by Martin Lake
‘I’ve never been to Marseilles,’ Chiappe said. ‘Too dangerous for me, with all those smugglers and gangsters.’
‘The militia will sort that lot out,’ the innkeeper said. ‘And the Germans will teach them what’s what. France has needed a kick up the arse for years if you ask me. Filthy socialists and Jews deserve what they get.’
Alain raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the Maréchal,’ he said.
The man’s mouth pursed. ‘The old man’s a has-been. Laval’s the man for the times now. It won’t be long before Hitler welcomes France as an equal. And then we’ll see what happens to England and the Russian scum.’
‘But what about the Americans?’ Alain asked quietly. ‘I hear they and the English have conquered Algeria.’
‘Lies.’ The man spat on the floor. ‘England’s finished, bombed to smithereens. Their king has fled to Canada and Churchill has been locked up in an asylum.’
He poured them another glass each. ‘And now that we’ve taken back control of the whole country, we’ll use our fleet to help the Germans invade America.’
Chiappe nearly choked on his drink. ‘But the fleet has been scuttled. We’ve no ships left.’
‘More lies.’ He glanced at Alain. ‘Is your friend a member of the Resistance? If he’s a Jew he’s not welcome.’
Alain shook his head. ‘He’s an ex-sailor. He helped scuttle the ships.’
The man looked at him with contempt. ‘You bloody rumour-monger. You’re not welcome here.’ He reached for the telephone on the bar.
There was a sound like a car backfiring. The innkeeper looked shocked and his hand went to his chest. Blood began to stain his already stained apron. Then he slid to the floor.
‘Why did you do that?’ Alain asked.
‘He was going to betray us. Besides, he stank to high heaven.’
‘But if the body is found —’
‘It won’t be. There are plenty of hungry dogs who will enjoy the feast. Come on, we’ll lug him out the back.’
Alain shook his head in disbelief before helping Chiappe move the body. The growls of dogs and other creatures went long into the night.
They were on their way the next morning. There was no food in the inn and precious little money. Chiappe pocketed what there was in the till together with some bottles of spirits.
‘I doubt the old bastard will be missed,’ he said as they drove through the town.
Alain nodded. He gave no thought to the innkeeper. His mind kept going back to what he had witnessed in Marseille. It was not what the Germans did. That was to be expected. It was how the police and Milice behaved which chilled him most. The guardians of the people had become their enemies.
Chiappe, on the other hand, seemed not to reflect upon it at all. He had, after all, survived numerous gangland wars.
They got to Grasse late in the afternoon. The sun struggled to get through rank upon rank of ominous, grey clouds. Chiappe decided it would be best to abandon the car and drove it into a wood. He stopped only when he thought it could not be seen from the road.
Alain opened the bonnet and began to pull out any parts which might fetch a price in the market. Chiappe laughed at his enthusiasm for the task. ‘We don’t change our natures, old friend,’ he said. Then he turned towards Grasse and grinned.
A shiver of disquiet ran through Alain. Although he was his friend, Chiappe was a seasoned criminal. His coming to Grasse might prove dangerous for the town and Alain would be blamed for it. He felt like a shepherd might do when bringing a wolf home to meet his flock.
The rain started before they reached the town and when they got to Alain’s home they were drenched and cold.
Viviane looked overjoyed to see him and caught him in her arms.
‘You’ve been gone so long. I wondered what had happened to you.’
But then she caught a glimpse of Chiappe and her face darkened.
‘This is an old friend,’ Alain said. ‘He’s staying the night.’
She looked at him in consternation but then forced a smile on her face and shook Chiappe’s hand. ‘You are welcome,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer the sort of hospitality you might be used to in Nice —’
‘I’m not from Nice. I live in Marseille.’
Viviane gave Alain an angry glance. ‘You promised you wouldn’t return to Marseille. It’s too dangerous with the Germans there.’
‘I couldn’t get Dorothy’s carburettor in Nice. She needs it.’
‘Not enough for you to risk your life.’
