Young, Brave and Beautiful

by Tania Szabô

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  Violette decided to climb the Butte de Montmartre, stroll round in a spirit of discovery and go to evening Mass in the Sacré Coeur. As she walked around, she found she adored the village atmosphere and the artists in their studios. She understood now her mother’s and aunt’s passion for the place. From impressionism to cubism and surrealism – it was all here. She watched artists working as young German soldiers asked for their portraits to be sketched, sightseers laughing and chatting as they strolled about and an occasional Gestapo or Milice casting fleeting shadows over the sunny enjoyment of the folk on the hill.

  As she reached the Basilica she was impressed by the beautiful mosaic of Christ, his arms stretched wide in a welcoming curve. She walked into the Sacré Coeur, crossed herself with holy water from the font and lit her candles. She genuflected, crossed herself and then knelt in a pew to offer a prayer. The short sung mass was sweet and peaceful.

  Afterwards as evening turned to night, Violette walked towards her hotel and on the way ate a solitary cassoulet at a bistro in one of the poorer districts around Clichy so that she could watch the people. She returned sad and lonely to her hotel.

  Tomorrow, Violette would go in search of high fashion. She wanted to know all about gai Paris in wartime. She knew there was a strong Résistance movement here but it was not her present remit to contact them, nor would she. As she climbed into bed she picked up a book she had bought on her ramble this afternoon, André Malraux’s La condition humaine, which she felt duty-bound to read. Soon, her eyelids drooped and she fell into a dreamless sleep, the book slipping quietly to the floor.

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  Waking fully refreshed at seven the next morning, as she did not wish to mingle with the guests in the dining room, Violette took a leisurely breakfast in her room – not knowing if there were Germans, spies or collaborators staying at the hotel – and, spirits almost restored, decided to stroll across the river and up to the Madeleine.

  Her confidence was still a little fragile from the grief that had struck her the afternoon before. Also Violette knew she must be extra vigilant not to let down her guard. She was feeling a little vulnerable, concerned she might be shown up as ignorant of some obvious local or widely known item of interest. That could prove dangerous in the breakfast room so she was out of the hotel by nine, walking into the gentle April sunshine.

  However, her presence had already been reported to Rouen. The doorman of the hotel, a friend of Inspector René Déterville from the First World War, telephoned him. Déterville immediately contacted a like-minded inspector in the central police of Paris. He also spoke to friends in Combat,89 the clandestine printing group led by intellectuals like Albert Camus and André Malraux.

  Violette had been noticed as she fled Rouen. Déterville’s driver had seen her at the station in Rouen. Unknown to her, as she was more concerned in passing the security check, he had come and stood just behind the officer checking her papers and, having read her new name, noted how thoroughly she had changed her appearance. He reported this to Déterville, who had immediately telephoned the doorman of the little hotel, asking him and his friends to keep a look out for Madame Blanchard on the off-chance she might appear there. The Reine Marie hotel in Paris was a known safe hotel for undercover agents although Violette was not fully aware of that. It had indeed been fortuitous that Harry Peulevé had mentioned it to her all those months ago in London.

  Circles within circles. The three Malraux brothers, Claude in Rouen now arrested and deported; Roland in the south, second-in-command to Harry Peulevé, Violette’s friend; André in Paris, although he had spent a great deal of time down south in the Corrèze with Jacques Poirier (Nestor), with whom Violette had trained in Arisaig and London and who had taken over Harry’s Author circuit, renamed Digger.

  As she was leaving the hotel, the doorman came to her and surreptitiously passed her a message. She read the brief note: André Malraux wanted to meet her in the Jardin du Trocadéro that afternoon. He mentioned Charles and Rouen. Violette was satisfied it was genuine, but was not keen to meet him again before she saw Philippe. However, she had little real choice. It would be discourteous not to meet him and Philippe may be delayed any number of days. She was obliged, simply from kindness, to let André know what she knew about Claude.

