was the man being disrespectful or was he simply a fool? He glanced at Salgari who stared at the man with blank expression.

  Marinelli picked up a dried sausage and sniffed it. ‘This smells good,’ he said.

  ‘Wild boar and mushrooms,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘I can give you a good price.’

  Marinelli smiled. The shopkeeper realised that as the head of an occupying force, the Italian captain could take whatever he wanted, paying nothing or, at best, leaving a few coins which were a fraction of the price.

  Marinelli, however, played a different game. He was well aware that if he did that the best foods and wine would be hidden from them. He decided instead to offer what he knew to be a reasonably fair price.

  The shopkeeper told him the price of the sausage and Marinelli agreed it. Then he bent to examine the bottles of wine on the racks.

  ‘All Provence wines,’ Marinelli said. ‘Have you nothing better?’

  ‘The Germans have bought up most of the best wine,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘This is as fine as you’ll find in Grasse.’

  ‘No Bordeaux, no Burgundy, no champagne?’

  The man hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘Not in my shop, nor any shop in the town.’

  ‘But judging from your demeanour, there is another source of supply.’

  The shopkeeper nodded. ‘Perhaps Alain Renaud has a few better bottles.’

  Marinelli grinned.

  Viviane froze at the heavy knocking on the door. She looked about wildly. Alain was in the storeroom and Celeste and David were playing with her dolls in a patch of sunlight on the floor.

  The knocking came again, louder and more insistent.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the door. The Italian officer bowed politely. He appreciated attractive women almost as much as fine food.

  She stared at him, her face like stone. She heard the children playing behind her but dared not call to quieten them, for to do so would only serve to focus his attention on them.

  ‘You have children, signora,’ he said, craning his neck to peer around her.

  ‘Two,’ she mumbled. ‘A girl and a boy.’

  ‘I congratulate you,’ he said. ‘I have three sons. They are good boys but my wife yearned for a daughter in vain.’

  To her surprise he opened a wallet and showed him a picture of a woman with three children. ‘I took this photograph myself,’ he said proudly. ‘At our holiday home in Sorrento.’

  Viviane stared at him in surprise. Surely only rich people had holiday homes.

  ‘Would I be right in thinking that you are Signora Viviane Renaud?’ he continued.

  Viviane nodded. She was too afraid to speak in case her voice gave her away.

  ‘And is your husband here?’

  She gave a nervous cough. ‘He’s in his storeroom. Across the street.’

  ‘Grazie, Madame.’ The little man turned on his heel and marched across the street. The two young soldiers leered at Viviane until their sergeant sharply told them to go with the Capitaino. He then gave Viviane a little bow and followed them to the storeroom.

  Alain was rummaging in a chest at the far side of the room when he heard footsteps. He closed the lid and covered it with an old rug.

  ‘Signor Renaud?’ said a voice from the door.

  Alain glanced around to see if there was anything incriminating on show and hurried to the door.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. He made his voice friendly and relaxed, a skill he had learnt while still a youth.

  ‘The shopkeeper in the epicerie said you are a whole-seller of good wines,’ Marinelli said. He had actually said something more insulting but the Italian thought it politic not to repeat it.

  ‘And what of it?’

  ‘I like good wine,’ Marinelli said. ‘Italian wines, of course, for they are excellent. But I tend to prefer French wine.’

  Alain stared at him, thoughtfully. ‘And this has brought you here…?’

  Marinelli laughed. ‘To buy some of your wines, of course. If you have any.’

  ‘Some. But I’m afraid that your allies have bought up most of the best wine.’

  ‘Perhaps they are also connoisseurs.’

  Alain raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘I have some good Provencel wines. Bandol, Billet.’

  The Italian did not answer, as if he were unimpressed by such names.

  ‘And some Cotes de Rhone,’ Alain said, slowly, watching the Italian’s face narrowly. ‘And a few Chateauneuf du Pape, three Gigondas and a couple of Bordeaux.’

  Marinelli beamed and held out his hands. ‘I think we understand each other, Signor Renaud,’ he said.

  Renaud gave an equally fulsome smile. This one, he thought, might be very useful to know.

  THE MARSEILLE ROUND-UP

  Marseille, 22 January 1943

  Alain parked his motorbike in the lean-to behind the hotel. He had tried to get Dorothy’s car parts from Nice but without success. His best contacts were in Marseilles so, reluctantly, he had returned here. He had no intention of telling Viviane he had come here, however.

  He strolled into the hotel and glanced around. There were two old men huddled over their wine in a corner. Monsieur Guizot stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with a filthy rag. He glanced up, saw Alain and grunted in greeting. He poured a generous measure of wine into the glass and shoved it across the bar.

