by Tricia Goyer
“Keep your wits about you, Marcel.” Bernard looked around the table where the Resistance leadership had gathered. “Yes, it’s true de Gaulle said that Colonel Rol’s name had no business being on that document, but in the end, his signature was part of the proclamation.”
“Barely.” Bertille shook his head. “The Colonel had to gate-crash the meeting between Leclerc and von Choltitz and insist that he be party to signing the surrender documents. I, for one, say that we are lions led by donkeys. We have been hoodwinked by the Free French. Their greedy hands control the police and the government buildings, but I will not forget the struggle of the last four years, paid for in our comrades’ blood for a socialist tomorrow!” Bertille punctuated his outrage with a clenched fist.
Heads around the table nodded in agreement. Bernard’s too, but the truth was that the dozen or so Resistance groups, including their Francs-Tireurs et Partisans and de Gaulle’s Free French—had varying political outlooks and class compositions. They had united collectively to drive out the Nazis, but now that liberation was a fait accompli, fissures were sure to appear once the dust settled onto the cobblestones of Paris’s majestic boulevards.
“You seem to have Colonel Rol’s ear,” Bertille said. “What do you think he’s going to tell us tonight?”
The eyes of more than a dozen Communist leaders bore into Rousseau. He met their gaze and nodded in respect toward the more senior members. “As I look around, I see comrades who have fought for the working class and against the French imperialist state since 1936. I joined this great struggle long after many of you answered the call. For the last four years, together we circulated copies of our manifestos, sabotaged trains and electricity stations, and conducted an urban guerilla campaign. Fascist repression was vicious, and we paid a heavy price. On average, a member of our bataillons lived only seven months. Yet, somehow, we have survived to carry on the banner of communism and fight against the oppressive bourgeoisie. As to Monsieur Bertille’s comments, I agree. We must remain vigilant over the course of the next few weeks, days, and even hours. This is our chance to claim the seat of power.”
For the next half hour, Bernard listened as the group debated France’s future. Most agreed the Gaullists had outmaneuvered their cause when they beat the Communists to the Préfecture de Police a week earlier—the flash point of the Paris insurrection. Others recommended they take the fight for the working class to the streets.
The discussion and the room were heating up when the red velvet curtain behind Bernard parted. Two men armed with MAS-38 submachine guns framed the passage. There was an immediate screeching of chairs as all who had gathered leaped to their feet. With straight shoulders and a lifted chin, “Colonel Rol”—the nom de guerre for Henri Tanguy—strode in. Hands that had instinctively reached for sidearms now saluted their commander.
Although Colonel Rol was only in his mid-thirties, Bernard looked up to him as a father figure who possessed all the qualities he admired: patriotic Frenchman, devoted and disciplined Communist, and above all, a brave, ambitious leader.
The Colonel, red-eyed, weary, and dressed in his Spanish Civil War uniform, demurred. “Please, sit down. Rest your feet. It’s been a long day.”
A place was cleared at the head of the table, and the fatigued Rol accepted the offered chair.
“Would the Colonel like to toast our victory?” one of the lieutenants asked.
Rol waved off the offer. “Not after the news I learned.” His expression darkened as he surveyed the silent room.
The Resistance leader rose to his feet. “Upon de Gaulle’s arrival in Paris this afternoon, he told several people I know that he expected a direct, Communist-led challenge to his authority in Paris, so he decided to receive us when he was ready to—and not a minute before. The first thing he did was visit the Préfecture de Police to inspect the start of the uprising, and then he was driven over to the Hôtel de Ville, where tens of thousands had gathered.”
Bernard knew the Préfecture de Police was a symbol of the Gaullist resistance, while the Hôtel de Ville was the “house of the people”—the city hall where the Third Republic was proclaimed in 1870. As news of Paris’s liberation spread throughout the city, a dense mass of Parisians had packed the historic square, waiting for an appearance from whoever was in authority.
“When he stepped to the balcony, the crowd went crazy, chanting, ‘De Gaulle, de Gaulle, de Gaulle.’ Declaring ‘Vive la France,’ the general said that more than ever, national unity was a necessity. Not once did he mention the FTP or the other comrade groups in the Resistance. That’s when I knew we were had.” Colonel Rol swallowed hard, lowering his head.
Immediately, voices from every part of the room rose in protest. Bernard sat silently, absorbing the news, when suddenly everything became clear. The key event had been the seizure of the Préfecture de Police six days earlier by the Gaullists, who realized that the police formed the largest armed French group in the city. The Paris police knew they could be charged with collaboration during the Occupation, so there was incentive to side with the Resistance once the fighting began. But the police were equally aware that the Germans would respond brutally to any shift of allegiance, so timing was critical.
The Gaullists had providence on their side when the 2,000 policemen immediately sided with them and fought the arrival of German tanks and troops. Together, they were protected by a solidly built structure designed to resist mob violence or an armed counterattack. Once the German assault was blunted, a stalemate ensued and the Gaullist forces had a strong footing.
