The Resistance

by Peter Steiner

Colonel Hollinger slapped the latest Liberation on the table in front of him. “This really cannot continue,” said the colonel. “It must be stopped. It is an affront and an embarrassment.”

  “I quite agree, Herr Oberst,” said Schneider. “I cannot understand, Renard, why we can’t find out who is publishing these scandals and just stop them, shut them down. Why?”

  Renard thought for a moment before he replied. “How am I to investigate this matter when my hands are tied? I am one man, Monsieur Mayor, Monsieur Colonel. I am expected to maintain order in the town and in the surrounding canton by myself. If I had the resources, then perhaps.”

  The next morning a sedan stopped in front of Renard’s office, and four men got out. They strode into Renard’s office. “Hello, Renard,” said Jacques Courtois. We’ve been assigned to find the guy publishing this subversive kike-communist shit”—he produced a copy of Liberation—“and shut them down.” He presented an identification card and watched as Renard read it.

  “Gestapo?” said Yves.

  Jacques smiled. “Lieutenant Essart sends his greetings,” he said.

  Yves went to his file drawers and withdrew a thick stack of papers, which he handed to Jacques Courtois.

  “What’s this?” said Jacques.

  “A good place to begin your investigation,” said Yves. “Some leads. Denunciations.” Yves had been receiving denunciations—mostly anonymous—for all manner of crimes since the Germans had arrived.

  Monsieur Yves Renard: If you visit Menasse’s barn, you will discover the place where this communist newspaper is being produced. Menasse is a known communist. We are all in danger, thanks to Menasse’s crimes. Check out his brother too. Long live Maréchal Pétain.

  Monsieur: Madame Oser has been trading in black market goods, cigarettes, silk stockings, and other items precious to the war effort. She is also selling her daughter’s body for sinful purposes. I believe they are Jews.

  Monsieur Renard: I have seen Onesime Josquin, who is an army deserter, wandering about late at night. I know for a fact that he sheltered English soldiers at his house. He could well be the author of this leaflet, since I do not put anything past him.

  One letter even accused Jacques Courtois.

  Courtois pretends to be a patriot, but I think you will find he is the one writing the Liberation. He spends a lot of time away in Tours and elsewhere, where he is spying on the Germans and then printing it in Tours or in a secret location. He is also involved in the black market in meat, alcohol, and petrol.

  * * *

  The group at the Marquis d’Estaing’s château was three times as large as it had been at the first meeting. The room was full of men, leaning against the wall, sitting on the arms of chairs, smoking cigarettes and talking. The marquis beamed at everyone, shaking hands with those he recognized and giving a friendly wave to those he didn’t.

  Dr. Serge Touranot rose to call the meeting to order. He was tall and thin. He wore a dark business suit. He had a narrow black mustache, and his dark hair was combed straight back against his head. “Gentlemen,” he said. His Adam’s apple moved up and down in his long neck.

  “Gentlemen!” He spoke more loudly, and the room went silent. “I presume you’re here because you want to put a stop to the disorder and corruption being spread through our beloved country by the communists and the Jews. They, not the Third Reich, are the real threat to our beloved France. They, not the Germans, represent an alien culture that will destroy our country if we do not take action.” He spoke rapidly and assuredly, as though he had made this speech before.

  “We must organize ourselves to stop them. This is a serious struggle against deadly opponents. The Third Reich is preoccupied with the war against the Bolsheviks and with building defenses against the invasion Stalin’s English and American friends are planning. Meanwhile our police are powerless—I see your heads nodding, those of you who are police—powerless to do anything to help.

  “I and my associates have divided the region north of Tours into sectors. You all”—he swept his arm around the room—“represent the northwestern sector. And tonight you will organize yourselves into platoons to begin the work of cleansing your sector of communists and other alien influences.

