A World to Win

by Sinclair, Upton;

  Really the gentlemen of the Comité des Forges weren’t doing so badly under the occupation, and they explained it to an American visitor so that he might explain it at home. To be sure, the Germans had insisted upon having a majority interest in most of the prime industries; but then, they had paid the market prices and their checks had been good, so how could you object? Ever since Adolf Hitler’s so-called Beerhall Putsch had failed so miserably, he had had a “passion for legality,” and everything he had done had complied with the formalities of the capitalist system. It was a world of paper titles, and never would the “Economic Mobile Units” which had followed on the heels of the German armies take anything without giving a proper receipt and acquiring a certificate of title with engraved scrollwork and red or gold seals. Truly it was a comical thing to see the shrewd moneymasters of France hypnotized by these devices which they themselves or their forefathers had invented!

  “What is it that a large employer wants?” demanded the head of the great electrical industry of France. “He wants to keep his plants busy, and to be able to sell his product at a profit which will enable him to meet his payroll at the end of every week. He wants to know that his workers will obey orders; that there will be no agitators stirring them up and plaguing him with strikes. All those things we have, M. Budd.”

  “Aren’t you troubled with sabotage?” inquired the visitor, and the answer was: “Some; but the Germans know how to deal with it. When the war is over, and the population has reconciled itself to the new situation, I see no reason why we should not enjoy a long period of prosperity.”

  This gentleman volunteered to deliver Lanny to his hotel after the party broke up. He had an elegant Mercédès, and apparently enough essence. On the way Lanny commented upon the depressed appearance of their host, and the reply was: “I think that what has broken Eugène’s spirit is the fact that the Germans told him his Creusot plant is hopelessly out-of-date!”

  V

  One other errand in Paris. Lanny had the address of Julie Palma, which Raoul had given him a year ago. It was in one of those factory districts which surrounded Paris with a dingy ring. Lanny had no idea whether she would still be there, but it could do no harm to try. He wrote a note on his typewriter, signing the name “Bienvenu.” He suggested a rendezvous on a street corner, something he had done on previous occasions; it was comparatively safe, because it would be misunderstood by all the rest of the world.

  He went walking, which he enjoyed, and which now was de rigueur. What was Paris like under the “occupation”? Well, for one thing, there were long queues, the same as in London and Berlin. The housewife who wanted food had to spend half her time waiting—perhaps only to learn that the day’s supply had been sold out. For another, the newspapers in the kiosks were all gleichgeschaltet; they all sang German tunes, and so, for the most part, did performers in the music halls; “Lili Marlene” was the favorite of the moment, and, oddly enough, the British in North Africa had taken it up from their prisoners. Another detail, the streets of Paris had been made moral—at any rate in name. There was no longer a rue Zola or a rue Renan, both these men having been Freemasoas, a vile thing.

  At the appointed corner, there was the little Frenchwoman who was Raoul’s devoted wife, and who had helped to run a workers’ school through all the dissensions and “splits” which had paralleled those of the world outside. All through the Spanish war she had carried the burden alone, and now she had joined the underground, living the life of an outlaw, hiding in a crowded city instead of in a forest or a mountain cave. Just what she was doing Lanny had never asked, not even in the three Spanish years. This period, which the Nazi-Fascists had used for training in depredation, the rebel workers had used for training in silence and concealment.

  Members of the underground did not walk up to one another and exchange greetings on the street. One walked and the other followed at a discreet distance; they turned several corners and watched to make sure they were not being trailed. Then, perhaps, the leader would slip into a doorway or an alley; or go out into a park, where it was possible to talk with a certainty of not being overheard. Since Lanny was not known in the working-class districts of Paris, it was all right for this pair to stroll on unfrequented streets. A well-dressed and well-fed gentleman and a poorly dressed and ill-nourished woman—that was a pattern all too familiar on the streets of the great capitals. Nobody would be curious about where they went or try to overhear their low-spoken words.

  Julie said: “You caught me just in time. I have a way to get to Raoul, and I was about to leave.”

  Lanny didn’t say: “Where is he?” That wouldn’t have been playing the game. He asked: “Have you heard from him?”—and the reply was: “There was one sentence in his letter which I assume refers to you. He said: ‘If you should see our friend, tell him the money got to the right place.’ Do you recognize that?”

  “There is a story behind it,” replied the man. “Is that all he said?”

  “His notes are brief. They have to be smuggled past the border, you know.”

  “There is no reason why you shouldn’t know what happened. Raoul probably knows it by now, and if not, you can tell him.”

  He recited the story of his misadventure in Toulon, and Julie listened with a look of horror on her face. “Oh, Lanny, what a dreadful thing to have happened to you! I am so sorry—and ashamed!”

  “It was rather disagreeable at the time, but now when I look back on it I can see the humorous aspects. I was asking for it, you know. I’ll surely be more careful in future.”

  “I think I know who the leader of that group was,” said the woman. “It would not be proper for me to name him.”

  “His voice seemed familiar, but I have searched my memory in vain. I think he was probably at the school.”