  Alain took a sip and nodded. ‘Good stuff, Sergei. Where did you get it?’

  Guizot tapped the side of his nose and shook his head. Some things were best kept secret.

  ‘You want a bed?’ he asked.

  Alain nodded. ‘Is there room?’

  Guizot gave a bark of
a laugh. ‘I had a travelling salesman stay here on New Year’s Day. Nothing else for the last three weeks.’

  One of the old men glanced up and then bent once again to his wine.

  Guizot leaned over the bar and spoke in little more than a whisper. ‘What are you after, Alain? There are slim pickings since the Bosch arrived. They’ve clamped down on almost everything and I hear that trade from Algeria has dried up completely.’

  ‘I’m after some parts for a car.’

  Guizot poured himself a glass of wine and waved it in front of Alain’s nose. ‘You’re paying for this, right?’

  Alain nodded.

  Guizot took a glug of wine. ‘Vincente Bardin deals in car parts,’ he said. ‘Your friend Chiappe knows him.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He has a little garage in Rue des Ferrats. Just beyond the port.’

  Alain swigged the rest of his wine and made for the door.

  Vincente Bardin was suspicious of Alain and refused to sell him anything. It was only when Alain mentioned that he was a friend of Gabriel Chiappe that he relaxed his guard a little.

  ‘If you know Gabriel, bring him here to vouch for you. If not, piss off.’

  Alain found Gabriel in one of his favourite haunts, a bar on the quayside with half a dozen male customers and rather more young women. A young blond eyed Alain as he entered and slipped towards him as smoothly as a leopard.

  ‘It’s other business I’m seeking,’ Alain said.

  The woman touched him on his chest, hand light as a feather, and gave him an amused and knowing look.

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ she said. ‘Want to buy me a drink?’

  ‘A coffee for the lady,’ Alain called to the barman.

  ‘You’re a funny man,’ she sneered at him angrily, striding back to her former seat.

  Chiappe signalled to the barman for two beers and beckoned Alain to his table.

  ‘Louise is a good girl, Alain,’ he said. ‘Clean and very obliging. You could do a lot worse.’

  ‘I prefer better. And she’s waiting at home for me.’

  Chiappe chuckled and offered Alain a cigarette. ‘So what brings you back to Marseille?’ he asked.

  ‘I need a carburettor.’

  Chiappe frowned. ‘You can get them anywhere. Even in Grasse.’

  ‘This is for a Chrysler Imperial.’

  ‘American.’ Chiappe stared out of the window, his brow furrowed in thought. ‘Vincente Bardin should have one.’

  ‘Bardin sent me here to bring you to his garage to vouch for me.’

  Chiappe gave him a look of surprise and gestured to a man who had been sitting silently at the back of the bar. Chiappe whispered in his ear and the man left the cafe.

  They had not quite finished their beer when the door crashed open. Bardin almost flew in, propelled by a shove from Chiappe’s accomplice.

  Chiappe’s face was incredulous. ‘You wanted me to come to you?’ he demanded.

  ‘I didn’t think he knew you,’ Bardin began, pointing at Alain. ‘I didn’t mean —’

  Chiappe nodded to his accomplice who slapped Bardin across the face.

  ‘Do you have the part my friend requires?’ Chiappe asked.

  Bardin reached inside a bag. ‘It’s pretty rare. Not cheap.’

  ‘It’s no price, you worm. You disrespected my friend and me.’

  Bardin licked his lips, nervously. ‘I’m honoured to give such a gift to your friend,’ he said. He placed the carburettor on the table and took a step backwards.

  ‘Au revoir, Vincente,’ Chiappe said. ‘And be more careful in the future.’

  Chiappe drained the last of his beer.

  ‘Come on, Alain, you can buy me some lunch.’

  They strolled out of the bar and headed in the direction of La Canebière where the best restaurants could be found.

  ‘Is it my imagination or is the town very quiet?’ Alain asked.

  Chiappe gave him a shrewd glance. ‘You’ve noticed? There’s something brewing but I don’t know what it is. It makes me uneasy. I’ve heard that trains loaded with police came down from Paris in the middle of the night. Not right into the city but to the little stations beyond.’

  He stopped and murmured in Alain’s ear. ‘And Paul Carbone has gone missing.’

  Alain glanced around nervously. Carbone was one of the most powerful gangsters in France. Even Le Taureau was afraid of him. ‘Is he dead? Will there be a gang war?’

  Chiappe shook his head. ‘It’s stranger. Rumour has it that he’s given himself up to the Police.’

