The Resistance

by Peter Steiner

  Onesime turned toward Jean and motioned urgently with his hands to leave. “It’s de Gaulle!” he whispered once they were back upstairs. “She’s listening to General de Gaulle!”

  All over France people were listening to Charles de Gaulle speaking from England. They leaned toward their radios and listened as though their very own fate were addressing them, finding its way faintly though clearly through the static and the jamming directly into their souls.

  * * *

  The next morning Saint-Léon-sur-Dême awoke to discover that during the night someone had painted red V’s and Lorraine crosses—symbols of resistance—all over town. They were on lampposts and road signs and walls, even on the front walls of the Cheval Blanc and the police station. Some of the graffiti had already been scrubbed away by villagers worried about making the Germans angry. German soldiers were working furiously on the rest. Before ten o’clock the marks were gone, and only faint V- and cross-shaped scrub marks remained.

  “Who did it?” Jean asked, when he arrived at the shop.

  “There’s a lot of speculation,” said Claude Melun, “but nobody knows.”

  By the next morning the villains had been caught, and everybody knew. Stephane and Antoine Duquesne, seventeen- and fifteen-year-old brothers, had been denounced by someone in the village. They were escorted into the Hôtel de France by German soldiers. Antoine was crying. After a short time a black Citroën left the hotel’s courtyard and sped away with the two boys inside.

  Yves Renard and Michel Schneider were summoned to the Cheval Blanc. “I am pleased to learn,” said Schneider, before he was seated, “that you have the culprits in custody. As you can see, Herr Oberst, our citizens are true to the armistice and loyal to the collaboration. They have taken it upon themselves to see that the wrongdoers were immediately turned over to you.”

  Colonel Büchner studied the mayor’s face for a long moment. “I am afraid, Monsieur Mayor, that the situation is far more serious than that. It has already gone beyond that. This is exactly the kind of civil disobedience I had hoped to avoid. I have military duties, and I had hoped that I could entrust the orderly governance of Saint-Léon to you and your council.”

  “But, with due respect, Herr Oberst—”

  The colonel raised his hand and cut the mayor short. “I already said, it is too late for that, Mayor. These things always have a way of escalating. What may seem a harmless prank—”

  “Harmless? By no means, Herr…”

  “What you may consider a harmless prank, Monsieur Mayor, is precisely the sort of thing that will escalate into terrorism unless it is stopped cold. We have stopped it cold, and I consider the matter closed. The perpetrators are on their way to Tours to be tried. They will be dealt with harshly, as a deterrent to others who might want to follow suit.”

  “But, Herr Oberst,” said the mayor, “they are boys. It was a prank, nothing more. Surely we can deal with it.…”

  “And you, Renard, what do you have to say about this business?” The colonel leaned toward the policeman. He seemed genuinely curious to hear the young gendarme’s response.

  “Nothing, Monsieur Colonel.”

  Both the mayor and colonel studied the young policeman. He sat looking straight ahead.

  “Nothing,” said the colonel. “I see.”

  “Nothing?!” said the mayor, after he and Yves were back in the policeman’s office. “That was all you could think of?! That is what happens when they send a boy to do a man’s work. You should have offered reassurances, measures you would take.”

  “Which measures might those be, Monsieur Schneider? I am alone in this office, the only gendarme in town. Without assistance. Without power. Which measures can I take to assure that things that I don’t know about do not happen? If the boys had been reported to me instead of denounced to the Germans, I could have taken measures. But they were not reported to me.”

  Stephane and Antoine Duquesne were quickly brought to trial. Their appointed attorney argued that their youth was to blame. They had been incited by the broadcasts being beamed from England. What they had done surely must be considered mischief and not a crime.

