by Martin Lake
The sight of them seemed to shake Marinelli out of his stupor. ‘Such lovely bambini,’ he said. ‘Let us pray that they live in more peaceful days.’
‘Amen to that,’ Dorothy said. ‘Come along children. Sit down and tuck in.’
Viviane reached over and filled their plates.
Marinelli sipped his wine, every so often stealing a glance at Dorothy.
The picnic was a great success. Marinelli seemed to have convinced himself that the talk of Mussolini’s fall was false and he proved the life and soul of the party. In his youth he had spent some years working as a conjurer and he entertained the children and adults with magic tricks.
Early in the evening his car returned. Marinelli seemed surprised. It was much earlier than he had ordered.
A lieutenant climbed out of the car and hurried towards them.
‘Capitano,’ he said. ‘There has been an announcement on the radio. Il Duce has resigned.’
Marinelli turned to stare at Dorothy, his gaze unfathomable.
‘Resigned?’ he asked.
The lieutenant nodded. ‘And he has been arrested. Marshal Badoglio is now Prime Minister.’
‘And the war?’ Marinelli could not keep the hope from his voice.
‘Marshal Badoglio and the King have declared that Italy will continue to fight against the Allies.’
Marinelli opened his mouth to speak but for a moment no words came. ‘Go back to the car and wait for me,’ he said at last. The man looked surprised but marched off.
Marinelli stared at the ground for a long while. When he looked up, his face was a sea of emotions. ‘Do you have some cognac?’ he asked, quietly.
Dorothy passed a bottle to him. He filled a glass to the brim, drank half of it off in one gulp.
‘Are you disappointed by the news?’ Dorothy asked softly.
Marinelli shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Shocked, I suppose. Mussolini has led our country for twenty years. I was a young man when he came to power. What will happen now?’
‘Do you think Italy will continue the war?’ Alain asked.
‘What choice do we have?’ he answered miserably. ‘I doubt the Allies will allow us to surrender with honour. And Hitler will never let us give in. The war will carry on, there is no doubt of that.’
His mind was in a whirl. He had no love for the war and little liking for Mussolini. But he knew well that the fallen leader was the only Italian with any influence with Hitler. Now that he had been ousted, anything might happen.
He drank off the rest of the cognac and got to his feet.
‘Won’t you stay a little longer?’ Dorothy asked.
‘Alas no. I have duties to attend to.’ He kissed Dorothy’s hand and strode to the car.
‘Emilio’s a good man,’ Dorothy said as she watched him climb into the car. ‘I get a lot of food and wine from him. And more information than he realises.’
Viviane wondered what he got in return but said nothing.
Alain drank the last drop of his wine and stared at the dregs for a moment. Then he gave Dorothy a shrewd look. ‘Where did you hear about Mussolini?’ he asked. Then he held out his hands. ‘But please, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.’
‘I won’t. It’s safer that way. But it’s a trustworthy source.’ She poured three glasses of cognac and passed them around. ‘Believe me, the Germans are not doing as well as they claim.’
‘But they’ve taken over the south of France,’ Viviane said. ‘Or west of the Rhone, at any rate.’
‘Because they had to. They’re alarmed now that the Allies are in North Africa. And, for all that he dances to their tune, they don’t respect Pétain. And nor do they trust Laval. I can’t say I blame them. I doubt he even trusts himself.
‘That’s why they raced south to take over the country. They’ve lost whatever faith they had in the collaborators. They trust only themselves to fight the Allies.’
‘Then let’s drink to the Allied success,’ Alain said.
‘Yep,’ said Dorothy. ‘But it’s going to be a long road yet. Winston Churchill once said that the war might last twenty years or more.’
Viviane shuddered at the thought.
‘But the Yanks are here now,’ Dorothy continued. ‘It will be over sooner than that. Six or seven years is my guess.’
‘1950,’ Viviane said. ‘Celeste will be fourteen by then. All her childhood will have been spent in this wretched war.’
‘At least we’re together,’ Alain said. ‘Which is more than we can say for David and his parents.
WEISER HEADS TO GRASSE
8 September 1943
Weiser stood outside the door to General Blaskowitz’s office. He glanced in a mirror to check his appearance. He had been summoned by the General on numerous occasions recently but this was the first time that the order had come with no forewarning and no explanation of its purpose. He felt a prickle in the back of his neck and was not sure if it was excitement or apprehension.
He knocked on the door, a little louder than he intended, and took a deep breath as the door was opened by an orderly.
The General was sitting at his desk, which was crammed with papers. He did not look up but gestured to Weiser to approach.
‘Sit, Ernst,’ he said.
Weiser was astonished by the General’s use of his first name. It suggested that what he was about to say was either wonderful or horrifying.
Blaskowitz scribbled his signature on the document he was reading and flung it onto the pile to one side of his desk. He gestured to his orderly to take the pile away. Only when the man had left did he turn his attention to Weiser.
‘The bastard Italians have capitulated,’ he said. ‘We had our suspicions once they’d imprisoned Mussolini, although they swore that they would continue the war. But today, the Allies announced that an armistice was signed five days ago.’