Colonel Rol raised his hands to quiet the room. “This last week, we took the fight to the streets while the Gaullists watched from the Préfecture de Police. We manned the barricades. We guarded the bridges that were set with explosives. We acted independently in Paris in challenging the German military garrison. And now, this insult is our thanks.”
The Colonel wasn’t finished.
“De Gaulle notified us that he would be making his ‘official entry’ into Paris tomorrow afternoon with a parade down the Champs Élysées from the Arc de Triomphe to the Notre Dame Cathedral. I don’t have to remind you of the symbolism behind this march. This will be a blunt proclamation that he has the support of the people.”
“Surely he’s not going to walk alone in this parade!” A voice in the back of the room dripped with indignation.
“In essence, yes. We will march tomorrow, arm in arm with other chiefs of the Resistance like the CNR, CPL, and COMAC,” Rol said. “But there will be an important distinction. We must walk two steps behind de Gaulle.”
A clamor arose throughout the private room of the Brasserie Lipp. The significance of striding along the Champs Élysées in de Gaulle’s shadow was not lost on Bernard.
“What can we do?” asked one of the lieutenants.
Colonel Rol sighed and rubbed his temples. “At this time, nothing. But opportunities will present themselves. With emotions running so high, the people need a hero they can rally around. De Gaulle happens to be at the right place, at the right time, but if his qualifications during this volatile time can be discredited, sentiment can easily swing against him, and we in the Communist movement could assume a more active leadership role. We must wait and be patient.”
The French Communist leader stood, signaling the meeting was over. “We are to assemble tomorrow at fourteen hundred hours at the Arc de Triomphe, where de Gaulle will lay a wreath at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. À demain.” Until tomorrow.
Flanked by two armed guards, Colonel Rol beckoned Bernard to follow. When they stepped onto the Boulevard Saint-Germain, he turned back to him.
“How did it go last night? Were you able to convince Colette of your loyalty?”
“I think so.” Bernard paused. “I’m not much of an actor.”
“Did you present her the locket?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bernard replied. “Thanks for giving it to me. It was a good distraction. She sensed that something was w
rong.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned during the Occupation, it’s that you can’t trust anyone. Keep me informed. I hope the gift was enough. She knows more than she is letting on and may prove to be a valuable source of information, but only if she trusts you.”
Bernard nodded, but inwardly he was torn. He loved Colette, there was no question, but he was in a fight for something far more important than his emotions.
Angry voices rising on the boulevard distracted his thoughts. He turned to investigate the sound of rage.
A menacing crowd followed three women—stripped to the waist, their heads shaved. As the distraught women drew closer, he could see that someone had painted black swastikas on their breasts. The mob followed the half-naked women, filling the air with taunts for having been “mattresses” for the Germans. Others spat on them. The helpless three, bound together by rope, wept and hung their heads in shame. One wore a sign that read “I whored with les boches.” It was a pitiful scene.
Rol raised a pistol into the air and fired twice, sending most of the crowd scurrying for cover. “That’s enough!” he yelled, commanding respect. “Is this what the French people will be known for—this cruelty?”
Bernard knew about the “horizontal collaborators.” Some were prostitutes who made a good living in the busy brothels frequented by Nazi officers with money to burn, while others were foolish teenagers who associated with German soldiers out of bravado or boredom. All too many, however, were young mothers whose husbands were locked up in prisoner-of-war camps. With no means of supporting themselves or feeding their children, they accepted sexual liaisons in exchange for food.
A half dozen of Colonel Rol’s lieutenants raced from the brasserie upon hearing the shots.
“Get some blankets!” Rol ordered.
Then turning to Bernard, his eyes flashed anger. He pointed a finger into the air. “I want posters by tomorrow warning of reprisals against those abusing women collaborators. We will knock a few heads if we must, but it is time to restore order and respect to France.”
Antoine Celeste loosened his grip on the rope binding the three whores. He looked toward the source of the gunshots, and it figured: they came from that moralist Colonel Rol.
The tall man with dark hair standing next to the Colonel attracted his attention. Why did that face stir such emotion within?
Celeste dropped the rope as he moved for a better look.
Then a jolt of clarity surfaced. He had only a brief glimpse, but Celeste was certain that this was the same man.
Two years had passed since he had witnessed his brother’s execution, helpless to intervene. But standing a few meters away was the man responsible for Philippe’s needless death at the hands of the Nazis. All the emotions associated with that loss—shock, sadness, and anger—came back with a rush.
For two years he’d kept his eyes open and his ears to the ground. There were rumors about who’d stopped the train, but every lead had come up empty. Now the pieces were fitting together at the Brasserie Lipp, known as the unofficial headquarters of the Communist factions of the Resistance.
Had this young man risen in the ranks since the tragedy at the Pantin rail yard? Why else would Colonel Rol be whispering something to him, taking him in confidence? The famous freedom fighter was undoubtedly issuing instructions on what to do with the three sluts he and several men had picked up loitering near a bar.
It made no sense to stop him and his Gaullist friends from making an example of the traitors who bedded down with the Nazis, just as it made no sense to stop an attack on a train bearing such a rich target—Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring. The course of the war could have changed.
