“In France?” said Renard. He exhaled over Louis’s head. “I doubt it. Tell me about the pistols.”
“The FP-45 Liberator. They were manufactured in the United States to be dropped into occupied Europe. They were made to be fired a few times and then thrown away. They could only be used at short range. They were mainly used for assassinations.”
“What do you think it means that some were hidden in your house?”
“I suppose it means that at some time my house may have been used for underground activity of some sort. If that was the case, then the house was probably not lived in, since anyone living there would have been shot if the pistols, or the leaflets, had been discovered.”
“I may have found one of the old resisters,” said Renard.
“What makes you think so?”
“He didn’t want to talk, and when he did talk, he lied,” said Renard. “It’s Jean Josquin. Papa mentioned him. I just don’t know how to get him to talk to me. These people know how to remain silent.”
“Did he like your father?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that I look like my father.”
“Then he liked him,” said Louis. “He wouldn’t say you looked like someone he didn’t like. He would be insulting you.”
“Unless he didn’t like me. Anyway, is that useful?” Renard wondered.
“I don’t know,” said Louis. Renard drew deeply on his cigarette and studied the American. Louis gazed across the square and allowed himself to be studied.
“You could always show him something that might make him want to talk,” said Louis.
“Like what?” said Renard.
“Like an American,” said Louis.
“An American.”
Louis smiled. “I have noticed,” he said, “even in my short time in France, that nothing makes the French want to talk quite so much as the sight of an American. They have opinions about our culture, our ways, our poor language skills. And someone his age, whatever he did or knew back then, will certainly have strong memories of the liberation. And while you’re at it, take the Liberator with you.”
“Take you?” said Renard.
“And the pistol,” said Louis.
* * *
When Renard and Louis drove up the long gravel drive, Jean Josquin was working in his garden again. It looked as though he had not moved from the spot where he had stood the last time Renard had been there. He shook hands with Renard.
“This is Monsieur Louis Morgon,” said Renard.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” said Jean. He hardly looked in Louis’s direction. His handshake was quick, one motion and that was all.
“I hope you don’t mind that I have come back, Monsieur Josquin,” said Renard.
“No, monsieur,” said Jean.
“Monsieur Morgon is new in town, monsieur. He is American, but he lives here now.”
Jean remained silent. He did not look at Louis.
“I suppose you remember when the Americans came through,” said Renard.
“Hardly,” said Jean. “They came and were gone in a day.”
“Was there no fighting here?”
“I don’t know, monsieur. I think the Germans were gone when the Americans arrived.”
“What about this?” said Louis. “Do you know what this is, monsieur? I found it in my house.”
Jean kept his eyes straight ahead. He did not turn to look in Louis’s direction. You could not tell that Jean even noticed Louis’s outstretched hand. But he must have. For he lowered his eyes until they were locked on the little pistol Louis held. The muscles flexing in his jaw were the only sign of the conversation he was having with himself. Finally he said in a voice filled with resignation, “If you want to find out what you want to find out, then find Simon,” he said.
“Simon?”
“Find Simon,” said Jean again.
“What I want to find out?” said Renard.
“Which side your father was on,” said Jean.
Jean took the little pistol from Louis’s outstretched hand. He turned it over and over in his. “Where did you get this?” he said.
“Under the floor in my house,” said Louis.
“Where is your house, monsieur?”
Louis told him. “Ah,” said Jean. “That house has a history. Animals were slaughtered there when it was illegal. Illegal dance parties were held there. Later meetings. All sorts of things went on.” Just the feel of the Liberator in his fingers had unlocked his memory. “Come inside,” he said. He limped as he walked. The two men followed.
Jean lived alone. Inside the front door was a crude coatrack with hats and slickers hanging from it. The first floor was one large room with a table. Some chairs were standing around the room. It looked as though a meeting had just broken up and the chairs hadn’t been put back in place yet. The walls were mostly bare except for a calendar from an insurance company and a half dozen drawings and small paintings. Louis stepped up to look at the paintings. “Did you do these, monsieur? They are very nice.”
“Onesime, my brother,” said Jean. “He was the artist.”
“But this one is by someone else,” said Louis.
“When Onesime died, I tried my hand,” said Jean. “It didn’t work out.”
“I have to disagree, monsieur,” said Louis. “I like it very much.”
Jean turned his back on Louis. He dragged chairs to the table. “Sit down,” he said. He got a bottle from the mantel and three glasses from a small cupboard. He poured whiskey in each. He raised his glass, and without waiting for the others, took a deep sip. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and, without looking at either man or waiting for questions, began talking.
“When the Germans arrived, I started watching them. I worked in town in Melun’s mechanic’s shop across from their headquarters, so it was easy. It’s where the hardware store is now. I don’t really know why I did it. I just started watching. Onesime watched them too. He made maps and I kept diaries.
“Onesime was killed by the militia. It was late in the war, after the landings. There was supposed to be a parachute drop. But it was a setup. Oni—that’s what I called him—and my mother were both there, and they were both killed, along with all the others.
