by Tania Szabô
‡
‘Venez avec moi!’ barked the Milicien.
‘Mais pourquoi, monsieur?’ No reply, so she followed the Milicien, wondering how she should react. Heart beating uncontrollably, she quickened her pace to come alongside him. ‘Monsieur, I find your insistence somewhat troubling, not knowing why you wish me to follow you,’ she said evenly.
‘There are questions concerning you that require answering, mademoiselle, as you are not in possession of a permis de séjour,’ he replied as they walked to the Palais de Justice.
At least he isn’t taking me to the Donjon or Gestapo headquarters, Violette thought to herself, as she hurried painfully beside him. Her feet were killing her. Not that the Palais de Justice would be much better. Milice and Gestapo have administrative bureaux there and neither are soft interrogators. I hope he doesn’t take me down to the basement. I’d be in trouble. Probably taken out and shot at the Stand aux Fusillés.
As she walked beside the Milicien Violette thought: How will I hold up if they take me to the basement in the Palais? I already know far too much, including names and addresses. I should have kept my ‘L’ pill.60 I understand now why many accept it. But after my training I’ve got an idea how determined I can be to keep silent if need be. Like Joan of Arc, I’ll keep reminding myself, ‘We’ll get them!’ Her knees felt like rubber and the palms of her hands were clammy.
At the Palais de Justice, the Milicien ordered her to sit on a hard-backed wooden chair in the main hall while he went to his superior’s office. The floor was wood, the wall panelling stretching down both sides was wood and the chairs were wood – all honey-brown and highly polished. She waited two hours. Functionaries hurried back and forth, heads bent forward – clearly on serious business. Doors opened and closed quietly or occasionally slammed. All was subdued but intense activity. Violette watched, sitting quietly on her wooden chair against a wooden wall. At least her feet weren’t hurting. She used the time to review her story and felt it was watertight. There were a number of directions she could take it, depending on their questions. She was trained to expect the long wait, knew it was part of the softening-up process. She was beginning to feel weary, bored and sick in the stomach at the thought of what might lie ahead.
Violette suddenly realised this was where Lucien worked. And now she understood Philippe’s report that referred to a helper of great importance in the Palais de Justice. There was no sign of him, though. The huge building had a plethora of offices, hallways, staircases, lifts. She hoped he would not appear. He could do nothing to help her and she was fairly confident she was in a good position to be released soon. Fingers crossed.
Finally, a young, very erect, smartly uniformed woman ushered Violette into the captain’s office. There were two low-ranking Miliciens present, plus the one who had arrested her. The young military woman sat primly to take notes.
Holding herself modestly erect, seemingly serene, Violette waited for the captain behind the large ornate desk to look up and speak. A framed photo-portrait of Pétain and Hitler hung on the wall. She clasped her fingers in front of her, thinking it unwise to appear too calm. In truth, she was feeling anything but calm. She was a simple secretary, her papers said, and she must act that part. Not difficult; she felt small and minor in the opulence of the office. She took a deep breath to steady herself – it helped. She was not entirely play-acting. Fear dried her mouth.
The captain had her papers arranged in front of him.
‘Your name, mademoiselle?’
‘Corinne Leroy.’
‘Address?’
‘7, rue Thiers, Le Havre.’
‘What are you doing here in Rouen?’
‘I’ve been asked to look for a relative who might be here, whilst on my way back from visiting family in Paris for Easter.’
‘My officer has noted that you do not have the requisite permis de séjour, but you do not live here.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘Pourquoi?’
‘I have not been to register, having just arrived. I haven’t visited here for years, since I was a teenager, in fact, and it’s a lovely old town. But what a lot of damage! I am happy to register now.’
‘Wise,’ was the gruff response. ‘But it doesn’t account for what you have been doing, mademoiselle.’
‘That’s true, monsieur. I am appalled by the devastation. The British have really caused havoc here, haven’t they? It’s such a pity. I’m trying to find where I might hire a bicycle. And I wanted a cardigan repaired, a lovely pale blue cardigan, and the dress shop is going to do that for me.’
‘Why have you been asked to look for a relative here in Rouen?’
‘Because his family is worried about him. He hasn’t been heard of since coming here a few months ago. They’re afraid he may have died or been injured in a bombing raid. Maybe you could help me?’
‘Go to the Town Hall. That’s where the lost or missing persons’ office is. For the moment I have no further questions, mademoiselle. You may go. Before you leave, register your address in Rouen to the young lady here, along with the name of your relative. She will stamp your permis de séjour. Should we hear any news regarding him, we can contact you.’
‘Merci, monsieur,’ She went over to the secretary, gave her the name of the hotel and the name of her invented uncle. She turned to go.
The captain raised his head. ‘Un instant, you’ve forgotten your ID. Go quickly now, so you can be off the streets before curfew.’ He handed the papers over. She noticed how soft his hand was. Her own hand was trembling as she held it out to take the documents.
As the door closed behind her the captain looked at the others and said that he thought the Milicien had perhaps been a little overzealous in bringing that young woman in. She was clearly afraid, and there was no deviousness in her manner. She seemed just a little naive. However, he ordered her name and addresses to be kept on file.