  “If he is the man I think he is, there is a price of two hundred thousand francs on his head. He is bold, and a man of intense convictions; the last time I saw him he was a Trotskyite—he’s a revolutionist who does not believe it possible to have Socialism in one country alone, or excusable to make deals with the Nazis.”

  “I know the type,” replied Lanny, “and you have given me a clue. I’ll recall the arguments I listened to at the school, and bring back to mind the different individuals who advanced them. Ten or fifteen years ago, I imagine, my captor would have been a shrill-voiced and bitter youth.”

  “In those days it was all talk,” said the woman. “But now is the time for action—and many, hélas, have reconsidered and decided that it is the part of wisdom to look out for themselves.”

  VI

  The P.A. was not free to reveal what he himself was doing, except in general terms; but Julie wanted him to know about her movement, which so needed help from outside. Defeat and humiliation had served to separate the sheep from the goats in France: those who wanted freedom and were willing to right for it from those who thought only of comfort and the protection of their property. The forces of resistance were organizing in little groups here and there. “My chief is a man who would not dare to be seen on the street by daylight,” said Julie, “but there are a hundred doors he can knock on and be safely hidden. Have you seen any of our papers?”

  “No,” was the reply, “I wouldn’t dare ask for one.”

  “I didn’t dare bring one. Ours is called Libération, and there is another called Combat. We tell the news we get over the British radio, and we tell the workers how to practice the slowdown, and how to sabotage. Most important of all is the keeping up of morale. The working-class districts of Paris are solidly for us, and when the British bomb our factories and sometimes hit our homes there is little complaint ‘C’est la guerre,’ they say.”

  “What do you need, Julie?”

  “Arms, above all else. The British smuggle some across the Channel, and drop them by parachutes in the northern areas, but it is only a trickle and it should be a flood. We need money, too—French money.”

  “I have brought you a little.” He took
out a roll of miscellaneous banknotes which he had been collecting, not without difficulty. “I am relieved to know that Raoul got the fifty thousand francs I cried to take to him. It was a funny method of delivery.”

  “I should say that is an American way to look at it,” responded the woman. “For me, it will be a cause of bad dreams for many a night.”

  “I will tell you something to cheer you up. Hitler is going to attack Russia in June.”

  “Oh, mon Dieu! Can that really be true?”

  “Take my word for it. July is the latest date.”

  “And may we say that in our paper?”

  “Surely, but you had better wait a week or two, so that it will not coincide with my arrival in Paris. Say that you got it from papers stolen from a German officer. Say that the Wehrmacht is now being mobilized on the eastern front, and that as soon as the conquest of Greece is completed, the troops there will be shifted to the Ukraine.”

  “That will mean a tremendous increase of strength to us, Lanny. The Communists were powerful in France before the war, and such an attack will set them to work like a swarm of hornets.”

  “If you can convince them, they can start swarming two months earlier. Tell them that the top Nazis are trying desperately to persuade the British to lay off, so that Germany may be free to attack Russia. But they will not get what they are asking for.”

  “Oh, I hope you are right, Lanny! And thank you as ever. When do you expect to be back in France?”

  “I cannot say exactly, but I should guess about midsummer. Address me at Bienvenu, as usual; but don’t ask me to come to Toulon!”

  “God forbid!” exclaimed the woman of the underground.

  VII

  Two years had passed since the great city of Madrid had yielded to Generalissimo Franco’s troops, but a visitor looked in vain for any signs of restoration. Buildings which had been wrecked remained as they were, and stucco which had been chipped by bullets was pockmarked. In the Hotel Ritz, where Lanny put up, the hot water ran lukewarm and stained with rust. In the dining-room you could have a meal of fish or meat cooked in the very best Spanish style, provided that you had twenty dollars to pay for it. Outside, in the narrow, ill-smelling streets, people were fainting from starvation, and an average of two every hour were committing suicide. Jails and concentration camps were jammed with half-starved prisoners, and the problem of food scarcity was solved by taking batches of them out every night and shooting them in the courtyards. In short, it was Spain—pious and incompetent, Catholic and cruel, medieval Spain. Its regime was hated by all the workers and most of the peasants, by the intelligentsia and the middle classes; it was imposed upon the country by the military, with the help of German Nazis, Italian Fascists, Moors, aristocracy, and Holy Mother Church.

  Some four years ago Lanny had met General Aguilar in Seville, and had impressed that pious killer with his understanding of and sympathy for the “Nationalist” cause. Now the General was the military commander of the capital, and Lanny called upon him and exhibited his intellectual wares with the usual good results; the elderly aristocrat with silvery mustaches and a chest covered with medals invited him to his home and compelled him to drink a dangerous number of copitas de manzanilla. Word spread quickly in the right circles that there was an American gentleman, digno de aceptación, who had just come from Berlin, and had previously been in Vichy, London, New York, and Hollywood. The P.A. was taken up and invited about, and no longer had to buy his meals at ruinous prices.

