Young, Brave and Beautiful

by Tania Szabô

  ‘That sounds great. See you at six. Look after yourself, mon chef.’ She got up, smiled and pulled her scarf back on.

  ‘You too, mademoiselle,’ smiled Philippe. He was absolutely amazed at what she had achieved in just a few days.

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  It was only just after ten o’clock and her appointment at the station wasn’t until half past eleven that morning, so Violette cycled slowly along rue Grand Pont where German shelling and Allied bombing had damaged or destroyed most of the street. Most of the bombing had taken place in 1940 and 1941 and since then the town had been somewhat tidied up. Men and women of the Défense Passive, the equivalent of the air raid wardens in London, were still clearing up and helping people find a few meagre possessions among their damaged houses. They were also responsible for setting up air raid shelters in the cellars of hotels, large houses, official buildings and some restaurants.

  As Violette cycled along she saw a young man of perhaps eighteen. His mate shouted ‘Michel, regarde-là, les Chleus!’,62 at which Michel turned to look insolently at a pair of German officers. He pushed past them, hustling one of the Germans off the pavement. The other officer came straight back and gave him a terrific punch in the face and, fortunately for the lad, they both walked on. Shocked at the violence, a shudder coursed through Violette’s body. It further hardened her resolve to be very, very careful. Michel’s friend rushed over, helped him stem the flow of blood, then put his arm under his friend’s armpit, yanking him to his feet as they stumbled off to find some first aid.

  Violette had been checking if she were being followed. So far, it seemed not. She got off her bike to check in the reflection in the window of a shoe shop while she looked at the shoes on display. Two Milice walking towards her. Fearful of another encounter, she studied all the shoes then walked into the shop. After enquiring about one of the pairs in the window, trying and rejecting them, she left the shop and got back on her bike. She turned left and left again, back to where she had come from, when she rode straight into a German patrol. These soldiers were bullying and pushing pedestrians to walk on the right side of the pavements, gesticulating towards a large unsightly notice that ordered pedestrians to walk on the right in the manner of motorised traffic being driven on the right. Violette rode along carefully to avoid attracting attention. It was decidedly difficult to keep a straight face at this comic Teutonic display of orderliness and procedure.

  She was heading towards Quai Corneille, over the bridge and to her meeting with Lise Valois. In rue de la République, another squad of soldiers was checking that pedestrians crossed the road only at the junctions. Violette made a sensible detour while smiling broadly at the enemy’s antics.

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  She finally arrived at the station at twenty-five past eleven. Leaving her bike in the designated area and tightening her scarf under her chin, she walked over to the station entrance. Crowds of people arriving and departing were milling around. She queued to have her papers checked by the Gestapo. The one who checked her identity card and zone pass gave her a cursory glance then allowed her through. This is all part of the aftermath of the round-up and deportations, thought Violette. I bet they’re on the lookout for Philippe, and others.

  Violette joined the throng, making her way to wait on a bench under the large clock on the wall. Two railway workers – cheminots – were taking a few moments’ break to roll a cigarette. The cheminots had been instrumental in many hundreds of train delays and accidents and were beginning to co-ordinate much more serious damage all over the country as D-Day approached.

  She sat there quietly, carefully noting how many German soldiers, officers, Gestapo and Milice were present. As she watched, one elderly man on a bench and a young couple near the newspaper stall were hauled off into the office that the Milice used whenever they wanted to question someone.

  ‘Mademoiselle, bonjour,’ murmured a soft but firm feminine voice. She looked up and saw Lise Valois with Lucien. She greeted them with pleasure. Lucien was of medium height and about thirty years old, with the quiet dignity and confidence that overcoming moments of fear gives.

  Next to Lucien was another man. More imposing. He was around thirty-five years of age, also of medium height, but powerfully built. His dark hair was curly and unruly. ‘Corinne, I would like you to meet Marcel. He arranged delivery of the bike,’ Lucien announced proudly.

  ‘Enchantée, monsieur. And thank you so much for the bike. I can’t tell you what a difference it has made just this morning.’

  ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ said Marcel with a deep warm smile. ‘It is truly my pleasure. And a friend tells me you were at Le Tabac having a quiet coffee with a mutual friend!’

  She was too slow in disguising the shock and said, ‘Well, you lot really are good! I didn’t notice a tail – friendly or unfriendly. I’m usually good at losing those who follow me.’

  ‘I know that. We’ve tried twice and failed both times. But no, you wouldn’t have noticed a friendly tail this time because there was none. The waiter who served you is one of ours!’

  ‘Ah!’ Violette smiled. She now knew why Philippe felt comfortable waiting there all day. Marcel was a carpenter by trade. Violette could see he concealed a sharp intellect behind an apparently open demeanour. He wore shabby clothes and heavy boots that had been repaired many times. His accent was that of a Normand of the deep country, perhaps slightly modified by mixing with Frenchmen from all regions and social strata through his craft.

  Violette was delighted at last to meet a man who could clearly open up a real course of action for her to take. She felt sure, although she had not been told anything about him, that he was a leader, perhaps of a Maquis group.

  ‘Let’s go to the Brasserie de la Gare,’ intercepted Lise. ‘We can get a corner banquette and have a quiet chat over an aperitif.’

  The four of them walked through the throng of people. Turning to Violette, Marcel said, ‘Corinne, you will notice we are using our correct names for this meeting. That is because, as Lise has told me, you already know some, and as you have legitimately been looking to hire a bicycle to get around on, and for a lost relative, there is no reason not to use our legitimate names, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Oui, d’accord,’ replied Violette, just a little thoughtfully. She felt reassured that they were, in fact, using her mission name of Corinne Leroy as if it truly were her own. ‘Maybe we can talk a little later about various matters and assign the work that’s to be done, including helping out families who’re in financial need.’

  ‘You can come back with me to my workshop and we’ll sort out any problems with the bike and the other things there. Ça vous convient, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Parfaitement. It would be very useful to have a large basket on the front, at least, and perhaps a tyre repair kit and pump if such wonders still exist,’ she grinned somewhat cheekily. ‘But I can cope quite easily if not comfortably with solid tyres. I’ll probably be spending time here on the left bank and possibly cycling further north. Le Havre might be necessary too.’

  Surprised, Marcel asked, ‘But you know that Le Havre is a long way, along heavily patrolled roadways? It would be better by train or in one of our trucks. Le Havre is a very dangerous place.’

  ‘Yes, but I must spend at least twenty-four hours there.’

  They made their way to the station brasserie, where Marcel ordered cafés-cals, coffees laced with Calvados, for the four of them. The barman was another friend. They chatted about bikes, riding around and the general state of the town. Marcel, Lise and Lucien were quite astonished at Violette’s knowledge of the town and recent events and the surrounding area that she hadn’t even seen yet. At no time during this meeting did any one of them mention the real purpose of their meeting. Violette had lost all trace of any accent and was steadily building her own slightly northern rhythm and colloquialisms particular to the area. She constantly listened to the language and sounds around her. She loved it!

  Four people, intent on freeing
their country from tyranny, spent a pleasant forty-five minutes chatting innocuously. Violette felt, briefly again, safe and secure in the company of these folk.

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  As they left the bar, something caught Violette’s eye on a wall in the ticket hall: two posters of wanted men affixed by German order with such awful images that the two men were hardly recognisable:

  X … dit Clément, Charles Staunton

  and X … dit Mollier R.

  It was the first time she had seen the posters close up. The first was of Philippe Liewer, with his cover names of Clément in Rouen as well as Charles Beauchamp and Charles Staunton; the second was of Bob Maloubier, printed on the poster as Robert Mollier/Mortier. The Germans had the right field names but seemed not to know exactly who they were. The fact that they had the name of Staunton disturbed her greatly as it was Philippe’s UK alias. How and from whom did they get that? The pictures luckily bore little resemblance to the two men. The one of Philippe accentuated and deepened the long lines from his nostrils to mouth and showed the early growth of a dark beard. This all aged and helped disguise him. He looked every bit his cover of the little overworked accountant from Lyon on secondment to Rouen, renting a small room from the Francheterre family in Place des Emmurées, or as Violette had commented earlier, a somewhat suspicious type. Bob looked uncharacteristically subdued, properly suited and without his trademark moustache. She preferred him as she knew him: dashing, exciting, good looking with an indomitable stare and moustache – and always good fun.