‘You’ve already heard then,’ Chiappe said in surprise.
Viviane stared at him. ‘Heard what?’ Her voice was cold and fearful.
‘About the round-up. The Germans and Milice have attacked the old port area and are taking its people away. I’ve no idea where or why.’
Alain sighed. ‘We were quite safe,’ he said. ‘We were well away from any trouble.’
‘Then why is your friend here?’ Viviane asked.
Chiappe smiled. ‘I’m not keen on the Germans,’ he said. ‘We thought it best if I made myself scarce.’
If he thought this might appease Viviane he was mistaken. ‘So you are a wanted man. Will I find the Germans hammering on my door next?’
She glared at Alain. He had endangered all their lives. If the Germans came then David might be taken. All of them might be taken.
‘Gabriel is not staying here long,’ Alain said. ‘If you must know, it was he who helped me escape from Marseille.’
‘But you said you were in no danger there.’
Alain struggled to find an answer.
‘That is true,’ Chiappe said to Viviane smoothly. ‘But it was rapidly becoming dangerous. Arrests, examining identity papers, beatings and who knows what else to follow. I thought it best to bring Alain back to his family.’
‘And for that I’m grateful –’
‘But only grateful enough to let me stay one night.’
‘We understand each other perfectly, Monsieur...’
‘Call me Gabriel, please. I am an old friend of Alain.’
Viviane gasped. ‘Gabriel. You’re the man who got David’s papers.’
Chiappe inclined his head.
Viviane grabbed his hands and kissed them.
‘You’re very welcome, very welcome.’
‘You are drenched, both of you. Alain, get some towels for Gabriel and change your own clothes. I’ll get you some supper.’
Viviane lay speechless in bed that night while Alain related what he had witnessed in Marseille. He had been reluctant to tell her the details for fear that it would alarm her too much. But she soon made it clear that any evasions and half-truths would only exacerbate her fears and he told her most of what he had seen.
He did not mention the young Jewish woman being kicked half to death by the Milice nor the fact that Chiappe had killed two men during their escape. Some things were best left unsaid.
When he had finished, she crawled into his arms, her breath hot against his cheek.
‘What is happening to the world?’ she whispered.
‘A madness,’ Alain said. ‘A sickness, a fever. But like all maladies it will pass in time.’
Viviane heard what he said and prayed that he was right. ‘But some maladies can kill,’ she said at last.
Alain squeezed her hand. ‘But in this case, I think only those who are foolish or careless will die. We must make sure that we are neither of these.’
We must, she thought. Although maybe that path had been lost forever when she took in David.
They made a sparse breakfast of coffee and dried bread the following morning. Chiappe had only coffee and two foul-smelling cigarettes. The children looked at him with wide-eyed amazement, as if he were some visitor from a distant planet. Perhaps, in some ways, he was.
‘I’ve been thinking, Alain,’ he said at last. ‘You and I should go into partnership. I didn’t say yesterday but I recognised quite a few of my old colleagues being arrested
by the police in Marseille.’
‘Why was that?’ Viviane asked, her voice cold and suspicious.
‘We are black marketeers,’ he said. ‘We keep the wheels of France turning, we keep the bellies of our children fed. The authorities do not like us for it because we are more popular than them.’
She was not sure if she believed this. For all his smoothness and courtesy there was a hard and dangerous air about him. But surely Alain would not have dealings with anyone too dubious? He called Gabriel his friend and they certainly acted as if they were. And he had helped Alain escape from Marseille.
‘What about it, my friend,’ Chiappe continued. ‘You and me as partners?’
To Viviane’s surprise, Alain seemed less than enthusiastic about the suggestion.
‘I don’t know, Gabriel. Grasse is a small town. I’m not sure it’s the best milieu for you.’
Chiappe chuckled at his careful use of milieu, the word the police used to denote the underworld of mobs and crime.
‘I don’t mean here,’ he said. ‘Christ, but I’d be bored to death here. No, I mean to move to Nice. Once I’ve set myself up there, we can continue to do business as before. But as partners, fifty percent.’