  “Each platoon will have a man in charge and will cover one part of the northwestern sector. Your primary mission will be to root out subversive activity in your part of the sector and to stop it however you can. I emphasize however you can. This is war. The communists mean to destroy us, make no mistake, and it is up to us to destroy them first. It’s really as simple as that. Our secondary mission, of course, is to alert other patriots to our cause.…”

  Dr. Touranot instructed everyone to form into groups: “Neuillé-Pont-Pierre—over there; Tours-Nord—there; Château-la-Vallière—here by the fireplace…” and so on. Yves and the mayor found themselves standing with nine other men from their region, which had been designated Saint-Léon, since Saint-Léon-sur-Dême was the largest town in that part of the country.

  Yves did not know any of the other men except for Piet Chabrille from Melun’s shop. Some of the others looked familiar. The mayor seemed to know most of them. He shook hands with everyone.

  Yves turned when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Dr. Touranot was taller than he had seemed. “You must be Yves Renard,” he said, and smiled. “Lieutenant Essart has spoken of you.”

  “Has he?” said Yves. “I’m surprised he remembers me.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Touranot. “I hear good things.”

  “Do you?” said Yves. “Well. I do what I can.”

  “I’m sure you do,” said Touranot, and smiled again.

  XIV.

  “ARE YOU READY for something else, Franz?” Jean had just left the mechanic’s shop and was walking home. He had not seen Simon or heard him approach. The man came and went like a ghost. “I have something for you,” said Simon. “Something important.” They walked together.

  “What?”

  “You will be the third person in an assassination.”

  “What?”

  “An assassination.”

  “An assassination? But … no. I don’t think I could. I can’t. I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “It isn’t that difficult. Besides, you won’t be killing anyone. You, Shakespeare, and his partner, whose name you don’t need to know, will work as a team. The target is an important official responsible for the deaths of many Frenchmen and -women.”

  “A German?”

  “A Frenchman. A traitor. His name doesn’t matter.”

  “Who is he?” Jean wondered. “Am I allowed to know?”

  “He is from Chinon. A doctor. A pediatrician. He was instrumental in organizing the resistance in Chinon in order to betray them. He sent them on a false mission. They were all killed or captured and tortured. Those who were tortured gave up others who were then killed. This man continues as an agent and a provocateur.

  “He likes to dine in the first-class buffet at the Tours railroad station. It’s a public place. There are lots of police about. Many German officers dine there, so he apparently feels safe. And the food is excellent.

  “Listen to the radio. Your message will come the evening before the event. The next evening after the message, you will take the train to Tours and make contact with a man—Shakespeare—outside the station. You will wait until the target has finished eating. When he comes out, Shakespeare will create a distraction. His partner will shoot the man and pass you the gun. All you have to do is leave quickly and dispose of the weapon. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t know.…”

  “It isn’t that difficult. You’ll see. It will be over quickly. You’ll go to Saint-Pierre, dispose of the gun along the way, and take the next train from Saint-Pierre back to Saint-Léon.”

  Two nights later Jean heard the message. Destiny arrives on a cat’s paws; destiny arrives on a cat’s paws.

  “Where are you going?” Onesime said.

  “
Tell Maman I’ll be back late,” said Jean. “Don’t say why.”

  “I don’t know why,” said Onesime. “Is Simon back?”

  Jean did not answer. Onesime looked at Jean and then embraced him. “Good luck,” he said.

  Shakespeare was a surprise, a short man who looked to be thirty-five, with a trim black mustache and a fastidious way of dressing. His huge eyes swam behind thick lenses. A bowler hat sat squarely on his round head. Jean offered his hand, and Shakespeare took it limply in his, then let it drop. “You’re new,” said Shakespeare.

  “Yes,” said Jean.

  “You get used to it.”

  “You’ve done it often?” said Jean.

  “It’s what I do. I’m something of a specialist. The main thing for you to remember is to move away quickly but without appearing to be hasty. Cigarette?” Shakespeare held up a package of English cigarettes, and Jean took one. Shakespeare struck his lighter, lit Jean’s cigarette and then his own. Shakespeare drew deeply on the cigarette, holding it in the middle of his mouth as though it were his first ever. He blew the smoke out without inhaling.