  This time the ‘Wanted’ notices were prominently displayed and Violette decided she would return to rip them off that wall or some other wall. She would wait until she was about to leave for England as it would be dangerously foolhardy to have them in her possession while staying anywhere in Normandy. She nudged Lise and surreptitiously indicated the notices. ‘I’ll come back and tear off one or two when the way is clear,’ she muttered softly. ‘Are there many around the town?’

  ‘Oh, yes. All over the place. But be very careful when you take and hide them,’ advised Lucien, who had overheard. That jolted Violette, who thought she had spoken very quietly to Lise.

  ‘Of course I’ll be damned careful,’ retorted Violette, angry with herself. ‘But I want a couple to take back across the water. Just before my return to Paris will do nicely. School taught me how to thieve and cat burgle and all manner of wicked things. And I’m very good at them!’

  ‘Bon, ben ma p’tite, don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ teased Marcel. ‘We’ve watched you over the last couple of days and are quite impressed by your demeanour. We saw you dragged along to the Palais de Justice, too, and noted how you behaved in the captain’s office.’

  ‘What! And you didn’t give me a bloody bit of help!’ stormed Violette, but her volatile temper quickly subsided. ‘No, no, I’m sorry. Quite impossible under the circumstances! And thanks for the compliment.’ She smiled apologetically, and then grinned. ‘How about another of those fantastic drinks on me – coffee and Calvados – unknown in my hometown!’ They all laughed and accepted her hospitality as she walked across to the bar. ‘By the way, Lucien, I was so relieved you didn’t appear in the Palais,’ she whispered in his ear.

  Astonished, he blurted, ‘How do you know that’s where I work?’

  ‘Ah, I know you’re a senior fonctionnaire, serving civilly, all the while scuppering German orders in naughty ways. But, if I told you how I knew, that would be telling, now wouldn’t it?’

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  The group gradually split up, with Violette and Marcel going to his workshop a few doors from Georges Philippon’s arms dump in rue des Abattoirs. Violette and Lise arranged to meet at the dress shop the following day, Friday, to see if Lise or Marcel had anything to report to Violette, or even later that day if Violette needed to see her. If Lise wished to contact Violette, she would do so through Madame Thivier at the hotel. They agreed on innocuous coded words to express danger, times, places and such. The repaired cardigan was a fine motive for their meeting up.

  Violette informed everyone that Madame Thivier was trustworthy, adding that the woman would make a fine cutout for groups and couriers or leaders from the area or further afield. She recounted the kindness shown her and the woman’s obvious concern when she arrived back a little fraught from her unpleasant episodes. It had been fortuitous for Violette to find the little hotel.

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  Marcel and Violette headed off to collect their bikes so they could get to the workshop and chat more discreetly.

  ‘I’ll pedal ahead of you and you follow behind. You know the rules, no doubt, about not pedalling side by side,’ said Marcel. ‘Take about five minutes to get there.’

  ‘Thanks, Marcel. I’ll be right behind you all the way.’

  It was well after midday when Violette and Marcel set off to his carpenter’s workshop, about a mile to the west of the railway station. The streets were grim and desolate and this side of the Seine reeked of poverty. Feeling watched, Violette turned to see a man in a dark overcoat observe them, making a note on a notepad. ‘Monsieur Marcel, do you know that man? He made a note and was looking quite hard in our direction.’

  ‘It’s the Gestapo, en pékin,’63 growled Marcel, a frown darkening his face. ‘It doesn’t augur too well. We’d better be damned careful. We’ll see if we can change that bike of yours for a better one and look for a suitable basket, have a quick chat and then I’m afraid you’ll really have to leave my workshop and garage. We’ll use your cover story. Maybe I can suggest somebody who knows somebody who might be able to help you search for your relation.’