Alain gave him a shrewd glance. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Times change. Only the swift and the clever will thrive.’
Alain gulped. His words were similar to the ones he had used to Viviane in bed. ‘It’s a fine offer, Gabriel,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t think too long. There are others who will jump at the chance.’
Alain nodded. As long as the Nice mobs were willing to accommodate him, he was likely to do well in the city. It was smaller, there were less opportunities, but also less cut-throat competition. And with Marseille in the hands of the Germans, it would be a safer bet for him to trade there from now on. The more he thought about it, the more attractive Chiappe’s offer seemed.
‘I won’t think too long,’ Alain said. ‘When will you leave?’
Chiappe laughed. ‘I never outstay my welcome. Just tell me how to get to Nice and I’ll be on my way.’
‘I’d take you on my motorbike,’ Alain said. ‘If I still had it.’
‘Some petrol will do,’ Chiappe said. ‘Don’t forget I left my car on the edge of town when it ran out.’
They left within the hour. Alain brought along the parts he had removed from the car the night before while Chiappe carried a bag of food and a can of petrol.
‘I’ll take you by the back roads,’ Alain said. ‘We don’t want to be stopped and questioned.’
He spoke too soon. On the outskirts of the town they were stopped by an Italian soldier who looked little more than a child. He must have sensed something dangerous about Chiappe for his hands shook with anxiety as he examined his identity papers. ‘Thank you very much,’ he stuttered nervously as he handed them back, hurrying away as soon as he had done so.
‘You still have it,’ Alain said to Chiappe with a chuckle.
‘Have what?’
‘The aura of menace. Like James Cagney.’
‘Do I? I hadn’t realised.’ Chiappe gave a smile of pleasure. He had always known, of course.
They reached the car without mishap. Chiappe filled up the tank while Alain replaced the engine parts.
‘Don’t forget my offer,’ Chiappe said. ‘And don’t leave it too long until you say yes.’
Alain touched him on the arm. ‘Tell me one thing, my friend. Why do you want me as a partner? I am a small fish after all.’
‘Because I trust you. And trust will soon be the most important currency in France.’
CHOICES
Grasse, 1 February 1943
Alain took only a week to decide on Chiappe’s offer. Part of him wanted to accept because in a world going steadily more criminal it seemed that criminals like Chiappe might thrive better than most. But Viviane was adamant that he should have as little to do with him as possible. And going into partnership was out of the question.
‘What if Chiappe’s arrested?’ she demanded. ‘What if you’re incriminated? Do you think that once he’s caged he won’t sing like a bird? And then what will happen to David? To us? To Celeste?’
She knew that the intimation of any danger to Celeste would make up Alain’s mind. He threw up his hands in surrender.
The next day he took David with him when he went to Dorothy’s to mend her car. She was delighted to see them but gave Alain a knowing look.
‘Something wrong?’ she asked.
He frowned. ‘Yes, plenty. Are you a witch to read this with only one glance at me?’
‘Nope, I’m a scriptwriter.’ She touched his hand. ‘Leave the car for a little while. Come and tell me what’s troubling you.’
She called Marie to look after David while she took Alain inside and gave him a coffee and a cognac.
Dorothy was a skilled questioner and Alain had soon told her what he had seen in Marseilles. He included the attack on the woman.
‘So you escaped with this mobster friend of yours?’ she said, when he had finished. ‘That must have made things a little easier. I don’t suppose he was too fussy about what he had to do in order to make his escape.’
Alain smiled. ‘You really are a scriptwriter, Dorothy. But not all shady characters are like Bogart and Cagney.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’ She poured him a second glass of cognac. ‘So where’s this friend of yours now?’
‘He went to Nice. He thought Marseille might be a bit too hot for him.’
She snorted. ‘I think he might be wrong there. The Nazis and the mob are as alike as Satan and Beelzebub. They’ll get along like old pals.’
‘As long as they stay away from Grasse. At least the Italians are human.’