  Alain looked disbelieving. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know…’ Chiappe stopped mid-sentence and then hurried to the side of the road, frantically beckoning Alain to join him.

  Racing down the road were a stream of armoured vehicles, with two Panzer tanks at their head. On either side ran columns of German soldiers interspersed with French policemen and even some members of the newly formed militia, the Milice française.

  A few brave souls ventured out to try to reason with the French police but they were gunned down by the soldiers. Bystanders fled at the sight of this, almost trampling each other in their desperation to flee.

  Alain felt himself being grabbed by the sleeve. ‘Come on, you fool,’ Chiappe yelled, dragging him into a small yard.

  There seemed no end to the men clattering down the street. Alain peered out and saw that the soldiers were fanning out along the port while the police and Milice hammered on doors, dragging out the occupants whether men, women or children. Any who tried to resist were savagely beaten. Alain could not believe what Frenchmen were doing to their own citizens.

  ‘There’s no way out of here,’ Chiappe said. ‘Let’s just hope we’re not seen.’

  He spoke too soon. A member of the Milice paused at their hiding-place to take a breath. He glanced into the shadows and saw them. A wide grin crossed his face and he told them to come out. It was the last thing he did. Chiappe stepped forward, as if to obey, and plunged a knife into his heart.

  ‘You bloody fool,’ Alain said.

  ‘Shut your mouth and help me get him out of sight.’

  Chiappe took off the militia-man’s uniform and put it on over his own clothes. ‘Pass me his gun,’ he ordered Alain. ‘You’re to pretend to be my prisoner.’

  He hustled Alain out onto the street. It was utter mayhem.

  Long lines of people were now being forced up the road in the direction of the train station. Chiappe forced his way into the throng. Police and Milice guards were enjoying their work. Marseille had always had a reputation as a criminal town and these men were convinced that they were clearing out a nest of vipers. They attacked anyone who tried to remonstrate with them with chilling brutality.

  ‘And they call me a law-breaker,’ Chiappe murmured quietly.

  At that moment a fierce hubbub broke out to their left. An elderly man was bundled out of his house, followed by weeping women.

  ‘My father’s a rabbi,’ cried one of the women. ‘Don’t let them take him.’ A member of the Milice punched her in the mouth and dragged her to the side of the road where he was joined by two others who kicked her where she lay.

  ‘We’ve got to help her,’ Alain said.

  ‘Are you crazy? We’d end up just like her.’

  They continued along the street until where the road turned left towards the train station. Here the sheer press of people stopped their progress. Chiappe seized his chance.

  He pushed Alain to the side of the crowd and then headed towards the Théâtre du Gymnase. ‘We must hurry,’ he said. ‘Our best chance is to get away while there’s still chaos on the streets.’

  They slunk through the narrow streets to the east of the theatre until the tumult of the round-up had quietened. Then Chiappe pulled off the Milice uniform and hid it behind a rubbish bin. ‘I don’t think this will be a healthy uniform to be wearing now,’ he said.

  He glanced up at the s
treets. ‘We should walk for a kilometre, keep to the quietest streets. Then we’ll steal a car.’

  ‘My bike is at Guizot’s Hotel.’

  ‘It will have to stay there. It’s too dangerous to go back into the city.’ He did not wait for an answer but led the way deep into the back streets.

  After half an hour he found a battered old car and cranked it into life. The owner of the car leapt out at the noise but Chiappe casually pulled out a gun. ‘I’m borrowing it to go to a funeral,’ he said. ‘Best make sure it’s not yours.’

  The man fled back into his house. Alain climbed into the passenger seat and they were off.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Alain asked as they reached the outskirts of the city.

  ‘I thought I’d drop you home,’ Chiappe said. ‘It will be nice to meet your wife and family.’

  THE JOURNEY HOME

  On the road to Grasse 23 January 1943

  The car struggled along the hilly roads leading to Grasse, its little engine complaining all the way. They stopped at the edge of Brignoles for the night, checking into an auberge owned by a man as noisome as his rooms. He didn’t seem to be concerned that they had no luggage and insisted they joined him in a drink at the bar.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked, spitting into a glass and wiping it away with his fingers. He poured them small glasses of rough cognac.

  Alain shook his head, leaning back a little to avoid the man’s rank breath.

  ‘The police and militia are clearing out the scum in Marseilles,’ the innkeeper said. ‘Not before time, if you ask me. My son’s in the militia and he’s taking part. He’s a good boy although he’s got himself into trouble a couple of times. Being in the militia should help sort him out.’