‘Five days?’
Blaskowitz nodded. He threw the translation of the armistice across the table towards Weiser.
He scanned the document with growing astonishment. ‘What does this mean for the war?’ he asked.
Blaskowitz shrugged. ‘The Italians have proved useless friends. We will not miss their military prowess. But it means that we’ve had to move troops into the whole of Italy.’ He sighed. ‘I fear it will stretch us too thin.’
‘And for us in France?’
‘That’s why you’re here. We are to take over the Italian zone, starting today. The Italians are now enemies and their forces are to be disarmed or destroyed.
‘I want you to take a regiment into the Riviera. We’re already stationed in Cannes, and I want you to go north to Grasse. From there, we’ll be able to command all the coast from Saint-Tropez to the Italian border.’
‘And the French? What is to be their status?’
‘Conquered peoples. There’s to be no pretence like with the Vichy Government. Conquered.’
He paused and glanced out of the window at the port. ‘But treat them with civility if possible. Make sure your men don’t engage in any rough stuff. That’s why I chose you for this task.’
He handed Weiser his instructions and dismissed him.
Weiser was pleased to be leaving Marseille. The local criminals were cosying up to the Gestapo and he didn’t trust either. Better to be fighting a clean battle. He sent for Otto and packed his few belongings into a kit bag. They reached Cannes five hours later.
The regiment he had been allocated were a sorry spectacle. Most of the men were very young, some appeared little more than children, and they seemed forlorn. Others looked more than twice their age. Weiser was less worried about the older men for he knew he could rely on them. The youngsters, however, might not perform well.
‘It’s a good job we’re only fighting Italians,’ Mundt said.
‘I wonder if they’ll put up much resistance,’ Weiser said. ‘They’ve been our allies for years and I think that few will want to start a fight with us.’
‘And the Fre
nch?’
Weiser shrugged. He had no idea how they would react to a German occupation on the heels of the Italian one.
‘I think they’ve been completely demoralised,’ Mundt said. ‘France has given up, lost all sense of honour.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Weiser answered. ‘I don’t relish guerrilla warfare.’
It was almost midnight when they reached Grasse. Weiser decided that it was too risky to attack entrenched positions and stationed his men at all the exit roads in case the Italians attempted to break out. He need not have bothered. Perhaps the Italians did not know that German forces were near or were unsure how to react. At any rate the night was peaceful.
Early the next morning, Weiser and Mundt drove up to the headquarters of the Italian II Corps and demanded their surrender. It was a risky manoeuvre for there were still a hundred Italians within the building and Weiser did not want to attack erstwhile allies. And, besides, he had his doubts about the effectiveness of his troops. He was relieved when the Italians filed out led by their General. He looked abject and distraught and surrendered immediately.
‘Well this is proving simple,’ Mundt said.
Weiser did not respond. He hated it when things looked too easy. Experience taught him that whenever men thought this, events would too easily go awry.
But on this occasion his fears proved unjustified. A couple of dozen Italians had slipped away in the darkness, fearing imprisonment or reprisals.
‘Most of them are from the border area of France and Italy,’ one of the Italian officers explained. ‘They have relatives in the area and probably hope to blend in with the locals.’
But the rest of the troops showed no inclination to resist the Germans. Weiser imprisoned the officers, disarmed the men and sent them on the seventy kilometre march to the border.
The German troops fanned out across the city throughout the rest of the morning. Grasse appeared to be a ghost town. Nobody was on the streets and all the shops and houses had their shutters drawn.
‘I would almost prefer to be shot at,’ Mundt murmured.
Weiser gave him a wry look. A death at the hands of some jittery householder was the last thing he wanted.
They had reached the Town Hall by this time and Weiser gestured his men to take up positions in front of the building. The door remained firmly closed. He glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. He would wait five minutes before making his next move.
The minutes inched by and then he gave a signal to a corporal. The man cocked his machine gun and sprayed the door with bullets.
Five minutes later the door was opened a crack and a stick with a white flag appeared. The corporal darted forward and flung open the door.
‘A pity it wasn’t like this at Stalingrad,’ Mundt said.
The Mayor approached them slowly, his hands fluttering with anxiety.
‘There’s no cause for alarm,’ Weiser said. ‘The Wehrmacht are here for the protection of your city and its people.’
The Mayor licked his lips, tried to speak but could only managed a strangled gasp.
‘You will cooperate fully?’ Mundt asked. ‘You and the other officials? Including the police. We wish to avoid any unpleasantness.’
The Mayor nodded. ‘Of course, of course. Full cooperation. From all my officials and all citizens.’
‘You can’t guarantee the latter,’ Weiser said.
‘True —’
‘But we shall hold you to account for any trouble, nonetheless.’
The Mayor looked as if he was going to vomit.
Weiser pushed past him and into the Town Hall. It was an imposing building with large rooms and high ceilings. But the light from its windows gave little light to the interior and the few light bulbs still working cast a feeble glow.
‘Is this where you will be located?’ the Mayor asked, nervously. ‘The Italian officers were at the barracks.’