  The judge was not persuaded. He found them guilty of seditious and terroristic acts. Because of their youth, they were sentenced to only five years at the nearby detention camp at Saint-Pierre-des-Corps. Their parents were summoned to the Cheval Blanc, where they were taken to a small, windowless room in the upper stories of the building and seated on straight-backed chairs under a bright lamp. They were interrogated by Lieutenant Ludwig and three Germans in plain clothes: Had the Duquesne parents been listening to the prohibited radio broadcasts? Did the parents know whether their children had? Did any of them entertain anti-German sympathies? Did they know anyone who did?

  The questioning was difficult and lasted several hours. It ended with stern warnings that even the slightest infraction by their other three children or by themselves would lead to harsh punishment for everyone in the household. If any information of subversive activity came to their attention and they did not report it, that would also lead to harsh punishment for them all. Monsieur and Madame Duquesne left the hotel with their heads bowed. People on the square looked away as they passed.

  That same afternoon three Germans in dark suits and ties appeared at Yves Renard’s office. The man in charge was short and portly. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Essart and explained that because Yves was in the impossible situation of policing the entire town by himself, they were there to assist him. “You will of course still be the principal law-enforcement entity in town.

  “As you might imagine”—Lieutenant Essart smiled—“we have had experience in matters like these. We will support your enforcement efforts in every way we can. You will have our authority behind you when it is required. Colonel Büchner is concerned that we maintain a discreet presence, and of course we would like to oblige him.”

  “I understand,” said Yves. “It is reassuring to know that I will have your help.”

  “I am gratified,” said Essart, “that you see things that way.”

  The lieutenant sat down in the chair facing Yves Renard’s desk, carefully crossing one leg over the other. “Please.” He motioned for Yves to take a seat. “Tell me what you can about suspicious activity in your town, any seditious or otherwise illegal activity, any people who bear watching. That sort of thing.” He smiled again. His tone was friendly and confiding.

  Yves considered the question for a long moment. “There is no one who comes to mind,” he said. “You already have the two young malefactors in custody. Other than that … that is the first disobedience I am aware of. This is a quiet and peaceful town, as you can see. Of course, if I learn of anything, I will notify you immediately.”

  Lieutenant Essart studied the young gendarme. “So,” he said finally. “Quiet and peaceful. If you say so. Before we leave, however, we would like to have a look at your files. Going back to the beginning of the year.” Without waiting for Yves to respond, the men opened his file drawers and leafed through them, pulling out several folders and setting them aside. When they had finished, they slid the files they had removed into an envelope and closed the drawers.

  “So,” said Essart with a narrow smile, “it is, as you say, a quiet and peaceful village where nothing goes on. No Jews, no Gypsies, no communists, no sedition, no crime. That must be very gratifying. You must be an excellent policeman, Monsieur Renard. You have my congratulations.” Lieutenant Essart signaled his two colleagues with his eyes. All three rose and left.

  No Jews. No Gypsies. Yves sat at his desk for a long time and thought back to a moment just before the Germans had arrived. Had it only been weeks, or had it been a lifetime?

  He had been in line to buy bread, when the two women behind him began talking in stage whispers. “Did you see the Jews staying at the hotel? There were two families of them.” The women kept glancing at Yves to make certain he was listening.

  “Jews? Really?” said th
e other woman. “What did they look like?”

  “They wore all black. Even the children. And they were dark. With large noses. You know. The men had broad hats and strange hair, and the women were covered with shawls. They were from Poland. At least that is what Monsieur Dufresne said—from Poland. He said they had been driven out of their homes, and their houses were burned. But who knows.…”

  “The Jews, they make that stuff up.”

  “Monsieur Dufresne said they are going south. They must be ten altogether. They had a car.”

  “How did Jews from Poland manage to get a car?”

  “Exactly. Do you know, Yves,”—the women turned to him—“how they managed to get a car?”

  “I suppose they bought it,” said Yves.

  “They did have to register with you, didn’t they? As foreigners, I mean?”

  “They filled out registration cards at the hotel. As everyone must,” said Yves. “We have their cards on file if we need them.” He was relieved when his turn came to buy bread. He had his ration card stamped, paid quickly, and tucked the half baguette under his arm. “Good evening,” he said, and left the shop.