‡
The relief nearly overwhelmed Violette as she walked back down the hall to the entrance. The door seemed a mile away at the end of her sudden tunnel vision. She felt faint, her knees weak. Sweat trickled down her neck. All she wanted was to get out of there as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. But she must not rush; take time, head held high but no show of arrogance. She hoped her fear was not too patently obvious.
At last she reached the open air, took a deep breath and walked in the direction of her hotel. It was going on for seven o’clock and light was fading fast. Along the way, in a little patisserie, she bought herself a crêpe and a small tarte aux pommes and asked for them to be wrapped so she could take them to her room.
Violette felt exhausted. It was getting too close to curfew for comfort. There was barely any traffic and, as dusk drew in, the streets took on a sinister air. She desperately wanted the safety of her room and a cup of hot chocolate; she hoped Madame Thivier would make one for her.
Arriving at reception, she rang the bell. When Madame Thivier appeared, Violette asked if she would be kind enough to make her a cup of hot chocolate. Madame Thivier looked at the young women, noticing the deep lines of anxiety on her sweet face, damp hair and the residue of sweat on her upper lip. Her heart went out to her. Making no comment, she told Violette she would bring it to her room in about half an hour, giving Violette time to freshen up and relax.
Luxuriating in yet another bath, Violette went over the arrest and brief interrogation. She reviewed her day with the two women, deciding it had been successful. She mulled over the details she had been told and those half-whispered between the two women just after she had arrived regarding her bona fides and the news confirmed by Lucien.
Feeling cleansed and relaxed, fear having vanished in the warmth and afterglow of the hot bath, she dried off and went to her room, where she found a jug of steaming hot chocolate and a plate of chocolate-coated biscuits. What a luxury and how very kind of Madame Thivier.
Making coded notes on her rice paper, Violette ate her patisseries, s
lowly drinking the delicious chocolate. She saved the buttery French chocolate biscuits for another time.
Violette got into bed feeling much better and, to stop herself having a sleepless night of reliving the frightening episode with the Milice, she settled down to read until she fell asleep.
‡
* * *
59 Typically, the French here are using the English word, tickets; while in England the French word coupons was used.
60 The ‘L’ pill was the lethal cyanide pill that all agents were offered so, if they were caught and tortured, they could end the horror and prevent themselves from talking by cracking it in their mouth. Death was but a few seconds away.
13
Teenager, Philippe, Lise, Marcel, Lucien, Posters
Thursday 13 April 1944
The next morning, Violette felt fully restored after a good night’s sleep. It’s Thursday 13 April, she thought as she ate her breakfast; I’ve already spent nearly three days here in Rouen. There’s so much I have to do and I’ve hardly made a dent. I’ve talked socially with German officers on the train, been questioned by Germans in the street, dragged off to the Palais de Justice by the French Milice for questioning, passed the time of day with ordinary German soldiers and French people, probably including some collabos. At least I’ve met Denise Desvaux, Lucien and Lise Valois, who will take me to meet someone who was close to Georges Philippon. He might be someone I can do something more concrete with than just meeting and talking. Although, I must admit, meeting Denise, Lise and Lucien has led directly to this, and I’ve learned a damned lot that should stand me in good stead. I should probably only stay in this hotel for a few days more.
She pondered over what to do with the money she held. Violette knew that it would raise serious questions if large numbers of high denomination franc notes were found in her possession. On the other hand, they were well hidden in the linings of her jacket and bag, as well as in her belt. Both had easy-to-split double linings that could be quickly resewn so she could transfer the notes from the bag into the jacket lining. Once she handed them out, whoever received them could take these counterfeit notes to a friendly bank manager to break down into manageable, smaller denominations of real money.
‡
A neatly dressed boy of about thirteen came running and panting into the hotel reception. The patronne’s grey eyes twinkled as she asked him what he was doing in here. The lad politely asked if he could talk to Mademoiselle Leroy.
Madame Thivier directed him to the dining room, wondering what it could be about and knowing somehow that it was not conducive to good relations with the enemy. The girl, Corinne Leroy as she called herself, was certainly mixed up in something. It might rebound on her and her hotel, but Madame Thivier didn’t care a rap. She would try to protect the girl as far as she could.
The boy approached Violette as she sat near the window, looking at the people walking by.
‘Mademoiselle Leroy?’ he asked her.
‘Oui?’ she affirmed, puzzled. What could this teenager want? Perhaps he came on behalf of Denise or Lise. ‘Have a seat. Comment t’appelles-tu?’
‘Martin.’ He replied seriously. ‘Charles asked me to tell you he’s waiting for you at Le Tabac under the Gros Horloge. He’s there now and he’ll stay there today till you arrive. He told me to say you don’t need to give me anything ’cos he’s already done it.’
‘Well, thank you very much. Off you go now. Shouldn’t you be going to school?’