  There had always been a colony of Spaniards on the French Riviera, in exile from one regime or another. Lanny had known them as a proud and touchy people, inclined toward melancholy, even moroseness. Perhaps that was to be expected of exiles; and now it seemed that the whole of Spain was in exile at home. Nobody was happy, even when they were drunk; the most elaborate dinner party, even with music and dancing, could not produce any gaiety. And everybody was ready to tell a visiting stranger the reason for it. A few madmen in Spain wanted more war, and all the rest were afraid that the forces which were wrecking the modern world were going to drag this tortured land into their vortex.

  Such was the attitude of everybody whom Lanny met, even the government people, even the military. Spain had no food, Spain had no transportation, and how could she take part in a war? Spain was dependent upon outsiders for so many things—and especially oil, without which she could not move a wheel. How then could she fight countries which were in position to blockade her ports and destroy the few ships she had left? That much even General Aguilar would say; and his daughter, wife of one of the city’s leading bankers, lowered her voice and exclaimed: “We are in the hands of irresponsible elements! We are the pawns of propaganda!”

  You could make sure of it by looking at the newspapers on the stands. The Germans had begun a huge campaign for Spanish participation, and Lanny had seen enough in other cities to know how they must be pouring out money. When bands of hoodlums who called themselves the Falange and presumed to run the affairs of the country were parading the streets waving banners and shouting for blood. Lanny knew that money and cigarettes and arms were being distributed for the asking. There were rumors all over town that the British were preparing for a landing, to use Spain as a base to attack Hitler, as they had done with Napoleon nearly a century and a half ago. Lanny didn’t have to be told that it was agents of the Gestapo who were circulating such reports. Hilde von Donnerstein had told him how they were practicing this same technique in Berlin, where the story was that all Germans in the United States were forced to wear black swastikas on their left breasts, and that the persecution of Jews in Germany wars in reprisal for the persecution of Germans by the Jew-dominated governments of New York and Washington.

  VIII

  It was a P.A.’s job to find out about these matters, and if and where and when the Führer expected to strike through Spain. From General Aguilar he learned that new motor highways were being built in the direction of Gibraltar, and great fortifications were under construction facing the Rock; not even the peasants were permitted to use the side roads in that district. No doubt the British knew about such activities, but F.D.R. would be interested to have the reports confirmed. Everybody seemed to agree that there could be no move until the harvests were in, and that, too, was important. Meantime, remarked the elderly General, the troops would be busy with another attempt to put down the rebels who were still hiding in the Guadarrama mountains, less than an hour’s drive from the capital. Also, his secret service would be occupied in trying to nab those Communists who, incredible as it might seem, were managing to publish a weekly paper in the heart of the city.

  Admiral Darlan came to Madrid at this juncture, and when he learned that Lanny had been in Berlin he invited him to lunch. Lanny told him enough of what Hitler and Göring and Hess had said to cheer the old seadog and make him certain that his Nazi friends were going to win the war; then he talked freely about the proposed seizure of Gibraltar, dreaded by him because the armies would have to move through Vichy France. Marshal Pétain had proposed to come to Madrid to consult with Franco, whom he knew well and greatly admired; but the Führer had not trusted the old gentleman and had forbidden the visit. Thereupon Madame Pétain had come, with a military staff—which was something of a joke, considering that women had never voted in France and that their part in government had been confined to the drawing-room and the bedchamber. The Admiral chuckled as he told this story, and his guest laughed as any man would.

  Also, Juan March happened to be in town; he traveled freely from Spain into France and from Spain into Britain; he was the sort of person whom embassies and consulates approve. He had begun life as a tobacco smuggler, and had got the tobacco monopoly of Spain; this and other privileges had made him the richest man in the land. It was well known that he had put up the money for Franco’s coup, so now he could have anything he wanted if it was Franco’s to give. But, alas, there was so much that wasn’t in Franco’s possession! Peace, for example, and security! S
eñor Juan was one of those Jews from the Balearic Isles whom the Spanish call Xuetas, and do not think of them as Jews, precisely, but as “descendants of Jews.” But now the Nazi wave was spreading into Spain, and how could an ex-smuggler be certain that they would take the same attitude? Señor Juan was well on in years and his mother was dead; he might have difficulty in proving that she had committed adultery!

  Also, the Germans were bad for business, Spanish business; they wanted it all to themselves. Señor Juan had just been to London, where he had formed a company with a nominal capital of a hundred thousand pounds to promote trade between Britain and Spain; but what could you do when Hitler was taking everything out of the country? The Xueta had suggested to General Franco a wonderful scheme for making cheap motorcars for the people of Spain, and Franco had thought well of it, but Hitler had not; he had pointed out that as soon as the war was won, Germany would be in position to make all the cars the Spanish people might want, and Germany would be wanting oranges and olive oil, cork and copper and mercury and other Spanish products in exchange. “He wants us to be a colony,” said Señor Juan. Ordinarily he was a close-mouthed man, but he had known Lanny for some time and had learned the same lesson that Lanny had learned, that it you want somebody to tell you things you must begin by telling him things. A heavy-set, round-faced man, his complexion was so gray that it made you think of rubber. A large and melancholy rubber doll, overinflated, and afraid that somebody might stick a pin into him!