  ‘Right, that’s good. The Wehrmacht colonel on the train knows, and it’s recorded at Milice HQ through the check I underwent that I’m looking for a bike to hire and searching for an uncle who might’ve got caught in the bombing raids,’ Violette filled in for Marcel. ‘So it shouldn’t prove a problem that I’m seen in your garage looking for a better bike and a basket.’

  ‘Yes, and it gives me an excuse to consider the matter overnight, time to contact friends and then it’s appropriate for you to return tomorrow or for us to meet up somewhere. If we find another bike, that’ll be good too – an extra reason for meeting here. So, I can keep this one to fix and then you can return for it later on. That way, I’ve got good answers, should someone come snooping. You too, if you’re stopped again. It keeps your story credible while giving me time to sleep on what we discuss.’

  They dismounted from their bikes to climb a steepish hill on foot, walking side by side, pushing their bikes on their outer side giving them privacy to chat. As they walked along, seemingly unaware of danger and enjoying the walk, the Gestapo man followed behind awhile. Then they heard the clack of his boots as he caught up. Addressing himself to Marcel, he said: ‘Ausweise, bitte!’ As the officer examined their papers, Marcel grumbled, ‘It’s just damned awkward, you know. Everybody’s looking for bikes and I’ve hardly got anything left. Can’t the authorities let us have more? People do have to get to work and kids to school.’

  ‘When they’re available. Now, explain to me what you’re doing, where you’re going.’

  ‘Young lady’s looking for another bike, and a basket! Every day I have someone looking for some kind of transport. I’ve enough work in my workshop, never mind keeping an eye on that damned garage and its apprentice boy. Don’t know if he’ll be able to find one for her. We’re riding there now. We might be in luck.’ He grumbled on, ‘I ought to put my regular customers first. Those bloody British bomb us; you lot keep us under lock and key, so to speak – I’m fed up with it all.’

  ‘Your papers are in order. Be thankful I’m not arresting you.’

  And he walked off. He was fed up with the whining French and their stupid demands.

  ‘Phew,’ breathed Violette. ‘That was a fine moan. Got right up his nose.’

  ‘Yep. Just cross the road and we’re there,’ replied Marcel. ‘Garage first, I think.’

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  It was a typical garage, with old rusting machinery shoved into corners, bits of tyres and springs and all manner of dusty, creaking things. This was fun. The tenseness dissipated as Marcel showed her around, even pointing out where Jo had hidden the dump. It had been so well hidden, he explained, that only half had been found by the Germans, the rest had been secreted away by Claude Malraux.

  He ushered her through a side-door into another garage where all manner of bikes and spare parts were lying around or being cleaned up by Philippon’s workers, including Mich, his very bright and dedicated apprentice.

  ‘Okay,’ Mich said to Marcel. ‘I think this one should do the trick. Old enough but we can clean up the chain, add a couple of hidden gears and make the tyres look like hard ones although they won’t be. Easier to ride but not appearing so.’ There were hardly any tyres available and gears were unlikely on a simple bike in occupied France. Dangerous, therefore, to have them.

  ‘That’s marvellous. And a good point. Let me pay for the bike and any work you do. My friends can afford it,’ smiled Violette. She could see Mich’s grin mixed with relief in the semi-gloom.

  ‘Thank you, Corinne,’ Marcel replied. ‘We can do with all the money we can get. Even counterfeit – better still really. It all gets spread around. Helps get intelligence from our informers at the occupier’s offices and departments of one kind or another.’ He looked around. ‘Hey Mich, can you lend a hand here, please? I need a couple of old baskets for the bikes.’

  ‘D’ac,’ shouted Michel as he walked towards the other workroom. ‘I’ll have to pop to the farm. Have a feeling there’s something okay down there.’ He went off at a trot, happy to help Marcel all he could. Mich had a pretty good idea what Marcel was up to much of the time – just like his boss, Georges, had been – but they never talked about it, until now.