  “You see,” said Shakespeare, “creating a diversion is an art. First there is the costume. For instance, if you saw me tomorrow you would not recognize me. Then when the job is done I have to stay in the crowd. To see what happens; to learn anything I can that might be useful.

  “At first that frightened me, staying in the crowd. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I feared there might be some identifying thing about me, something that would give me away to the Gestapo when they looked around or questioned people. So when they looked around and their eyes met mine, I had to look back at them, but as an innocent, not as someone who knew something.

  “When they questioned me, as they often have, I had to be able to mislead them subtly, just as an unobservant witness might with slightly wrong information. That also became part of the art: to mix innocently with the onlookers, to be curious about the dead man but not too curious.…”

  Shakespeare could not stop talking. He elaborated on the various distractions he had used. He explained how he had to divert attention enough so that the assassin could do his work unseen and yet not so much that he would implicate himself as an accomplice. He was pleased to imagine that he might already have become a legend among the Gestapo, so that they yearned to get their hands on him.

  Jean stopped listening. Imagine: a tedious assassin. Jean needed to focus his attention on what was about to happen. “Don’t even try to plan an escape route,” said Shakespeare, as though he had read Jean’s mind. “There will always be someone or something in the way, and if you rely on a plan, you will be paralyzed when the plan is thwarted. The police show up in the wrong place, you see someone you recognize, an exit is blocked. Improvise and you will be safe.”

  Shakespeare straightened slightly. “That’s him,” he said. “Don’t look. I’ll be off.” The station was so noisy that Jean didn’t immediately recognize the sound of the pistol shot. He turned and saw a tall man with a pencil mustache and slicked back hair with his mouth wide open. He was looking straight in Jean’s direction. Then his eyes rolled upward and his head lolled back.

  Shakespeare grasped the man by the arm and gently lowered him onto a crate so that the man looked as though he might merely be ill, when in fact he was already dead. “Are you all right, monsieur?”

  “Is he all right?” someone said.

  “Monsieur!? Monsieur!”

  “Look! There’s blood!”

  The dead man was surrounded by people now. Shakespeare had stepped back out of the way and let others take over. A young woman walked toward Jean. Her lips were bright red. She wore a long wool coat with a fur collar, and a magenta pillbox hat. There was a bejeweled bird bobbing on the side of the hat. She passed close by Jean, and as she did, she pressed a small pistol into his hand. It was one of those stamped-metal, disposable pistols the British had been dropping. The Liberator, it was called. The barrel burned Jean’s hand, and he nearly cried out. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had; everyone was shouting at once and staring at the dead man, who was now being lowered to the floor.

  “Call the police.”

  “They’re coming.”

  “There they are!”

  Jean let the gun slide into his coat pocket. He looked toward the woman again, but she walked out of the station without looking back. The little bird on her hat bobbed. He had no idea what she looked like. Neither would anyone else.

  A pair of policemen arrived through the same door. Jean turned and walked toward the dead man. He had a surprised look on his face. His eyes were wide open, his mouth too. There was a trickle of blood coming from his nose. Jean walked into the first-class buffet and out the other side. He found the streetcar to Saint-Pierre. In Saint-Pierre he bought a ticket for Saint-Léon. The woman who sold him the ticket, a pretty woman, smiled at him.

  In the train Jean studied his reflection in the window. It looked back at him from outside: pale, washed out like a ghost. Jean opened his eyes wide and then his mouth and saw in the window the face of the man he had helped kill.

  Simon was wrong. It wasn’t easy. Shakespeare had said you get used to it. Maybe that was so. Jean hoped it wasn’t.

  “Ticket, please.” The conductor stood beside him. “Are you all right, monsieur?”

  Jean sat up straight. “Yes, yes. Thank you. I’m fine.”

