Onesime continued to escort refugees from Saint-Léon to Coulangé and also to other places. Le Lude was a two-day walk, but it was that much closer to safety for the refugees. Colombier en Brive was even farther.
The river route to Coulangé was no longer safe. One night as he was leading a family of Jews, Onesime came upon a column of militia walking single file along the opposite bank of the small river, not fifteen meters from where he and the family were huddled in the tall grass. He had to clap his hand over the one-year-old’s mouth for fear that she would give them away. She somehow knew to stop crying.
Walking to Coulangé, he always worried whether the old priest would still be there. Onesime wondered why he worried so about someone he barely knew.
* * *
“Onesime!” called the count from the back terrace.
“Oui, monsieur,” said Onesime. His knees were stiff and he stood up slowly. He had been replacing a hinge on a sagging barn door.
“Go to the back barn and fetch a harness, would you please?”
It had been more than a year since Onesime had seen Simon. Simon had changed a great deal. He was thinner, and there was an angry red scar from his forehead across his eye to his cheek. He had a tenuousness about him now that he had never shown before. His reckless confidence was gone.
“I’m glad to see you, Da Gama.” Simon held on to Onesime’s hand a moment too long.
Simon saw that Onesime was looking at the scar. “I was almost caught,” he said. “We are thoroughly infiltrated, Da Gama. We are compromised by some of our own. As the war comes to an end, everyone is maneuvering for position. Do not trust anyone. And do not let anyone trust you. That can be just as dangerous.
“Now, do you know what these are?” Simon stooped down and opened a small canvas sack lying at his feet. Onesime leaned down and peered into the sack.
“No,” he said.
“They’re called pencil fuses,” said Simon. He picked up one of the small copper tubes. “They’re used to set off explosives.”
Onesime hesitated to take the tube. “It’s safe,” said Simon. “There’s a little glass vial inside the tube right here.” He pointed. “The vial is filled with acid. When you crush the copper tube—you just step on it—the glass breaks and the acid starts eating through a wire that’s holding back a striker. After you crush it, pull out this—right here, that’s the safety—and then stick the whole fuse into the explosive. After a certain time, the wire releases the striker, which ignites a small charge, which sets off the main explosion. Use two fuses for every explosive charge. Just in case one doesn’t work.”
“And then…?”
“The black fuses give you ten minutes to get as far away as you can; the red ones give you thirty minutes. You decide, depending on the situation.”
“Thirty minutes in order to have enough time.”
“Why not? That’s up to you. You’ll have extra fuses. It’s an important target. We want to be certain. You decide.”
“And where…?”
“Your grandfather’s cave.”
“Ah,” said Onesime.
“Will that be a problem for you?”
“It shouldn’t be. There’s time to get out,” said Onesime.
“All the way out,” said Simon. “And away from the door. Even at Beaumont’s end of the cave, the concussion will do serious harm if you’re still inside.”
“And all his wine?” said Onesime.
Simon smiled. “He’s already moving it. But he doesn’t know why. Here are the explosives.” He pulled a flat package from the canvas sack. “You’ve got five packages like this. Use all five. Put them in different places where you think they’ll do the most damage. Put them under cases of high explosives or artillery shells. Put them where there’s gasoline. Or a ceiling support. We want nothing left.”
“And when?” said Onesime.
“Do you know Verlaine’s ‘Chansons d’Autun’?”
“What?” said Onesime.
“Poetry. ‘Songs of Autumn,’ by Paul Verlaine.” Simon stood up straight as he must have done when he recited as a schoolboy in Berlin. “Les sanglots longs des violons de l’automne blessent mon coeur d’une langueur monotone” The long sobs of the violins of autumn wound my heart with a monotonous languor. “Say it back.”
Onesime repeated the phrase, and Simon corrected him until he got it right.
“What does it mean?”
“The first phrase is a warning. When you hear the first phrase—‘the long sobs of the violins of autumn’—it means that you will blow up your target within the next forty-eight hours. When you hear the second phrase, which will come a day or two after—‘wound my heart with a monotonous languor’—then you detonate the explosions at the first light of the next day and blow the cave to kingdom come.”
“I will need help to remove stones.…”
“Don’t tell me about it, Da Gama. It’s not something I should know.”
“Are you in here?” The count stood at the door with his hand shielding his eyes. He peered into the darkness.
“We’re over here,” said Simon. “Not anyone,” he whispered to Onesime.
Onesime tried to imagine what it must feel like not to trust anyone.
* * *
The grounds of the Marquis d’Estaing’s château by the town of Château Renault were patrolled by armed guards. The militia group was now permanently installed there with several men in residence acting as administrators and organizers of militia activities. The members of the group believed fervently in the Vichy regime and in keeping the kind of order Vichy and the Germans represented. Of course they had all also made contingency plans just in case things should go the other way.
On a rainy night in early June, Yves rose to speak to a crowded meeting at the château headquarters. “I have an informant,” he said. The others looked puzzled; they all had informants. “My informant is particularly well placed,” said Yves. “According to my informant, a serious attack is planned on nearby facilities in the next few days. He’s sure it’s soon, and he’ll let me know the night before.
