The Resistance

by Peter Steiner

  “They do,” said Louis. “I’m happy with any light I can get.” Eventually, though, he bought some industrial lamps and hung them on long cables from the center beam.

  Renard was busy with police business. “What is police business?” Louis wondered. “Crime?”

  “That’s a small part of it around here. Still: Three cars were stolen last month. People suspected the Gypsies. Every spring when the Gypsies show up selling their baskets at the market, crime goes up. But it’s never the Gypsies. Some kids from Le Mans stole the cars. Then there’s a property dispute that goes on and on. I thought I settled it several times. But now old man Corbeau has moved into a nursing home. His kids have taken over the property, and it’s started up again.”

  “That sounds interesting,” said Louis.

  Renard never knew when Louis was serious and when he was being sarcastic, and Louis never helped by telling him. “Last month,” said Renard, “I had to go to Le Mans for a small-arms training course. Then there are the road blocks to catch drunk drivers, the farmers spreading manure too close to their neighbors, the bar fights, the petty crimes. It’s amazing, all the mischief two thousand people can get up to.

  “And, yes,” he said, “it is interesting. Even the property disputes. The endless reports are another matter. Those are not so interesting. Also, I’m arranging to put up a monument.”

  “A monument?”

  “Nothing big. To the resisters. If I can’t find out who killed them, at least I can do that. It was never done. But it should be.”

  “That’s your job?”

  “It’s my obligation, not my job. I owe it to them.”

  “Then you’re doing it on your own.”

  Renard did not answer. “Do you think we’ll ever know more?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Yes,” said Louis. “I do.”

  Renard found a site at the edge of the village by the Dême. “I wanted it on the square, but the mayor vetoed that. But this is public land; it’s a pretty spot, it’s by the road. Where it is is not important. But that it’s somewhere…”

  Renard had the stone cut and inscribed at his expense. He placed announcements in the local newspapers, saying that there would be a small dedication ceremony at noon on June 12, the anniversary of the massacre, followed by an aperitif in the town hall. He visited Jean Josquin to tell him about the monument and the dedication. He visited Edith Troppard and wrote to Maurice de Beaumont. He called Richard Churchil.

  He told Yves and Stephanie over coffee one Sunday morning. “It’s a good idea,” said Stephanie. She took Renard’s head between her hands and kissed him.

  “I’m glad,” said Yves. That was all.

  Yves and Stephanie did not come to the dedication. Of the resisters, only Churchil showed up, along with a few dozen local citizens. The paper sent a photographer. Renard put on a jacket and tie and, with his unruly hair slicked down as well as he could manage, he read a short proclamation sent by some official in Paris.

  Then the prefect from Tours spoke. He praised the supreme sacrifice made by the citizens of Saint-Léon-sur-Dême during France’s darkest hour. “Let us recall the words of General Charles de Gaulle,” he said. “‘This is one of those moments that transcends each one of our poor lives. Paris free! Liberated by herself! Liberated by her people with the support of the armies of France, with the support of the whole of France! Of the France that fights on, the only France, the real France, the eternal France.’

  “The words are as true today as they were then,” said the prefect. Renard was sorry he had invited the prefect to speak.

  Louis stood in the crowd next to Richard Churchil. “Do you see him here?”

  “No,” said Churchil. “I knew he wouldn’t come.”

  “I got stories placed in a few American newspapers,” said Louis.

  “Even if he saw them, Simon could smell a trap like that a kilometer away. Anyway, as I said to Jean Renard, I don’t think you need Simon to sort out the rest of it. There have been no more killings.”

  “Does that mean something?” said Louis.

  “Maybe not,” said Richard. “But then again, maybe Chabrille was the only person who knew something incriminating.”

  “Of course,” said Louis. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re right. If we knew who Chabrille knew, who was in the militia with him, then…” The small crowd was ambling toward the town hall. Louis was so absorbed in his conversation with Richard Churchil that he almost missed noticing the man leaving the crowd and driving off in a black Mercedes.

  “Did you see that car?” said Louis.

  “I did indeed,” said Richard. He smiled and recited the plate number. “That’s a Paris number.”

  * * *

  “It belongs to the Ministry of the Interior,” said Renard. “They won’t release any details.”

  “But it’s interesting, isn’t it?” said Louis.

  “It means nothing,” said Renard.

  “Possibly,” said Louis. “But on the other hand, it could well have been someone we should talk to. There is someone we don’t know about.”

  “There are plenty of people we don’t know about.”

  Renard and Isabelle had just put little Jean Marie to bed when the telephone rang. They quickly closed the door to his bedroom, and Renard picked up the phone. “Do you have your copy of the Liberation pamphlet handy?” said Louis.

  “Can’t it wait until morning?”

  “You’re right,” said Louis. “It can wait. What’s the rush?”

  “All right. Just a minute. I’ll get it,” said Renard. “I’ve got it. All right. Tell me, what’s so urgent?”

  “You know we followed up all the names,” said Louis, “except one.”

  “Which one?”

  “Schneider.”