‘I shall lodge one of my senior officers here,’ Weiser said. He had formed an instant dislike to the place. It was surrounded by nearby buildings, and too dark and gloomy. He wanted to spend as little time in it as possible.
He handed the Mayor a document. ‘This is a proclamation concerning our occupation of the south. You will print copies of it and display it at every street corner. I don’t want people claiming they don’t know their responsibilities towards the Reich.’
He pointed to the final paragraph. ‘You will take note that any opposition will necessitate the execution of the guilty parties. Please make sure that all your officials know this.’
He turned on his heel and strode out of the building.
‘That’s given them food for thought,’ he said to Mundt.
Mundt gave a grim smile. ‘Will we stay here or at the barracks?’ he asked.
‘At the barracks, initially. And then we’ll see how the townsfolk settle down.’
Mundt glanced around the streets. ‘This is a fine town,’ he said. ‘I hope we stay here a while.’
‘I hope we can go home soon,’ Weiser said.
Mundt sighed. Neither of them thought that was likely any time soon.
‘I miss Hilda and the children,’ Weiser said.
He said the words more forcefully than ever before and, now that the thoughts were given substance, he felt a sudden desolate pang. ‘I haven’t seen them for two years,’ he said.
Their troops had secured the barracks by the time they got there. The Italian weaponry and equipment were being catalogued and the sergeants were already allocating sleeping quarters for the men.
Weiser poked his nose into the room the Italian General had used. It consisted of a large office with a desk, three filing cabinets, a couch and some chairs. To the rear was a small bedroom with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a washstand.
Weiser bridled at the sight of it. Over the course of the war he had slept in far worse places but now that he had started to think about home and family he was suddenly aware of how grim his life had grown. He took a deep breath and told himself to snap out of it. He was an officer of the Wehrmacht and not a child.
But, nevertheless, he thought he might look for somewhere more pleasant to spend his time in Grasse.
A FIERCER REGIME
Grasse, 9 September 1943
The townsfolk ventured out of their homes the following day. Alain forbade Viviane or the children to leave the house and said he would go out to see what was happening.
‘Don’t do anything foolish,’ she whispered, clinging on to him tightly.
He shook his head. There was not the slightest chance that he would take any risk. He had seen the Germans at work in Marseille.
It was late morning when he slipped out of the house. There were a few souls out on the streets but not many. As if by mutual agreement no one communicated to anyone else apart from giving the briefest of nods.
He made his way to the Place aux Herbes. There were a few more people here although none of the market stalls had been set up. One cafe, Le Terminus, was open. Two old men sat at a table outside sipping their morning coffee. Alain wasn’t sure if they were stupid, defiant or merely captives of their own routine. One was Theo Joubert, so it could have been routine or defiance but most certainly not stupidity.
‘Bonjour Alain,’ Theo said as he approached.
Theo had run a cheese stall on the market years ago and they had become friends. Alain did not know the other man by name but gave him a polite hello.
‘Come join us,’ Theo said. ‘Unless you have something better to do.’ He gave an ironic laugh, revealing his few brown teeth as he did so.
Alain pulled out a chair. A woman appeared beside him, Isabelle Blois, the owner of the café.
‘What will you have?’
‘A coffee,’ Alain said. ‘And croissants for my friends and me.’
Isabelle laughed at his joke. ‘Croissants? I can’t remember what they are.’ She disappeared into the cafe.
‘A fine looking woman,’ Theo said.
Alain nodded. ‘Wasted on that idiot, Maxime.’
Like most men, Alain had something of a crush on Isabelle. She flirted outrageously with all her customers because it increased her profits. Why she remained so loyal to her ugly, curmudgeonly husband was a topic of lewd discussion amongst half the town.
She brought out three cups of coffee and took a seat beside them, lighting up a cigarette and blinking in the morning sun.
Alain tasted his coffee. It was bitter, and weak, mixed with chicory and acorns. A few years ago he would have thrown it down the drain but now he sipped at it with something not far removed from pleasure.
A couple of German soldiers appeared at the street opposite them and glanced nervously up and down the open square in front of them. One was little more than a boy, the other, a sergeant, might have been his father.
The older man stared at them, appraising Isabelle with great interest.
‘Come on over, boys,’ she called. ‘I’ll give you coffee.’
The young boy shook his head fiercely but the older man smiled and approached.
Alain looked at Isabelle in astonishment but quickly masked it. She had her own purposes, no doubt. Most likely they were the need to make money, even from their conquerors. Sensible really, as they were likely to be the only people flush with the stuff.
The older soldier glanced around, perhaps to check for any danger or in case a German officer was watching. Then he took a seat and gestured to his companion to do the same.
For a moment the younger man hesitated, then seemed to remember that the older man was a sergeant, and did as he was ordered.
Isabelle shouted to her husband to bring two coffees and gave the older soldier a lazy smile. He eyed her appreciatively.
Maxime came out with two coffees. He gave no reaction at seeing the Germans. He was, Alain thought, either stupid or a consummate businessman.
‘These are on the house,’ Isabelle said, pushing the coffees towards the soldiers.
‘Danke,’ said the young private, curtly. The sergeant merely smiled.