“And listen to this.” Yves rarely got excited, but he was excited now. “There could be as many as a hundred maquis involved. A hundred. At different sites. I have a list of the attack target sites—ten of them. Police stations, prisons, ammunition dumps. This is a big attack they’re planning, and this time we’ll be there waiting for them.”
Most of the information that came the militia’s way consisted of false tip-offs about hideouts or the supposed whereabouts of some resister. But this was an opportunity to strike at the heart of the resistance. To capture or kill a hundred maquis—or even a fraction of that number—would be a crippling blow to their organization. This was what the militia had been waiting for: a chance to engage the enemy in battle and to destroy them. The room erupted.
“How do you know?” “Is this reliable information?” “Who’s your source?” Even the old marquis came alive and spluttered excitedly.
Yves raised his hands to be allowed to continue. “This is as reliable as such information can be. We have to be ready.” He took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. “Here is where they plan to attack.” Everyone crowded around to look at the small hand-drawn map.
The police chief of Château-Renault took charge. He assigned men to each site. “We will have the advantage,” he said. “We will be better armed. Surprise is on our side. Time is short, but that is to our advantage as well.”
* * *
The long sobs of the violins of autumn. The long sobs of the violins of autumn. Jean and Onesime looked at each other to assure themselves that they had heard correctly. They listened to other messages that might have meant a great deal to others but meant nothing to them.
John has a long mustache. John has a long mustache.
The die has been cast. The die has been cast.
Finally they got up from their chairs. “I can’t tell you anything,” said J
ean, without being asked.
“I can’t either,” said Onesime.
* * *
Onesime found Marie Piano in the shop where she worked. He had never been inside. “You’re selling clothes?”
“I’m helping out,” said Marie. “And it’s underwear, not clothes.”
Onesime looked around to make certain no one could hear. “Are you still interested in seeing Beaumont’s cave? Because I need your help.”
Marie Piano’s eyes lit up. “Just tell me when,” she said.
“Just listen to the radio,” said Onesime. “When you hear—”
“‘Wound my heart…’?” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“Selling underwear doesn’t take all my time.”
“Maybe … I don’t know,” said Onesime.
“What don’t you know?”
Onesime thought of Simon’s warning. But he loved Marie; he had to trust her. “All right. Once you hear the wounded-heart message, meet me at three thirty the next morning at Beaumont’s back gate.”
“What are you two going on about?” said Madame Berger. She was the proprietor of the shop. Onesime had not heard her approach.
“I’m sorry, madame. Onesime is my fiancé,” said Marie.
“Well, that’s nice for you,” said Madame Berger. “But not on my time he’s not. There’s a customer up front.”
“I apologize, madame,” said Onesime, and left the shop.
A few nights later Onesime and Jean heard the second part of Verlaine’s verse: Wound my heart with a monotonous languor. Wound my heart with a monotonous languor.
Onesime tried to joke. “Marie has already wounded my heart with monotonous languor.”
“Be careful,” said Jean.
“You be careful too,” said Onesime. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Me too,” said Jean.
Both men felt that Verlaine’s verses were the harbinger of something important. Both had big assignments, and they felt certain that others did as well. But neither man knew or could even have imagined the extent of it. Verlaine had announced Operation Neptune. At that moment an armada greater than any the world had ever seen was steaming toward the beaches of Normandy.
* * *
In Saint-Léon the night was cool. A light breeze was blowing. The moon was nearly full. Broken clouds moved across the sky. The back gate to the Beaumont château was concealed in deep shadow.
Onesime moved close to the wall to wait for Marie Piano and nearly knocked her over. She clutched his arms to keep from falling.
“Are you all right?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
“Am I really your fiancé?” he said, just as urgently.
Her muffled laughter sounded like some kind of night bird or a distant bell. “Yes,” she said.
The gate was unlocked. He held it open while Marie stepped through. Marie took his hand as he led the way down the steps to the cave. Once inside he switched on his flashlight. The wine was gone. They walked to the far end as quickly as they could.
“The cave is on the other side of this wall,” said Onesime, speaking softly. “We’ve got to slide this stone out so I can get inside.” He shined the flashlight on the stone. “Then I’ve got to go through and set five charges. There’ll be a guard but he’ll be outside. It will be toward the end of his watch. Sometimes the guards sleep.”
Onesime and Marie slid the stone toward them. When it began to tip, he counted to three, and they let it slide all the way out and to the ground in one motion. Light streamed in on them. They ducked down behind the wall and waited. Everything was silent. After a minute Onesime stood up. He stuck his head through the opening and looked around. The door to the cave was closed. Everything was as it needed to be.
“Here I go,” he said, and wriggled through the opening.
Marie started to climb through too. “No,” he said. “You wait here, just in case. Hand me the sack.” She did as she was told.
Onesime hung the canvas sack on his shoulder. The cave was larger than he remembered, wider, deeper, and with a higher ceiling. There were no supporting pillars. And things had been shifted around since he had last looked. The heavy wooden door was closed.