  She mapped her day. Every inch the smart, discreet Frenchwoman, beret perched elegantly, gloves, shoes and shoulder bag toned with her outfit, she was going to visit some great shops, then the Madeleine and later, André. She looked young, brave and beautiful, although fatigue and tension had lightly marked her features. Her usually laughing eyes now conveyed an elusive depth of sadness, a new wariness and were quicker to reveal her hidden anger.

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  As the meeting was later in the day, she would walk up the Champs-Elysées, strolling past the fashion houses on the far side where her mother had tailored ladies’ garments during the First World War.

  She had also promised my grandmother to light a candle in the Madeleine. Reine was sure that this elegant cathedral was where Étienne had said he longed to take Violette after the war. Violette, however, remonstrated that the Madeleine he spoke of was not in Paris but in the south of France, not far from one of the Legion’s strongholds, with special significance for them. Nevertheless, she felt she must light a candle in the Madeleine of Paris for her mother, Étienne, her brothers and for me, too.

  Thinking of Étienne and all she missed about him, Violette felt the weight of sadness afflict her yet again. She could not understand her sudden sorrow and despondency; she had not felt like this for a few months. Maybe the tension of Rouen suddenly lifting now she was back in Paris was like stretched elastic being released, she mused with a grim smile. She took in a big breath and resolved to get on with it.

  Her thoughts turned again to me. Was I being well looked after by her friend Vera Maidment? Was I happy there? Lighting candles for her soldier brothers, her Tante Marguerite and the rest of her family and dropping coins into the donation box, Violette prayed. After a while she got up, genuflected again, crossed herself and, after a brief pause to look at the beautiful main altar, she left.

  As she walked away, Violette looked back towards the Madeleine and saw somebody staring at her.

  Waiting for his own meeting with André Malraux, a man strolled along the boulevards. And there she was. ‘An adorable young woman who was part of the same service,’ he wrote many years later. He went on to say he ‘had taken her out a few times in London and had found her charming. But we were all preparing ourselves for our missions and, before my departure, I did not see her again … And there she was, in front of the church of the Madeleine.’

  Against all the rules, as he knew so well, he approached her.

  It was Jacques Poirier!

  ‘God bless you, Violette!’ he said softly as she smiled with warmth but kept a certain distance. He seemed to smile, turned and walked away.

  She just had time to whisper, ‘Ditto, Jacques – and take care!’ That strange encounter brought her great cheer. They had, after all, trained together and enjoyed one another’s company. Was it circumstance or had he been following her? They had exchanged a momentary smiling eye contact and then he was gone.

  She would not follow him. It was against all the rules. But it was a wonderful feeling to have seen him. Violette was alone in a dangerous city, but not friendless, after all.

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  Down the steps and into rue Royale, as she walked along she saw a beautiful black evening dress in the window of Molyneux. Ah well, she was young and beautiful and in Paris!

  Edward Molyneux was an Irish designer of Huguenot descent, born in London in 1894. He was a close friend of Yeo-Thomas90 who had worked for him in Paris. Violette had met Yeo-Thomas at London’s social venues before and during her SOE days and so knew he was Molyneux’s friend and manager of his store. Molyneux’s style was extreme simplicity and perfect taste. He was renowned for his black creations. The evening gowns he design
ed were flowing and understated, often accompanied by soft velvet evening coats falling to the floor in long fluid lines. It was Molyneux who started the ‘New Look’, as it was later named by Christian Dior, whom Molyneux had trained along with Pierre Balmain and others.

  She could not resist. The dress was sheer perfection. She felt she knew the salon after having chatted with Yeo about it, so walked in confidently as if she were a regular customer of august establishments. She turned the wedding band to become again her emerald engagement ring. She eased out her Leroy papers from the lining of her jacket, slipping the Blanchard ones in. She needed to be Mademoiselle Corinne Leroy as she could hardly be buying such an evening dress as a young widow under Pétain’s government. That would attract attention.

