“I’m afraid it is not too commodious,” said the priest, “but you will be safe here. Someone will come for you tomorrow. There are small openings up there and there.” Everyone looked up to where he pointed, as though they were on a guided tour. “They let in air and a little light. I will bring you food a little later. You will be safe here. Safe. Safe.” He patted each cheek as he said the word. “Safe.”
Onesime had gone to church as a boy, had been confirmed, and then had stopped going. None of it had made sense to him any longer. Now, walking back to Saint-Léon alone, a pistol in his belt, a light rain falling on his head, it all seemed different than he remembered it. He thought about the skulls with the crosses on them, the Jews, the old priest with the watery eyes, and the courage that infused them all—and, yes, him too.
Other Jews and other refugees came and went at the count’s cave. They arrived early in the morning and left when it was dark, led by Onesime or by others, in various directions. Other resisters showed up, including someone named Max, who was said to be very high up in the resistance and was on his way to London to meet with de Gaulle.
Onesime and two others escorted Max to a field not far from where the train had been derailed. A small plane arrived and landed in the mud. Two Englishmen hopped out, and Max and another man, who had appeared from the other end of the field with another team of three, hopped aboard while the plane was still moving. In a minute they were gone. Onesime’s three and the other three saluted each other silently, and then they were gone too.
The next time Simon materialized, he wanted to see Onesime’s maps. Onesime went home to get them.
“Where is Maman?” he said.
“I don’t know,” said Jean. “She wouldn’t say. She just said it wasn’t anything dangerous.”
“That’s what she’d say.”
“Yes,” said Jean. “I hope it’s true.”
“Me too,” said Onesime. “But what’s safe these days? What isn’t dangerous?”
They were all part of an odd army, a phantom army. No one knew what anyone else was doing. No one knew how, or even why, it operated. Who were its officers, who were its commanders and strategists? Did the sabotage and assassinations and secret rendezvous even add up to anything?
Onesime sat at the great table in the center of the count’s cave, turning over page after page and explaining his markings while Simon looked over his shoulder. Jean had brought his logbooks. There were several thick volumes by now. Each page was filled with rows and columns of careful annotations about the minutiae of the occupation of Saint-Léon.
Simon closed the last volume. “Do you know what this is?” he said. “It’s a plan of attack. That’s what this is. How we fight the Germans and collaborators here in Saint-Léon. It’s not spelled out. But it is all here. Where they’re weak, where they’re strong, what we need to do, and how we do it.”
XVII.
JACQUES COURTOIS NOW LIVED in a house in Tours that had belonged to a family of Jews. They had been deported, and Jacques and the French Gestapo had moved in. From there they raided suspected resistance hideouts. They terrorized anyone they deemed suspicious. Jacques enjoyed the work. He drank heavily and bragged about their exploits to anyone who would listen.
Jacques’s brutality caused some in the resistance to call for his assassination. But Simon felt otherwise. “By all means keep him alive. He’s a loud mouth and a braggart. All you need to do is sit next to him in a bar. It’s better than having a spy inside. We couldn’t do better if he were one of our own.”
Jacques Courtois could hardly believe his good fortune. He would find himself sitting at a bar, and an attractive woman would sit down next to him. Invariably she smiled at him. Or she nodded and raised her glass.
“Cigarette?” he offered. She accepted. He lit a match. She cupped his hand in hers to steady the flame.
“Thank you,” she said, looking into his eyes, and exhaled. “I am Marianne.”
Jacques still came to Saint-Léon from time to time. He seemed to have regular business with the mayor. And he could be counted on to stop by Yves Renard’s office, usually with a couple of friends in tow.
“We’re wondering what the hell you’ve been doing, Renard?” Jacques threw a sheaf of Liberations on the desk in front of him. “Why can’t you catch this son of a bitch?” Or: “Jesus Christ, Renard, if I thought you had the guts, you could almost be part of the maquis. I mean, I’ve never seen a cop as slow and incompetent as you are.” Yves would be suitably cowed, and Jacques and his friends would snicker. “No wonder Essart wants your ass.”