‘I’m going now. I hate the dirty Boches, so when I can do something I do. At the start of the year they confiscated me bike. Me an’ me friend were just about to go over the bridge to the rive droite, to rue Louis Ricard. The Germans stopped us and pinched our bikes. We ’ad to walk to school. That really got up our noses and when we’re a bit older if they’re still ’ere, we’re joining the Résistance properly so we can sabotage their transport. Till then, we both do little things like passing on messages. You see we look very innocent, don’t we?’ All this he said in a quiet quick voice so the other people breakfasting did not hear what he was saying. They simply saw a happy, well-behaved lad of about thirteen talking to a pretty woman.
‘Yes, you do look very innocent. It’s really very brave of you. You will make a fine Résister one day. But if you get caught, you and your parents would be in dreadful trouble. So be very, very careful. And thank you.’
‘Me dad’s already involved. Me eldest brother was taken to Germany as forced labour. Me dad works on the rocket construction. Well, that’s what we all think it is. He often puts stuff in the concrete to mess it up. Usually bits of iron. Au revoir.’ And off he went with the happy grin of a job well done.
Violette finished her breakfast as fast as she could, trying not to look rushed, thinking she must persuade Philippe not to stay in Rouen. Stupid fool. It was so bloody dangerous for him. There were posters with a price on his head – she had seen two yesterday – and the Germans were getting nastier by the day. She wondered what brought him here. Didn’t he trust her to do the job properly or had some emergency cropped up?
She collected her coat, scarf and bag, and she waved a cheerful goodbye to the patronne as she headed for the door.
As she was leaving, Madame Thivier informed her that a bicycle had been delivered for her by a young woman. Violette thanked her eagerly and wished her bonne journée.
‡
She found the bike in the yard and started pedalling slowly towards the cathedral rue du Gros Horloge. Violette praised the group’s attention to detail in delivering the bike. A girl pushing a girl’s bike would not be noticed at all. A man doing so just might be hauled in for questioning or, at least, noted.
Even over the cobbles it felt a damned sight more comfortable to cycle than walk – and so much faster than on two blistered feet. She had noticed the little café-cum-tobacco shop Le Tabac when she had wandered down here before. Approaching it as if she had known it all her life, Violette parked her bike down the alley on the left where she could just see the edge of the rear wheel. Philippe was sitting outside at a tiny table just near the door, sipping a demitasse of coffee. He smiled and waved to her.
‘Bonjour Corinne, comment ça va, ma chère?’
‘Très bien, Charles, et toi?’
‘Pas trop mal,’ he smiled wanly and pulled out the other chair for her. He looked tired and drawn and was clearly on tenterhooks. In turn he saw a few tense lines of worry around her eyes and mouth that weren’t there in Paris. She had lost some weight too, which wasn’t at all unusual in their line of work, he reflected. ‘Had a bit of a hard time, have you, Corinne?’
‘Not really, Charles, but I have been hauled before a captain of the Milice at the Palais de Justice. Didn’t like that very much, I must say. Apart from that it’s not been too bad, really. I’ve met Madame Desvaux, Lise Valois, Lucien, and later this morning I might be meeting a friend of his and, as you can see, they’ve found me a bike.’
Violette gave him a full report of her meetings and observations while setting out her plans for the next day or so. She added that she’d seen posters of him around the town, joking that she would not need to find a wireless operator, nor pigeon, because she had Philippe as her stool pigeon. He looked just like one of them. He grunted, then laughed. She felt a bit guilty but the thought tickled her. She also described the increasingly severe and vengeful German mood, as well as the increase in Gestapo and Milicien men stomping around the streets of the town, enquiring into everything and everyone. Violette explained that people here were really frightened after so many had been taken, as well as everything she had seen on the river. She told him everything she knew about the fate of members of the Salesman circuit, and the ideas she was forming about betrayal coming initially from a higher source, perhaps from the Organisation civile et militaire (OCM).61 She asked him to tell her the names of as many as he knew and their structure, which he did.
‘Charles, it’s far too dangerous for you to stay here, even i
f the posters hardly look like you, and even though I’m pretty sure Denise Desvaux would not inform them that you’re here if she knew. I’m getting on with the task quite well, as you can see. I still have another ten days or so. I know the news is very bad, with so many having been captured and either shot or deported, but I also know that there are a good number who will fight with all their being and, with perseverance, we’ll jolly well get them to prepare the ground for the invasion.’
As they talked, she watched the Rouennais bustling past. This area of the town had been quite untouched. It was good to see Philippe laugh outright to see a young boy stick his tongue out at a passing Gestapo officer in his black uniform. Violette smiled too, but continued soberly, ‘We need to get more weapons to them and I’ll check out the drop-zones today or tomorrow. Although many are too scared now, there’re still a lot of people in various Résistance groups willing to have a go. I think the fact that I’m female, and not too bad looking, and that I’ve come over the Channel helps because the men feel obliged – at least in part. And that I’ve got family here too, although of course I don’t mention who and where. I’m sure being French helps you a lot in France.’
‘You’re right there. Okay, Corinne. You’ve done remarkably well so far. I have complete trust in you. And I’ll leave, as I’ll only be a danger to you and all our contacts here. I’ve got a few things to do today and we’ll meet this evening at six o’clock in Place des Emmurées at the Brasserie Marigold. Unless you’ve already planned something else? How does that sound? As you know, I don’t like meeting and planning in cafés. An evening off, if you will.’