“Now here’s the thing: Yves Renard, your papa, was supposed to be there with them, but he turned up with the militia. Some people said he was the traitor, the one who gave them up. Except he was arrested and shipped off to Germany as a prisoner.
“Sometimes the Germans used to imprison their spies so the other side wouldn’t know they were spies. They’d beat them up a little bit to make it look good. But Yves was in Germany and after that in Russia for a long time. It didn’t seem right to me. That he was a traitor, I mean. I don’t know, but I don’t think he was.”
“Did you see him when he got back?” said Renard.
“Not much. None of us saw each other. We tried to keep our distance. There was just too much anger. And shame.”
“And this Simon?” said Renard. “Who is he?”
“Simon. I wonder sometimes where he is. A German, I think. A Jew. I think. He didn’t give much away. But a maquis, a resister, one of the organizers. And a good one. He kept us alive for a long time.”
“And where is he now?” said Renard.
“I don’t know,” said Jean. “Even then you didn’t know where he was.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
The little pistol lay on the table between them. Jean picked it up and held it up flat against his head beside his ear. He cocked his head and seemed to listen, like he was listening for the sound of the ocean in a seashell. He did not speak for a long time. “After the Americans had come and gone,” he said finally. “After Maman and Oni and the others were dead and buried. I went back to the mechanic’s shop.
“I didn’t work there anymore. There wasn’t any work to do then. Claude Melun—it was his
shop—barely had enough work to keep himself busy. And the Germans were gone, so there wasn’t anything or anyone to watch. But I had to get away from the house. I did what had to be done, but I couldn’t stand to be at home if I didn’t have to be. I wished I could get far away, to another part of France, another country even, and never see the place again.
“The French flag flew from the pole on the small square outside the town hall. Tours had been taken by the Americans. The Germans had been blowing up bridges. They were taking reprisals as they retreated. They didn’t even pretend to be civilized anymore. They left nothing but destruction behind them.
“I looked across the square at the gendarme’s office. It was padlocked. And there was Simon standing there with his hand shielding his eyes trying to see through the office window. What was he doing here now? I wondered. He had this way of just turning up. He came and went like a ghost. Simon looked over at me and nodded his head in the direction of the Hôtel de France.
“When I got there, Simon was sitting at a table.” Jean could recall the moment vividly.
* * *
“Sit down,” Simon had said. They did not shake hands, as though their association belonged to an earlier time. Jean sat down. Simon ordered a beer. “What would you like?” he asked Jean.
“Nothing,” said Jean.
“Listen,” said Simon, “you think it’s over because the Germans are gone. But it’s not. De Gaulle’s in Paris making great speeches, but it’s not over. There’s a serious battle for power in France going on. I’ve been called to Tours.”
“What does that have to do with me?” said Jean.
“My old contact says it’s for a meeting. But I think it’s a trial and execution.”
“Whose?” said Jean.
“Mine,” said Simon.
“By whom?”
“The Stalinists. They think they can eliminate the opposition this way. They think there’s a revolution going on in France.”
“Maybe there is,” said Jean. “Maybe they’re right.”
“Killing collabos or Pétainists, shaving women’s heads because they slept with Germans—that kind of stuff may make some people feel good, but it doesn’t amount to a revolution.”
“You know they did that here too, don’t you?” said Jean. He lit a cigarette. “In Saint-Léon.”
“Did what?” said Simon.
“Shot collaborators. Shaved women’s heads. That kind of stuff,” said Jean.
“Who did?” said Simon.
“Well, that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? They killed a couple of guys who liked to drink at The Trout, you know, the bar Le Pêcheur. The guys they killed weren’t collabos, but the guys that shot them were. Do you know Piet Chabrille? He worked in Melun’s shop. He was one of the ones that shot them. A nasty son of a bitch. So Piet switched sides quick and ended up a ‘resister.’ Maybe he’ll get a medal someday.
“At least they got Edith Troppard, though. They beat her up pretty good, shaved her head. She fucked a lot of Nazis.”
“Edith Troppard?” said Simon.
“You know that whore?” said Jean.
“Yes,” said Simon. “I know her.” Simon took a sip from his beer. “I need you to come to Tours with me,” said Simon finally.
“For your trial?” said Jean.
“No. It’s not going to get that far. It’s a three-person operation. Me, you, and Shakespeare. Remember Shakespeare? This time you’ll be the shooter.”
“Why should I?” said Jean. He started to stand up. “That is all finished for me. I’m through with it all.”
“Do you know the difference between justice and revenge?” said Simon. He did not wait for Jean to answer. “Sometimes there isn’t any. The person I’m meeting, the one who has laid a trap for me—I’m guessing they expect to ‘arrest’ me while she and I are meeting. Then they’ll have a quick trial in a basement somewhere and execute me. She’s the one who betrayed your mother, your brother, and all the others.…”
“She?” said Jean.
“No parachutists were ever on the way. There weren’t any. It was internal politics, her faction’s way to undermine some other faction, to undermine some rival’s authority or credibility. Who knows what they got out of it. That’s the way their politics work, the way they think. Sacrifice other people’s lives for the ‘greater good.’ The communist revolution, or whatever her greater good was.”