Whether this was even true or was a figment of Jacques’s vindictive imagination, Yves could not tell. It didn’t matter. What was important was that Lieutenant Essart had been absent from Yves’s life for the better part of a year. With the dissolution of the Vichy border, Essart’s area of responsibility had doubled in size.
Add to that the roundup of the Jews and then the draft of OWS workers, and Essart and his men were stretched fifty different ways. Given everything else on his plate, Saint-Léon seemed the picture of tranquility, and the little gendarme Yves Renard seemed like nothing more than an annoying memory.
That changed, of course, with the derailing of the OWS train, the escape of more than two hundred OWS draftees, and the murder of a dozen German guards. Essart arrived in Saint-Léon with detachments of German and French Gestapo.
Jacques Courtois had spent the previous evening telling the latest Marianne how he and his friends were about to teach that little piss-ant village of Saint-Léon a lesson they would not soon forget. But even without Jacques’s “warning,” everyone in Saint-Léon knew what was coming. Onesime and Jean, who had been staying at their mother’s home, disappeared again, and so did many others.
“Where are they, Madame Josquin?” said Jacques. Anne Marie stood in the door. “We need to ask them some questions. About the OWS train.”
Anne Marie looked at Jacques and then at the other men. “And who is ‘we,’ Jacques?”
“The police,” said Jacques.
“The German police?”
“Just tell me where we can find them,” said Jacques.
“I do not know,” said Anne Marie. Jacques narrowed his eyes. “I said, I do not know,” she said again.
“Listen…,” said Jacques. He stepped forward, forcing her to step back into the house. “We know Onesime was on that train, and now he’s gone. Likewise Henri, likewise…” He named others.
“You listen, Jacques Courtois,” said Anne Marie. She pronounced his full name as though he were still a boy. “You have no right to force your way in here and interrogate me this way. You simply do not have that right. Shame on you.”
“It is my job to find and question your sons, madame. We believe they were involved.…”
“If you believe they are here, you are mistaken, whatever else you might believe.”
“Let’s search the place,” said one of the men with Jacques. He pushed his way between Jacques and Anne Marie and into the house.
“Is that what you do now, Jacques Courtois? You invade the homes of French citizens? Push them about? I said they’re not here. And they’re not here.”
“Let’s go,” said Jacques to the men.
“What?!” said the other man, who already had one foot on the bottom stair ready to go upstairs.
“I said, let’s go.” The man hesitated. “You heard me,” said Jacques. “They’re not here. If she says they’re not here, then they’re not here. I know her. If they were here, she’d say so. She’d rather give up her sons than tell a lie. Let’s go.” He turned back to Anne Marie. “When they show up, tell them we’re looking for them. And we’ll find them.”
“Shame on you, Jacques,” she said.
“Let’s take her in,” said the man who still had one foot on the stairs. “Maybe she’s hiding something. Maybe she knows something about the train.”
“Let’s go,” said Jacques. “We’ll be back, madame.”
The other man finally turned. “We’ll be back,” he said as he left the house.
* * *
When Maurice de Beaumont opened his front door, Lieutenant Essart and a small contingent of French and German Gestapo were waiting. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” he said, and offered his hand. Essart took it.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Monsieur de Beaumont, but as a result of the recent terroristic activities in Saint-Léon, we are questioning everyone to discover what they know and who was involved.”
“Do you suspect me?” said Maurice, raising his eyebrows.
A slight smile crept across Essart’s face. “We suspect no one and everyone, Monsieur de Beaumont. In any case, we have an order allowing us to search your house and premises.”