  Now the Gestapo—for that was who Essart and his companions were—had taken the Jews’ registrations forms. They had also taken Yves’s false report about the Gypsy children.

  That was how things worked. You blamed Jews or Gypsies because everybody thought of them that way. They bore the mark of Cain, his father used to say. Blaming Gypsy children had allowed Yves to avoid pressing charges against Jacques Courtois. Not that he liked Courtois and his friends. But they were Frenchmen.

  Michel Schneider, the mayor, had known of course that it had been Courtois and not Gypsy children in the house. But as far as the mayor was concerned, Gypsies were thieves and wastrels and deserved whatever they got. The mayor had not forwarded the young policeman’s report about the Gypsies, but only because he had found it convenient for the moment that Courtois and the others believed the policeman had reported them and that he, the mayor, was their protector.

  * * *

  Colonel Büchner stood at his window and watched the Gestapo men get in their car and drive off. “Damn,” he said. He was alone in his office, but still he spoke the word again. “Damn.” He did not trust the Gestapo, and he did not relish the idea of Essart looking over his shoulder.

  The colonel found himself in a complicated situation. As far as he could tell, the mayor was only out for himself. And Renard, the young policeman, was barely cooperative. And smarter than he gave on. They could both be trouble. The town was calm now. But with the Gestapo messing about, who knew how long it would stay that way? The colonel was trying to put together an arms and fuel depot, and Essart and his thugs were obsessed with finding Jews and malefactors behind every door.

  Helmut Büchner could not sleep that night. He could not even close his eyes. He peered into the darkness, as though the solution to his Gestapo problem might be lurking there somewhere. Edith Troppard breathed deeply beside him, her breath issuing from her lips in soft puffs.

  Edith wasn’t sleeping either. She was pondering instead how her passion and, yes, love, which had died with André at Verdun more than twenty years earlier, had been brought to life again by Helmut Büchner’s embrace. Helmut was a German, and though he had not killed André, some German had. And yet Helmut was kind and tender and considerate. Kinder than André had ever been, if she was honest.

  * * *

  The next morning red V’s and Lorraine crosses had again been painted on walls and doors. Once again anxious citizens scrubbed and scraped to remove the graffiti, and again German soldiers came behind them with wire brushes and bleach to remove the last remnants.

  The pamphlet was another matter. This time someone had also posted a mimeographed sheet all over town. It was tacked to walls and blew about in the streets. German soldiers hurried around picking up the papers wherever they found them. But most of the pages had already disappeared into people’s pockets and purses and grocery bags to be read and reread once they were safely home.

  The citizens of Saint-Léon were anything but seditious. But like citizens of small towns everywhere, they were hungry for news—good or bad—about their neighbors, about France, about the war. Gossip is the currency of all small towns; malicious or harmless, it makes no difference. It all has the same high value. It fuels the social fires, the alliances and rivalries. It fires people’s passions and imaginations. And that is precisely what makes news so dangerous. Or gossip, for they come down to one and the same thing. The homemade pamphlet was like gasoline on a fire. And its author had the audacity and grandiosity to designate the paper, though it was but one side of one page, Issue 1. There would be more, he promised.

  Colonel Büchner knew there would be more, probably many more before all was said and done. The secret police, the Gestapo, would be back in short order with their menu of reprisals against the citizens of Saint-Léon, and he, Colonel Büchner, would be helpless to stop them. Then the resolve of the people of Saint-Léon to resist the occupation would materialize where there had been little or no resistance before. And with each measure taken in reprisal their resolve would stiffen. And there would be nothing anyone could do to stop it. Colonel Büchner laid the sheet on his desk, leaned his head on his hands, and read:

  Liberation..….….………January 12, 1941. Issue 1

  The German occupiers are not satisfied to have invaded and violated our country. It is not enough that they have killed more than a hundred thousand of our sons and brothers and fathers on the fields of battle and gravely wounded or imprisoned the rest of them. It is not enough that they have attacked our cities with bombs and artillery. It is not enough for them that they have named the traitor Pétain to lead a government of treasonous collaboration made up of officials who are French but who act more like Germans than the Germans themselves.