  “Damn!” said Renard. “Schneider. Edith Troppard mentioned him when she was talking about Chabrille. I was so focused on Chabrille that I forgot to ask about him. The mayor.”

  * * *

  The telephone rang. The minister lay down his pen and picked up the phone. “Yes?” he said.

  “Monsieur Minister, your two-o’clock appointment is here.”

  “Remind me, please, Jeanne.”

  “The American. Doctor Morgon. Louis Morgon, the scholar who is writing the book about the resistance…”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Give me a minute, please. And then show him in.”

  Michel Schneider stood up from his desk and went into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. He checked the knot in his tie and touched the small Legion of Honor ribbon in his lapel. He watched his reflection as he tilted his head this way and that. He patted his hair lightly with his fingertips. When he was satisfied, he returned to his desk. He picked up the pen again and looked busy.

  The door opened, and a man of perhaps thirty-five or forty walked across the carpet. He wore a light sport coat over a shirt with an open collar. He had a disheveled, professorial look about him.

  “Please, Monsieur Minister,” he said in a dreadful American accent, “please, don’t get up.” He held out his hand and gave the minister one of those broad American grins. “Thank you for taking the time to see me. I know you have far more important things to do.…”

  “But no, monsieur,” said Michel, smiling back at the American. “What is more important than history?”

  “Well, exactly,” said Louis. “Isn’t that exactly so? I could not agree with you more, monsieur. And we must get it from those who were there, mustn’t we? If we are going to get it right.”

  “You are exactly right, monsieur. Please,” said Michel with a gesture toward the chair facing him across the desk.

  “Thank you,” said Louis. “Do you mind if I use a tape recorder? I want to be sure to get everything as you say it. We don’t want there to be any misunderstandings, do we?” Louis set the small recorder on the edge of the desk. He pressed a button and the machine started. Louis opened a tablet and took out a pen.

  “
You were decorated by General de Gaulle at the end of the war, isn’t that correct? That was certainly a high honor, monsieur. Congratulations. How exactly did it come about?”

  “You are correct, monsieur. Thank you. I was honored to be decorated by General de Gaulle. It was for my small part in resisting the Nazi occupation. It was a singular and high honor.”

  “Was the decoration given for any particular act, monsieur, or for your service in general?”

  “It was given to me for my small part in the local resistance, monsieur. But I think of myself as having received the honor on behalf of the millions of brave Frenchmen and -women who resisted the Nazis.”

  “Yes, of course. I see,” said Louis. He wrote in his notebook. “And how did you come to the resistance, Monsieur Minister?”

  “Well, I was the mayor of a town in the Sarthe.…”

  “The Sarthe?”

  “Yes, the Sarthe is the département, monsieur, in which my town was located, the town where I was mayor.”

  “I see. And what was the name of the town, monsieur? I could not find it mentioned in your official biography. I want to get everything exactly right.”

  “Of course. The town was called Saint-Léon-sur-Dême.” Michel Schneider waited while Louis wrote the name in his book.

  “Was called?” said Louis.

  “You are right, of course, monsieur,” said the minister. “Is called.” He smiled. “When the Germans arrived, I was of course obliged under the terms of the armistice to cooperate with them. You probably know that Jean Moulin, the great hero of the resistance, found himself in a similar position. Like Moulin, I found it difficult from that first day forward. I was told to do things that I soon realized I could not in good conscience do.”

  “What sort of things, monsieur?”

  “Things that ran against my conscience. And against my responsibility to protect my citizens, the citizens of Saint-Léon.”

  “For instance, monsieur, can you give me an example?”

  “Of course. I was commanded, for instance, to maintain a harsh and tyrannical order, which was not at all in accordance with French law. I was commanded to put together a list of citizens who would serve as hostages. Try to imagine that, monsieur. I was ordered to arrest and imprison some of my own citizens.”

  Louis Morgon seemed astonished. “But how were you able to avoid doing these things?”

  “I only avoided them with great difficulty. By dissembling, at great risk to myself, I might add. But I saw my first duty as being to the citizens in my town.”

  “But of course. It is hard for us today to imagine the duress and the danger. It must have been very dangerous for you.”

  “It was dangerous. And there was duress. That’s certainly true. But I had no choice. And when I could not avoid carrying out questionable policies, I always tried to counteract those policies at the same time.”

  “Can you give me an example of how you did that?”

  “Well, I was told which citizens were to be arrested, and I always warned them so that they could flee, and in some cases I actually helped them to flee. I know it sounds brazen, monsieur, but I felt I had no choice. It was, as I said, a matter of conscience.”

  “Were you ever in danger of being caught, monsieur?”

  “I was always in danger of being caught. I was the mayor, after all. I was in a very public position. Moreover, I had a policeman in my village, a young man who was an enthusiastic supporter of the Nazi regime and a collaborator. He was friendly with the Gestapo. He attended militia meetings and insisted I attend the meetings with him. These meetings were appalling to me, but they were informative. I went along and pretended to be an enthusiastic supporter.”

  “You went along to the meetings?”

  “It was the best way I knew to inform myself as to what the enemy was planning and doing.”