“You do not need an order, Lieutenant,” said Maurice de Beaumont. “You know I have always been more than cooperative with your officers and men, and nothing is any different now.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Essart. He had been an invited guest at the Beaumont home. He had found the count amusing and his wife enchanting. “Some of my men will go through your outbuildings and barns. I and my sergeant and these two associates”—he indicated two French Gestapo—“will go through the house. Is your wife at home, monsieur?”
“She is not,” said Maurice.
“That is good. We do not wish to disturb her.”
“Thank you for your consideration,” said the count.
“May I inquire about her whereabouts?”
“She is visiting her sister in Tours.”
“In Tours?”
“Yes, in Tours. May I accompany your men on their search?”
Essart studied Maurice.
“So as to avoid any misunderstandings,” said the count. “To reassure myself.”
“Yes, I see,” said Essart. “Misunderstandings.” There had been occasional “misunderstandings” on other searches. French Gestapo in particular had helped themselves to jewelry and other valuables. “Of course you may accompany the men on their search.”
“And what is it you are looking for, Lieutenant?”
“I do not know exactly, Monsieur Count. We will know what we are looking for when we find it. And when is your wife returning? From Tours?”
“Later this afternoon, I would expect. She did not say exactly.”
The château had many rooms, but the search did not take long and nothing was taken. The men walked from room to room. They looked inside dressers and armoires without disturbing anything. When they had finished their search, they all stood for a moment in the entryway. “Thank you,” said Lieutenant Essart, “for your cooperation.”
“I trust you did not find anything incriminating,” said Maurice. He regretted the words as soon as he said them.
Essart smiled at him slightly. “No, we did not find anything incriminating.” He turned, as if to leave, and then turned back again. “You own a great many caves, don’t you, monsieur?”
“I do own a great many caves, Lieutenant. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just wondering what goes on in your caves.”
“What goes on in them?”
“What you use them for.”
“I use them for different things, Lieutenant. For instance, some are used for wine storage, some are used for the storage of other things. I would be happy to show them to you.”
“Would you? That would be very kind of you. I am of course interested in the ones where you store your wine. I am certain you have an excellent collection. But I am particularly interested in those where you store your Jews.”
Maurice de Beaumont stared at Essart. Essart stared back. Essart repeated himself as though the count had not understood his words. “You know, Herr Count. Your Jews, your resisters, your other … problematic freight, shall we say?”
Maurice de Beaumont was silent.
“Do you have nothing to say, Herr Count? You have been so cooperative until now, I am surprised that you are at a loss for words. Let us go have a look, shall we? Who knows whom we shall find there, at one particular cave. Maybe the lovely Madame de Beaumont will meet us there. I have the feeling she will have returned from visiting her sister.”
When Lieutenant Essart and his contingent of men arrived at the entrance to the cave in question with the count in tow, Alexandre was standing there surrounded by French Gestapo. Jacques Courtois was holding her by the arm.
“Alexandre,” said Maurice. “Are you back already? How was your sister?”
“You may stop playing your drama, monsieur,” said Essart. “Please open the door.” Maurice de Beaumont withdrew the large iron key from his pocket. He stepped forward and unlocked the door. He swung the door open and stepped aside.
“Turn on the light,” said Essart.
The count stepped inside and turned the switch that ignited the one dim bulb. He came back outside.
“Sergeant, Courtois, take some others. Bring everyone inside out. Alive, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” said Jacques. “What if they resist?”
“Alive,” said Lieutenant Essart.
Jacques eagerly led the way inside. He and the others took out their guns and lit their flashlights. The beams of light danced here and there but revealed nothing other than the chalky gray walls and floor. There were a few pieces of old furniture beside the door and some timbers lay stacked farther inside. Otherwise the cave appeared to be empty.
“There’s nothing here,” said Jacques.
“Let’s keep going,” said the sergeant, and pointed ahead with his flashlight. The men walked deep into the cave, but they found nothing except a few side passages that had been walled up and a collection of ancient furniture stacked against the wall. A bed, a mattress, a dresser, an armoire, some chairs stacked on top of one another. Jacques Courtois shined his flashlight behind the huge armoire that was against the wall. “Nothing here,” he said.