  Jean arrived home after midnight. The lights were still on. Onesime and his mother were waiting in the kitchen. Both looked up expectantly as Jean came in. He faced the door and took off his boots. He didn’t want to turn around, afraid of what might show in his face. “Are you all right, mon petit?” said Anne Marie. She hadn’t called him that for years. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m very hungry,” he said. He came to the table.

  His mother stepped to the stove and opened a burner. She slid a pot over the flames. “I made soup,” she said. His place at the table was set. She poured him a tumbler of wine. She cut a large slab of bread and put a crock of pork rillettes by his place.

  “It went all right?” said Onesime.

  Jean looked at Onesime.

  “It went all right, mon petit?” said Madame Josquin.

  “Oui, Maman,” he said. He took a gulp of wine. He ate silently. His mother sat down opposite him and studied his face. He lowered his head as he ate, so that she could not watch him. For a long time the only sound was metal scraping against pottery while Jean ate, and occasional slurping as he sucked the broth from his spoon. He mopped his bowl with a crust of bread. “I’m going to bed,” he said.

  “Jean,” said his mother. He did not answer. “Jean,” she said again, “I have something to say to you.” He did not look up. “I don’t know what you had to do,” she said, “and I don’t want to know. It is none of my business. This goes for you and for you.” She looked over at Onesime, who was staring back at her. She continued: “These days we all have to do things no one should have to do.”

  Now Jean looked up at her. “Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “But I know you both. I trust you. I don’t believe you would ever do anything to be ashamed of. It’s the times,” she said, “it’s these times we should be ashamed of. Not what we have to do to make them better.” She rose from the table and reached across and touched Jean’s head.

  * * *

  An urgent meeting of the Saint-Léon militia was held in a room behind Aseline’s plumbing shop on the outskirts of Villedieu. Mayor Michel Schneider could not attend. “You go,” he had instructed Yves. “I have to be careful about where I’m seen.”

  Besides the plumber, Robert Aseline, there were six in attendance, including Yves Renard and Piet Chabrille from Melun’s mechanic’s shop.

  The assassination of Dr. Touranot meant not only that one of the militia commanders and organizers was dead, which was a great loss. It also meant that there was a spy and a traitor somewhere in their organization.

  “Well, that’s Tours,” said
one man. “It happened in Tours; he was from Tours. So how does that affect us?”

  “It doesn’t,” said someone named Joel. “Does it?” He had gone to the Château-Renault meeting full of enthusiasm. But now he was having second thoughts.

  There was silence. Aseline’s eyes darted nervously about the room. He was not used to being in charge. “Well,” he said. “It doesn’t affect us directly. But … it means. We should. We need a plan. We need to put together a plan. Make a list of suspects in our towns. For instance, you, Joel, make a list for Villedieu, where you live, see? Of people you think are communists or sympathizers. Then when we have a list, we’ll decide who to watch and how to watch them. I mean we don’t have to watch them all the time, like spy on them or anything, you see? But kind of keep an eye on them.”

  “What about guns?” This was Piet. All heads swiveled in his direction.

  “The private ownership of guns is outlawed,” said Yves.

  “Let’s deal with first things first, shall we?” said Aseline. He did not want the meeting to get away from him. “First we need a list of who’s who, you see? We know who the communists are in our community, see? Then we can track them, see what they’re up to.…”

  “With six people?” said Joel.

  “Seven,” said Aseline. “Anyway, there will be more of us next time. And we’ll get information. That’s the main thing right now, see? Information. When we have information, we can go after them. So for now we have two jobs: First, make a list of known communists and, two, get more members.”

  “And how do we get more members?” said Joel.

  “Well, one way is for everybody to bring somebody new to the next meeting.”

  “Bring somebody?”

  “Tell them what we’re about. Stopping the spread of communism. Saving France for the French. It won’t be hard. It’s what real Frenchmen believe in.”

  “The next meeting, which is when?” said Yves.

  “Let’s say … two weeks from tonight. Same time,” said Aseline.

  “Here?” said Yves.

  “For now. Why not?” said Aseline. “So for next meeting, new members and a list of communists. And other troublemakers.”