Now he knew where to find the fifth columnist, who, like the whores, had sold out his allegiance to France.
There was a score to settle.
13
Moonlight drifted through the bedroom window, carrying the music and laughter of a free people. Gabi moved around the twin-sized mattress, attempting to fit the bottom sheet around the second corner. The sheet smelled of soap and sunshine. Madame Beaumont insisted on helping.
“Please, Madame Beaumont. I can make my own bed.”
“I will hear nothing of the sort,” the matronly woman said. “You are our guest, as is Colette.”
Colette made eye contact with Gabi. “You better listen to her. She gets her way around here.”
“Not tonight,” Gabi said lightly as she quickly finished tucking in the last corner. She lay the duvet on the bed and smoothed the covering.
With a soft giggle, Colette leaned over to level her duvet. As she did, the locket slipped from beneath her blouse, catching Madame Beaumont’s eye. “My, what a beautiful locket. Is that new?”
“Yes, Bernard gave it to me this evening. Do you recognize it?”
Madame Beaumont straightened, stepping closer. “Let me have a look, dear.”
“Bernard said it belonged to your mom.”
“Really?” She took a closer look. “I don’t recognize it, or at least, I never saw Mother wear it. But it’s beautiful all the same.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Maybe I misunderstood,” Colette said.
“Perhaps so.” Madame Beaumont fluffed Colette’s pillow and set it on the bed. “I hope you can sleep with all the noise. I don’t think the celebration will be ending soon.”
Gabi noticed Colette’s perplexed expression as she tucked the locket beneath her blouse. Then she looked toward the hoopla lifting up from the Beaumont courtyard. “I think you’re right. I hope they’re not expecting you to serve breakfast.”
Madame Beaumont smiled. “Well, if they are, they’re going to be disappointed. Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
As soon as the bedroom door closed, Gabi traipsed into the bathroom for a long overdue bath. A half hour later, she emerged and placed her clothes on the back of a chair. There was a soft thud as the skirt she’d been wearing earlier that day bounced against the wooden base. Reaching down to investigate, Gabi felt the firm rectangular shape and then remembered the small black book in the pocket. It seemed like days had passed since she had opened the hidden compartment in the base of the small safe.
With the slim black leather book in hand, she slipped under the sheets, grateful for the bed and the bath. “That was awfully nice of Bernard’s aunt to offer Eric and me a place to stay. I can’t remember when a hot bath felt better. I certainly wasn’t looking forward to another night in the car, but after such a long day, I could sleep standing up.”
“We’ll all sleep well tonight. That’s for sure,” Colette said.
Gabi peeled open the soft leather cover and found three columns of neatly printed accounting. A line item followed by two large numbers. Quickly paging through, she found about twenty-five pages of detailed entries. The German script seemed to be titles and artist’s names . . . Still Life with Sleeping Woman by Matisse and Reclining Nude with Cupid by Jan Van Neck . . . followed by several columns of numbers, with the first always lower than the second. She did some quick mental calculations and noted they were all about 30 to 40 percent higher.
“So, you work for the Red Cross?” Colette broke in.
Gabi hesitated. “Uh, yes, I enjoy helping others.” She propped herself up on a pillow, hoping she sounded convincing enough to avoid more questions.
“What do you have there?” Colette inquired. “Do you keep a journal?”
Gabi looked up with a blank expression. She realized that Colette was now staring at her.
“Oh, this?” Gabi raised the small book. “Actually, I forgot I’d put it in my pocket this morning.”
“So what’s in it?”
“I’m not sure. Seems like a listing of paintings.”
Colette crossed the room and sat on the side of Gabi’s bed. She looked over her shoulder, skimming the German text. After a few seconds, she caught her breath in surprise. “Where did you find this?”
Gabi paused. “
It’s a long story, but basically, it was in the bottom of a safe . . . there was a hidden compartment.”
“The one downstairs in the corner of the dining room?”
“Yes, the one Bernard said he found at a German stronghold.” Gabi studied the woman’s face. “You seem to recognize these titles. What are they?”
“I should know. They are the names of paintings, many of which I appraised prior to their sale.”
“Their sale? To whom?” Gabi pressed.
Colette looked up and shook her head. “A despicable German colonel. He worked for Reichsmarschall Göring, and his job was to purchase art for his collections.”
“So this booklet contains a list of all the paintings, along with sale prices?”
Colette scanned a page again. “Looks like there are two columns here . . . one for the sale’s price and the other for the invoice. The last column shows the difference.”
“Which means . . .”
“Someone was padding the price, making a handsome profit . . . at Göring’s expense.”
“Interesting.”
They paged through the hundreds of cataloged entries. At the bottom of each page, total amounts for each column were added up.
“If my suspicions are correct,” Colette surmised, “I’ll bet Colonel Heller has been defrauding Göring for years and has amassed a small fortune.”
“Appears that way. So you know this colonel?”
Colette sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. He has made my life very difficult . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Gabi sensed by Colette’s tone that she had struck a nerve. The woman was troubled by something deeper. Gabi didn’t know her well enough to prod for more information, so she let it go, knowing full well that Colette wasn’t telling her everything.