Onesime moved quickly and as quietly as he could. He placed the first charge under a pallet stacked high with crates of artillery shells and shaped charges. Before he could place the second charge, he heard a truck drive up. Its lights shone under the door as it turned and came to a stop. The guards were changing early. He listened to them banter and laugh as one got out of the truck and the other got in. The truck backed up, shifted gears, and drove off.
Onesime was about to place the second charge when he heard the key turn in the lock and the door slide open. He dropped behind a stack of crates just in front of the opening he and Marie had made. He peered between crates. The guard came into view, walking along the front wall. He had his rifle slung over his shoulder. He was humming softly as he walked. When he reached the far corner of the cave, he leaned his rifle against the wall. He bent and opened a small cabinet. He took out a bottle and a glass. He poured out a portion, held it to his nose, then threw his head back and drank it.
He let out a satisfied sigh. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He put the bottle and the glass back in their hiding place. He slung his rifle onto his shoulder and turned. He stopped and stared at the back wall. He had caught sight of the opening where Onesime and Marie had removed the stone. He took a step toward the back wall. Then he stopped again.
He removed his rifle from his shoulder. Onesime leaned back as far as he could so that he would be out of sight until the last possible moment. He heard the safety click on the guard’s rifle. He heard the guard’s footsteps as he advanced slowly.
Suddenly the German guard was standing beside him. But he was looking straight ahead, peering as hard as he could into the opening, into the cave on the other side. For a moment it seemed possible that he might not even notice Onesime, that he might turn to his right, away from Onesime, and just walk back to the front of the cave and out the door. But he didn’t. He turned toward Onesime. His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Hey, you! What…?”
Flame exploded from the opening. The shot lifted the soldier off his feet and deposited him in a heap two meters from where he had stood. The sound was colossal and echoed on and on as though it would never die. Onesime jumped up, his hands over his ears, opening and closing his mouth to relieve the pain in his ears. Marie stood on the other side of the wall holding the gun she had stolen from Colonel Büchner.
“Jesus!” said Onesime, still working his jaw to relieve the pressure.
“Jacques Courtois gave it back to me,” said Marie.
“Give me one more minute and we’ll get out of here.”
“Use the ten-minute fuses,” said Marie.
“I will. In case anyone heard that.” He placed the remaining four explosives by cases of shells and mines. He stepped on ten fuses all at once and jammed two in each packet. He clambered back through the opening. Marie helped him. And the two of them ran.
At the far end they closed the door and leapt up the stairs. As they were opening the back gate, the ground beneath their feet heaved, then there was a volcanic rumble that grew into an infernal roar. Just over the hill the sky flashed orange and blue. Then there were more explosions. It sounded as if the world were exploding. The door at the bottom of the stairs blew open, and smoke billowed out into the cool night air.
As Onesime closed the back gate, lights came on in the château. He and Marie Piano ran as hard as they could. Germans would be everywhere in minutes. They heard another explosion farther off, and when they looked toward town, they saw what looked like a fire. Maybe that was Jean’s doing. Or someone else’s.
That night there were attacks all over France, but none were at any of the ten sites Yves Renard’s source had reported. The militia men waited for the police stations to be attacked, for the prison to be as
saulted, for particular ammunition dumps to be bombed. But they weren’t. Nothing happened at those places. The militia men heard explosions, but they were too far away to have anything to do with them. They waited until the sun was up before they finally dispersed. “So much for your source,” said Michel Schneider. He removed the clip from his machine pistol. “I’m going home.”
Yves regarded the mayor with a long stare. “My source was reliable,” he said. “Someone on our side gave the plan away. Some traitor.” He stared at Michel Schneider as though the mayor himself might be the culprit.
* * *
Colonel Hollinger was awakened by the sound of Onesime’s charges going off and then the secondary explosions as the ammunition was ignited. Hollinger sat up in bed and listened. Lieutenant Ludwig rushed into the colonel’s quarters. “We’re under attack, Ludwig.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It sounds like an air assault. Get my staff together and get a damage report.” Hollinger was concerned but not alarmed. Most of his depots were situated in caves and well protected from the air. They were under guard against a ground assault. And lately there had been a heavy Gestapo and militia presence in the area. It was impossible that the local maquis could do any serious damage.
The damage report said otherwise. Two fuel dumps and one ammunition depot had been completely destroyed, and a number of soldiers—mostly guards—had been killed. In addition, a significant section of rail bed and a large number of rail carriages and baggage cars had been destroyed. The only good news was that the cars and carriages were mostly empty. A barracks had been attacked. “How the hell is all this possible, Ludwig?”
“That is what we are trying to find out, sir.”
Then the colonel’s telephone began ringing. It was Tours and then Paris calling.
XX.
Liberation..….….….….…… June 14, 1944. Issue 17
You have already heard, citizens: The English, the Canadians, the Americans, and our Free French Forces are now in France. A week ago they landed in Normandy. First they came by air—by glider and parachute—and landed behind German lines. Then they came ashore on the beaches by Cherbourg, Saint-Lô, and Caen. They came in great numbers and at an enormous cost in lives. They have suffered thousands of dead and wounded. But they killed many thousands of the Germans as well.
The Resistance Page 22