“There’s no one in there, sir,” said the sergeant, once they were back outside. “No one and nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” said Lieutenant Essart. He looked at Maurice de Beaumont. Maurice did not speak.
“Shall I make the bastard talk?” said Jacques Courtois.
The lieutenant ignored him. He turned to Alexandre de Beaumont.
“Where were you this afternoon, madame?”
“When?” she said.
“Please, madame,” he said, “don’t be coy.”
“I was with my sister in Tours, monsieur.”
“Madame. You will excuse me for contradicting you. But you were seen this afternoon leaving this cave. You were not alone when you came out. Now, we are not in Tours. And I do not believe that your sister lives in this cave. I ask you once more, as politely and respectfully as I can, whether you were here in this cave this afternoon, whether you were with others, and who they were?”
Alexandre looked desperately at her husband. She began to speak but then could not. Finally she lowered her eyes. She muttered something inaudible.
“What did you say, madame?” said Essart.
“I said I was here, monsieur.”
“What are you saying, Alexandre?” said Maurice. He tried to take a step forward, but Essart put his arm out to stop him.
“Please, monsieur,” said the lieutenant. “We are about to get to the truth.”
“I’m sorry, Maurice,” said Alexandre.
“Do not talk to your husband, madame. Address yourself to me. Who were you with this afternoon, here at this cave, in this cave, madame?”
“I … I cannot say, monsieur,” said Alexandre. Tears were running down her cheeks. “Please, monsieur, do not make me say.”
Essart studied her intently before he stepped up to her and took her chin firmly in his hand. He raised her head until she could no longer avoid looking into his eyes.
“You do not seem to understand the gravity of the situation, Madame de Beaumont. Aiding the resistance, abetting any resistance to
the legitimate rule of the law of the Third Reich is a capital offense. Now, there has been a murderous attack that has cost the lives of a dozen soldiers of the Reich, an attack to which you were at least an accomplice, if not a participant. Your life is over, madame. And your esteemed husband’s may be as well. You have been consorting with enemies of the Reich and—”
“What are you saying, monsieur?!” said Alexandre. “That is not true. My God! No!” A look of such horror and revulsion had crossed her face that Essart was momentarily taken aback.
“No? What do you mean, no?” he said. “What then? Who then?”
“You are wrong, monsieur.”
“Enlighten me,” said Essart.
“Please, monsieur, I cannot.”
“You have no choice.”
“I was…” She could hardly bring herself to say the words. “I was with … a lover,” said Alexandre. She buried her face in her hands and collapsed into sobs.
“What are you saying, Alexandre?” said Maurice.
Essart let his hand drop from her chin, and she let her own hands drop, surrendering to her anguish. Her eyes were closed, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Essart was astonished at this embarrassing turn, but he quickly regained his composure. “Then, madame, you had better tell me the name of your lover. And perhaps you can explain, madame, how it was that you were seen here this afternoon with several men.”
“Please, Lieutenant,… don’t ask me.…”
“Do not try my patience. How am I to believe you, madame, without—”
“He is German, monsieur.… He is … a … colonel. There were two men, not several. The other man you saw … someone saw … was his driver.”
“You whore!” said Jacques. He jerked her roughly by the arm and raised his hand to punch her.
“Stop it!” said Essart. “Stop immediately.” Jacques stood with his face contorted in hatred, his fist waving aimlessly in the air.
Essart looked from Alexandre to Maurice and back again as the drama he had inadvertently set in motion played itself out. In the end he was forced to take Maurice and Alexandre back to their château. He watched from his car as Maurice bounded up the steps and strode across the terrace. Alexandre ran after him. But by the time she reached the door Maurice had closed and locked it. Alexandre stood at the door. She pounded on the door with her fists, and called, “Maurice.”
The Resistance Page 20