‘Civilised as well. I think they like the good life. Emilio Marinelli is a sweetie.’
Alain glanced at her. ‘You’re on first name terms, I see.’
Dorothy gave him a reproving look. ‘I invited him over for a soiree. He’s a great fan of Hollywood films. When I told him I knew Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy he was all over me like a rash.’
Alain did not say anything for a little while. When he spoke again it was in a low and troubled voice. ‘What they did in Marseilles, the Germans, the police and the Milice. Do you think it bodes ill for David?’
Dorothy sighed. It was a question she had asked herself since the Germans had taken over most of the south and she still had no clear answer.
‘I think it might if the Germans occupied east of the Rhone. But I don’t think they will. For some peculiar reason Hitler still supports Mussolini. Maybe it’s because Benito was the first Fascist to take power and showed Hitler what he might achieve. I think he’s still a little enamoured of him, a touch of hero-worship if you like. Because of this, he’ll let Il Duce have his little empire.’
She took a swig of her coffee before continuing. ‘‘It’s not an easy place to occupy for the Krauts, in any case. All mountains and barren narrow valleys. And the flesh-pots of the coast might prove far too enticing a temptation for stern Aryan warriors.’
Alain sighed. He had no idea if Dorothy would be proved right or wrong. But increasingly he craved certainty. And this odd American woman certainly offered that.
‘I’d better get on with fixing your engine,’ he said.
‘And then you’ll stop for some lunch, I hope.’
Alain collected some tools from the garage and began to work at the engine. As if by magic, David appeared and squatted beside him.
‘Do you want any help, Papa?’ he asked.
‘No thanks,’ Alain said. Then he stared at the little boy, thoughtfully. ‘No thanks, son.’
David gave a huge grin.
Alain cursed to himself, wondering whether he had done the right thing in calling him son. Presumably the boy had a father somewhere. Was it fair that he should pretend that David was his child? Was it right? Maybe he should have corrected him w
hen he called him Papa, not colluded with him.
He shook his head. Such things were beyond him. Maybe the boy had more wisdom in this matter than he could hope to find.
He was putting the carburettor into the engine when a car swept up the drive. An Italian insignia fluttered from the side window. It screeched to a halt and Capitano Marinelli stepped out. He watched Alain for a moment and then marched over to him.
‘You are Signora Pine’s mechanic?’ he asked.
Alain straightened. ‘No. Just a friend.’
Marinelli gave him a thoughtful look and then peered into the engine. ‘What is the problem?’
‘Nothing much. Just dirt in the engine. I’ve cleaned it.’ He slid the old carburettor out of sight beneath the car. If the Italian saw it he might ask where he had got the new one from. Such items could only be bought on the black-market and Alain did not want to arouse any suspicions concerning that.
‘It is a fine car, is it not?’ the captain continued. ‘Signora Pine is a woman of great taste.’
‘Very much so.’ Alain was growing nervous at the Italian’s desire for conversation. The less he had to do with him the safer he would be.
‘You have known her long?’
‘Quite a while.’ Alain suddenly realised why he was so interested. ‘Madame Pine’s a friend of my wife rather than me,’ he said.
Marinelli looked relieved. ‘You have a wife? That is good. I’m sure she is beautiful.’
‘Very much.’
‘And this must be your son.’ Marinelli turned to David, touching him on the head. ‘He’s a beautiful boy.’
Alain nodded. ‘He takes after his mother.’
Marinelli smiled and crouched down beside David. ‘And what do you want to be when you grow up?’ he asked. ‘A mechanic, like your father?’
‘I don’t know.’ David’s face grew serious. ‘But I don’t want to be a rabbi.’
Alain’s heart almost stopped. Marinelli rose from his crouch and stared at him with sudden, deep suspicion.
‘You mean rabbit,’ Dorothy called from just behind them.
‘He doesn’t like them,’ she explained as she joined them. ‘It’s my fault. I read him some Brer Rabbit stories and he didn’t like them.’