  She asked somewhat aloofly about the evening dress in the window. Several German officers were making purchases and turned to look at her appreciatively; two were accompanied by well-dressed sophisticated German women who frowned at her, while the other women, mostly French, simply stared. Violette did not care, she just wanted that dress.

  The rich crêpe de chine was heavy and fell in a sheer flow of blackness that needed no further adornment. With all the cheek in the world she asked to try it on. It fitted like a glove and she bought it while smiling charmingly at everyone around her.

  As she was about to pay, she saw a crimson and deep-blue plaid dress, marked on her bill as ‘en écossais’. With long slim sleeves, it was trimmed at the neck and cuffs in midnight blue velvet. She asked if it were her size. A sales clerk felt it needed adjustment so called over one of the fitters, who led Violette back to the well-lit dressing room where she helped her try it on.

  It was beautiful. The material was soft and rich and the tartan pattern looked superb against her dark hair. The fit was good but the fitter insisted on making a few alterations, asking her to return in a couple of days. She agreed to return on Wednesday.

  Another dress on a mannequin beckoned, a floral silk for summertime, small dark-blue flowers on a white background with short puffed sleeves and piping at the neck. It fitted beautifully and she bought that, too. The skirt came to the top of her calf, a little shorter than the present French trend, showing her shapely legs to advantage. The shorter skirts were a war-time economic directive.

  The manager, noticing the very fine jacket-cardigan Violette was wearing, suggested she might like a superior yellow jersey, described as a golfing jersey. To Violette’s mind, it was perfectly suited for any occasion, especially with the dark trousers that were becoming fashionable in England, even if much frowned upon by Pétain’s France.

  Violette had never felt so pampered. The staff of Molyneux danced attendance upon her. Complimentary coffee and biscuits were laid out on a tiny Queen Anne table – and there she sat with the enemy! Now that really was fun.

  She cheerfully chatted that she was soon to marry and that her wealthy uncle had given her a generous advance wedding gift to buy a few outfits. This made everyone around her smile indulgently. Her bill came to a staggering 37,475 francs, ttc,91 around £21,300 at today’s rate of exchange. As she had reprised the role of Mademoiselle Corinne Leroy she smiled sweetly and handed over her identity card and the cash. The manager handed her a receipt with her name, Corinne Leroy, at the top and fussed around her. The money Violette used was, of course, counterfeit. Well, she thought, she did have a lot of money left and was on her way home. She smiled inside as she thought of the damage using such counterfeit money would do to the economy.

  Violette walked out, hips swinging, smiling at the wealthy German clientele. Her Molyneux bag holding the black evening gown, silk dress and yellow jumper swung lightly from her hand. She was on top of the world.

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  With her dangerously gotten goods, she went for a stroll through the Jardin du Trocadéro to meet André Malraux at the Varsovie Fountains, reflecting as she walked that apart from her initial meeting with him, and reading a few pages of his book, she had heard mention of him in one of the SOE schools and of that same book, La condition humaine. Glad she had at least read a few pages and got a brief glimpse into the measure of the man, she looked forward to the encounter. She was even a little intrigued by this serious writer of countless intellectual works.

  She would give him an edited version of the events surrounding his brother, Claude (Serge/Cicero) and then chat about his life and activities, although she did not expect to discover much about this enigmatic man.

  The Jardin du Trocadéro, covering the Colline de Chaillot,92 was guarded by German soldiers on sentry duty. They met at the Fountains as planned. Malraux ushered her gallantly into a small café and found a table where they made themselves comfortable. After he had ordered chicory-laden coffee and a custard tart each, they spoke generally for a few minutes as they sized one another up.

  Malraux thought her quite delightful and immediately decided to take her on as one of his agents de liaison. As he said in his post-war book, La Corde et les souris, he had heard she was ‘the best shooter in the English army’.

  He was in his early forties, she thought, perennial cigarette dangling from his fingers. His face was beginning to age and there was a depth of sadness covered by a sardonic veneer of aloofness and off-handedness. For all his charm, Violette saw anger or resentment below his urbane surface, or more likely a terrible ennui towards the world. He was not a person she could take to immediately and so kept her own counsel.