  “And what happened to the policeman?”

  “He was tried at the end for his collaborationist work and sent to prison. Many people wanted to kill him at the end. But as much as I despised him and what he had done, I saw to it that he was handed over to the proper authorities and properly brought to trial. This was France after all. There was no place for mob rule.”

  “Did you ever have to participate in actual militia actions?”

  “Militia actions?”

  “To throw the militia off the trail? To keep from being discovered?”

  “No. Never. I always stayed clear of that.”

  “But I know, from reading General de Gaulle’s citation…”—Louis held up a page with the text on it—“that you were highly active with the resistance forces.”

  “I was young and reckless then,” said the minister, “so I did some foolish and dangerous things. By day I was the mayor. By night I was a freedom fighter. But again, what choice does one have in the face of such brutality?”

  Michel Schneider had never before been called upon to tell his entire story. And, though he had rehearsed the story in his mind and told bits of it through the years, the effect of improvising one falsehood after another was intoxicating. He invented things that did not need inventing, and lied where he did not have to lie. He found himself embellishing the story with unnecessary heroics. “I helped any number of people escape—Jews, Gypsies, partisans of every sort.” Michel reached for the glass of water that was always on his desk and took a long swallow.

  “How did you help them escape?”

  “I hid them. I escorted them to other safe locations.”

  “Did you work alone?”

  “Nobody worked alone then. We were part of a team, a secret army, really.”

  “Did you know a partisan named Simon back then?”

  “Simon? I don’t think so. Do you know his last name?”

  “And what about sabotage? Did you engage in sabotage?”

  “There were some violent actions. It’s true. Many good men and women were lost.”

  “I know many British and American commandos came through your area.…”

  “I did what I could there. We met parachute drops.”

  “And you were never caught? It is astonishing that you were never caught.”

  “God was with me. Excuse me, Monsieur Morgon, but while this is most interesting, it is ancient history. And I have other, more-pressing business that I must attend to.…”

  “I’m sorry, Monsieur Minister, I’m almost finished. May I have a few more minutes, please? I am sure you agree that people need to get a better picture of what happened. This is a neglected moment in world history. And Americans especially need to understand it better. And who better to tell the story than someone of your experience and reputation? Just a few more questions. Is that all right?”

  “Of course,” said Michel Schneider. “You are right. The story has to be told.”

  “I believe you spoke of an action—a parachute drop, was it?—that occurred in your village, was it Saint-Léon-sur-Dême?…” Louis consulted his notes. “Yes, Saint-Léon on June twelfth, 1944. I think you said…”

  “I don’t think I spoke about a particular incident.…”

  “Didn’t you?” said Louis. He looked at his notebook. “I was sure you did. In any case, on June twelfth in 1944—is that the correct date?—there was the massacre of twelve members of the Saint-Léon resistance. They had been sent out to meet paratroopers, except the paratroopers never arrived.…”

  “No, you’re quite mistaken. I didn’t speak about any such thing. I don’t know where you…”

  “Surely, Monsieur Minister, you remember it. June twelfth, 1944. The signal: The enchanted trout still eats her young. The enchanted trout still—”

  “I don’t know where you got that; I don’t know where the…”

  “The enchanted trout still eats her young? That was the signal.…”

  “I don’t … I know nothing about that. You’re mistaken. I never…”

  “Why still?” said Louis. “I mean, did that still tell the fascist militia something s
pecial, the time, the place? I can’t quite make sense of it.” Louis leafed back and forth through his notebook as though he might be able to discover the exact meaning and significance of the phrase.

  “And what about Piet Chabrille?” he said, before the minister could speak.

  “What?”

  “Piet Chabrille. Didn’t you mention…”

  “What? Chabrille? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Why did Piet Chabrille have to die? Was he with you that night?”

  “This is outrageous. Who the hell are you, anyway? This interview is over.” Michel reached for the telephone.

  “Are you really going to call security?” said Louis. “That is not one of your best ideas.” Louis picked up the tape recorder and slid it into his pocket. “Like going to Saint-Léon for the monument dedication. That wasn’t smart either. Although we would have found you anyway. Sooner or later.” Louis slid a photo across the desk.

  The minister stared at it. It was a newspaper photograph that showed the crowd at the dedication. Louis was there, and Richard Churchil. And there was Michel Schneider, wearing dark glasses. His face was circled in red. “And here’s another one.” This one showed Michel getting into the ministry car. “Those photographers just can’t seem to stop snapping pictures.

  “Why didn’t you speak at the dedication ceremony? A national hero like you? No, never mind,” said Louis, “I’m finished. No more questions. ” He flipped the notebook pages back and forth as though he were looking for another question. “No. I think that about covers it. That’s everything.”

  XXIX.

  LOUIS PUSHED THE BUTTON and stopped the tape. Louis, Renard, and Isabelle leaned back in their chairs. They were at the Renards’ kitchen table.

  “It was him,” said Renard.

  “Probably,” said Louis.

  “Probably?”

  “Probably,” said Louis. “The fact that he lied about virtually his entire history still doesn’t prove it was him who gave up the resisters.”