“The greater good. Is that what you’re doing? Sacrificing her to the greater good?” Jean said.
“The greater good is nonsense,” said Simon. “This has to do with punishing one crime and stopping others. My execution won’t be their last killing. They have to be stopped.” Simon slid a small package across the table. “It’s got five rounds in it. Use one to kill her, and there are four more rounds just in case. Take the train to Saint-Pierre-des-Corps. Shakespeare will meet you at the station and explain the operation to you.”
“When?”
“Take the seventeen fifty on Friday.”
“How do I know I’m not being set up?”
Simon stood up to go. “Ask Edith Troppard.”
“Edith Troppard? What do you mean? Why should I ask her? What’s she got to do with this?” said Jean.
“She is on our side. On your side. She always was. And while you’re at it, get on your knees and beg her forgiveness.”
“I didn’t do anything to her,” said Jean.
“Not for what you did. For what you thought.”
* * *
Simon found Savanne at an outside table in front of a small café in the Rue du Théatre, as they had arranged. She rose and smiled as he approached. “Let’s go somewhere else,” she said. In case he had told anyone where they were meeting.
“Why not?” said Simon.
They walked through a narrow alley. Simon did not turn to look. He did not hear anyone behind them, but he hoped Jean and Shakespeare were there, somewhere. Savanne led the way into a small, dimly lit bar. She went straight to a small table in the corner and sat down. She signaled the bartender and mouthed the words deux cognacs. He poured the drinks and brought them over on a tray.
She and Simon touched glasses. “It’s time,” she said after taking a sip, “to disband your operation.”
“My operation?” said Simon.
“Your network, then,” said Savanne. She put a cigarette between her lips and handed the matches to Simon. He struck a match and held it under the end of her cigarette. She watched the flame then inhaled deeply and blew the smoke into the air.
Simon shook out the match. “Is it?” he said. “Why is that? France is still at war.”
“Things have moved beyond that though, haven’t they?” she said. “We’re in a different stage. The struggle for power is on.”
“Besides,” said Simon, “you already effectively disbanded my ‘operation’ yourself, didn’t you?”
“You don’t get the larger picture, do you, Simon?” She studied his face. “You never have.”
“So you don’t deny it,” he said. “Defeating the Germans in France—”
“Was but one step in a complicated dialectical process,” said Savanne.
“Ah,” said Simon. “The beloved dialectic.”
“You know, Simon,” said Savanne, “your sarcasm is out of place. You have never understood, have you? You’re a problematic person, Simon. Your effectiveness at getting things done has been extraordinary. But that effectiveness could get you in trouble. And now you are meddling in affairs that are none of your business.”
“Who was your Saint-Léon go-between?” said Simon. “Who set up the parachutist operation for you?”
“I’m surprised that you would even ask.”
Simon shrugged. “I thought you owed me that much. And the others. Those people who died because of your ambition. I hoped you would save me the trouble of having to find out on my own.”
“Sentiment will do you in one day,” said Savanne.
“That’s possib
le,” said Simon. “It is my weakness, after—”
He was interrupted by a commotion at the bar. “Get your fucking hands off me, you fucking pervert.” A short, burly man in blue work clothes had grabbed a flamboyant middle-aged man by the lapels of his plaid and ill-fitting jacket and had slammed him against the bar.
“Don’t hurt me,” the man whimpered, “please, I just wanted to—”
“I know what you fucking wanted,” said the burly man. He hit the flamboyant man hard and sent him staggering and pirouetting across the floor, knocking over tables and chairs and drinks in every direction. People at the bar jumped backward out of the way. The man fell across a table just as Jean passed behind Savanne. “Oh, my God, help me!” the man squealed. The sound of the shot was all but lost in the commotion. “Oh, Jesus and Mary, mother of God, don’t hit me again,” the man shrieked.
Simon stood up and jumped away from the table, brushing the spilled cognac from his front. By the time Savanne’s henchmen had managed to fight their way through the crowd to the table, Savanne lay dead, facedown on the table, and Simon was out the door.
XXVI.
“THAT WAS THE LAST TIME I saw him,” said Jean. “I left the bar right behind him. I looked for him when I got outside, but he was gone. I always looked for him. But, like I said, he came and went like a ghost. Simon could answer your questions. I can’t.” He pushed the little pistol away.
“Do you think he would know who betrayed the resisters to the militia? Who was Savanne’s go-between?” said Renard.
“You mean, if it was your father? I don’t know if he’d know,” said Jean. “We never knew, any of us, what others were doing. Or even who they were. Simon never let us know. For our own protection. He always saw to it that everything was secret from everyone else. I didn’t even know about my own mother, what she was up to. He only told me about Edith Troppard afterward.”
“Edith Troppard,” said Renard. “Do you know where she is?”
“Look for Simon,” said Jean. “He’ll know about your father. Simon organized us and kept us alive. You know? I still look around for him sometimes. Somehow I expect him to show up again. Find Simon and you’ll find your answer.”
The Resistance Page 26