  Now they have begun to take our children from us. The boys Antoine and Stephane Duquesne were taken from their parents, given a phony trial, and put in the Nazi prison near Saint-Pierre-des-Corps. You should know, citizens, this is a prison where the prisoners are abused and starved and otherwise mistreated. The fact that they are only boys, and not men, who committed a foolish but insignificant prank does not seem to matter to their persecutors.

  Yes, they are persecutors, not prosecutors, for this has nothing to do with the law. The boys were assigned a lawyer, but he was not allowed to make his case or to call witnesses. The judge was French, but in name only. In his judgment he represented the fascist enemy. This trial and sentence does not have to do with keeping order or maintaining the law or justice. It has to do with the complete suppression of our liberty.

  The Nazis could never commit these atrocities without the assistance of compliant and cowardly Frenchmen and -women. Some have already begun to show their cowardly faces, like the Judge Herr Denis Temoine. Other traitors remain hidden in the shadows. The Duquesne boys were denounced by someone. We will find out who denounced them, and they will be punished. We will name everyone and seek justice for anyone who gives aid and comfort to the Nazi Vichy enemy.

  Herr Schneider, Chenu, Arnaud, Bertrand, Renard already deserve mention. They are our representatives and our leaders, and yet they did nothing to stop the arrest and persecution of the Duquesne boys. The Gestapo has already set up shop in Herr Renard’s office, and he is under their thumb. The people who are supposed to be our protectors have abandoned us. They should be on notice that we will hold them responsible for all abuses the citizens of Saint-Léon-sur-Dême are forced to endure.

  Vive la France and Vive la Libération!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  No one came forward to denounce either the most recent sign painters or the author of the pamphlet, although in the case of the latter, suspicion immediately fell on René Bertrand, the schoolmaster.

  Monsieur Bertrand had given long and serious thought to Yves Renard’s admonitions of the previous summer and had since then restrained himself from criticizin
g either the occupation or the collaboration. In fact, he had gone silent. He taught his classes as he was obliged to. He greeted people when he was spoken to, and he conducted his business in the shops, at the bank, at the post office in a courteous manner. But his previous expressive and voluble self had disappeared.

  René Bertrand no longer had opinions about anything, when he previously had had them about everything. He avoided political discussions, and when it became impossible to avoid them, he clamped his lips together so firmly, it looked as though his mouth were sewn shut from the inside. He did not smile or frown; his eyebrows remained firmly in place; his eyes did not widen or contract; he did not grimace.

  To many it seemed suspicious that someone previously so opinionated and outspoken should suddenly go silent. Add to that the fact that the pamphlet could only have been written by someone especially adept at lofty language and with a superior mastery of grammar and punctuation, then who else could have done it?

  Yves Renard arrived at his office to discover that René Bertrand was already there and already under interrogation at the expert and unrelenting hands of Lieutenant Essart and his two Gestapo colleagues. They had not been at it very long, and yet they had already extracted incriminating opinions from the terrified schoolmaster. He had been able to restrain himself among his fellow citizens, but he was no match for the alternately seductive and brutal Gestapo.

  “Ah, Monsieur Renard. Where have you been? No matter. I believe we have our man—the author of the seditious handbill,” said Essart, without taking his eyes from the cowering schoolmaster.

  Yves Renard expressed astonishment at Essart’s conclusion. He was particularly amazed at the fact that the interrogation had proceeded at all without him. “After all, as I recall, Monsieur Lieutenant, you said that I would still be in charge of—”

  “And you would be, Monsieur Renard, if you had not failed to maintain order as we agreed you would. In fact, you have not maintained order by any stretch of the imagination, have you? And things have gotten out of hand. We are in a critical phase of things, Monsieur Renard, and your inability, or unwillingness, to control the situation has been all too evident.”