  André was coolly desperate to know about Claude. She answered his questions as fully as she could – how Claude had been caught, his Anne fiercely questioned, but that neither of them had been too dreadfully manhandled and not tortured at all. André was passably relieved and asked more questions. He continued to explain to Violette that he was deeply involved in the Résistance and would be going to the Corrèze in R593 as Colonel Berger.

  In fact, he worked closely with Jacques Poirier (Nestor/Captain Jack), whom Violette had earlier seen outside the Madeleine. An intellectual, and behaving as such at all times, André was not well liked by Résistants and Maquis groups. Many had no intention of being commanded by some half-baked haughty colonel. He alienated people and did not give a damn. Yet Jacques, along with Ravanel, leader of the FTP, found working with him useful and enjoyable.

  André went on to tell Violette that an inspector from the police in Rouen had been in touch with Combat. The inspector, he said, had informed them that she had done invaluable service for which they were very grateful. He then said that he would contact her before she left Paris, giving her some messages for London and further instructions that he required her to carry out. Violette pointed out that she already had a commanding officer, but that if she could do anything for him then she would be pleased to do so. She would certainly take his messages, either verbal or in written code. He felt duly chastised and smiling sardonically, thanked her, paid and they left together to go their separate ways.

  Violette’s high spirits did not diminish. She strolled, weary but delighted, down to the Seine and crossed the river. She had enjoyed her encounter with Malraux and hoped he was not too much put out by her besting him. She would not be bossed by someone she really knew nothing about.

  After that meeting and her earlier shopping raid into enemy territory, Violette decided that there should be no more such shenanigans that day. But she passed a shoe shop and saw some wedged-heel sling-back sandals that would go very well with the silk floral dress. On the way back she also bought some books at one of the bouquinistes on the Left Bank. Three Maigret94 novels were her choice – good light reading. She had a couple of days before picking up her écossais dress from Molyneux but was happy to wait. Tomorrow, all being well, she would rendezvous with Philippe. If not, she had reading material to pass the evenings away until he did arrive.

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  87 Then Secrétaire générale des Groupes francs, part of MUR (Mouvements Unis de Résistance). Malraux helped Harry Peulevé’s Author circuit. Roland Malraux (his half-brother) was H
arry’s lieutenant.

  88 Café-dansant, a café where one could dance, having taken a table for coffee and snacks. A café-theatre is a place where one sat at a table ordering coffees and snacks while watching a play or spectacle.

  89 The Paris Combat group was a different organisation from the Normandy communist Combat group.

  90 F.F.E. Yeo-Thomas, GC, MC, CdeG, the White Rabbit (also the title of his biography), a superb agent and exceptionally gallant man. He was captured by the SD, taken to Avenue Foch and, as Michael Foot, says, ‘appalling tortures followed; quite without useful results for the enemy.’ He survived with Harry Peulevé.

  91 ttc = toute taxe comprises, including all taxes

  92 Chaillot Hill – chaillot meaning stony; opposite the Seine with about the best view of the Eiffel Tower. Louis VIII wanted to complete the Villa Trocadéro, but never did, to commemorate taking the fortress town of Trocadero, defending Cádiz in Spain in August 1823 by his duc d’Angoulême. In 1878, the Palais du Trocadéro was built to house the 1878 World Fair but destroyed in 1937 in order to build the Palais de Chaillot for that World Fair. There are two aesthetically pleasing wings curving south with the Eiffel Tower and the Varsovie Fountain triangularly central. The English garden was also renovated by Roger Lardat.

  93 R5 = Region 5. This was centred on Limoges.

  94 The detective stories of Maigret were written by Georges Simenon, a Belgian. He described the investigations of his protagonist Inspector Simon Maigret over a period of forty years, from 1931 to 1972.

  21

  Luxembourg Gardens,

  Rendezvous Philippe,

  Tante Evelyn,

  Transmits to London

  Tuesday 25 to Thursday 27 April