A sharp and sudden crack right behind him sent him leaping from his chair, knocking it over. Having slipped behind him, Gisèle had clapped her hands hard.
“No good!” exclaimed Gisèle, who had just come back into the room, with a good-natured smirk. “You must practice!”
Arthur immediately grasped the lesson: he could not afford to let his guard down for an instant. The smallest mistake could doom both him and his rescuers.
The Michels and the Deludes assured him that, along with the Chauvins, they would do everything they could to help him on his long journey home. They would accompany him as he moved between towns and hiding places and on the furtive trek to the Spanish border. The realization that all these people were risking everything for him comforted and even awed Arthur, who vowed to himself not to let them down.
Gisèle told him that his stay with them in Lesparre was to be brief. The Resistance was already forging his “ICs,” identification cards, without which he could be arrested or worse by the Gestapo. Her next words reinforced just how much danger he was in and just how courageous his helpers were: “The Gestapo headquarters is directly across from our backyard. It is not safe for you here.”
If his bomber had not gone down so close to Lesparre, Arthur would not have been in so much danger. The local Gestapo, however, had not only captured five of his comrades and found the bodies of two others, but also knew how many crewmen a B-24 contained. At least one airman, possibly two if a bottom-turret gunner had been aboard, was unaccounted for from Harmful Lil Armful; if casualties had thinned the pool for replacements, the bottom turret was the spot left unfilled. The Germans were still looking for another airman, and the Chauvins needed to move Arthur as soon as possible.
They told him that as long as he was in France, there was no “Arthur Meyerowitz.” Gisèle informed him that he was now the man on the forthcoming identification card and paper. “Your new name will be Georges Lambert.” 2
She did not tell him that the expert forger creating those documents was none other than Marcel Taillandier. For the moment, that was more information than they needed to share with Arthur in case he was discovered by the Gestapo or the police and might give up the Morhange leader’s name under torture. The Chauvins had never known Marcel to craft papers for an Allied airman.
Later that night, Arthur settled into a real bed—that of the maid—for the first time since touching down on French soil. A small crucifix was affixed to the wall, and on the nightstand were a Bible and a set of ivory rosary beads, items that a Jewish airman from the Bronx could never have envisioned in his own bedroom. Pierre and Gisèle had loaned him a pair of Pierre’s pajamas and given him a painkiller to numb the excruciating pain in his lower back. Tomorrow, they told him, they would drill him without respite until he could convincingly play the part of the deaf and dumb Georges Lambert.
CHAPTER 10
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A LONG SHOT AT BEST
On January 6, 1944, near 8 a.m., Arthur was awakened from a deep sleep by several soft knocks. As he blearily opened and rubbed his eyes, Gisèle nudged the door open and entered. As he sat up in the maid’s bed on the third floor of the house, she handed him a neatly pressed dark suit, a white shirt, a light blue tie, and a new beret and asked him to wash up, get dressed, and come downstairs as soon as possible.
He shot her a hesitant look. She immediately understood and told him that her children were at school and would spend the night with the Michels, who lived at 16 rue du Palais de Justice, a short walk down the street from the Chauvins and just across the street from Pierre and Mimi Delude. No one would be in the house except Gisèle; her husband, Pierre; and Arthur.
He quickly did as she asked and joined her and Pierre, who was holding a camera, in the kitchen. To his surprise, the suit, one of Pierre’s, fit him fairly well.
“We have a gift for you,” she said. “Are you ready to have your picture taken, Georges Lambert?”
She reached into an apron pocket, pulled out a small booklet and a piece of stationery, and placed them in Arthur’s hands. They were his identification card and a letter bearing the forged signature of the mayor of Soulac-sur-Mer, near Lesparre, and attesting to the fact that the man with the papers was indeed Georges Lambert.
“You are an agricultural worker and were born on May 4, 1915, in Algiers, Algeria,” Gisèle continued. “You relocated to Soulac-sur-Mer”—northwest of Lesparre—“on July 20, 1942, and your address there is the rue Bremontier. Your profession is farmer.”
Chuckling, she added, “Just play the part.” Her expression tightened in an instant. “Never, ever, say a word to anyone in public, whether you are inside or on a street. We will teach you a few signs and gestures, and you must practice them until they are perfect.”
His stomach constricting, Arthur nodded.
“Now, your photo,” she said. “We will paste it on your card.”
She added that Arthur’s forged documents were special, crafted by one of the finest counterfeiters in the Resistance—who rarely, if ever, created papers for downed airmen.
The Chauvins led Arthur downstairs into the cellar, opened a bulkhead door shielded by an overhang, and posed him a few steps past the door. Pierre closed the door, moved a few feet in front of Arthur, explained that the Vichy officials often took identification photos outside, and readied the camera. Arthur realized that no one could spot them from the adjoining buildings.
“Do not smile,” Gisèle told him. “No one in France has much to smile about these days.”
Arthur knew the feeling and stared tight-lipped at Pierre. Pierre snapped several shots, and they quickly returned inside. Pierre excused himself to race off on his motorcycle to see “Carl,” a Brutus sympathizer who developed photos quickly for the Chauvins.
After a cup of watery, bitter coffee that made Arthur long for the strong cups of joe at Seething, and a few slices of bread and jam, his education in convincingly demonstrating that he was stone deaf and unable to utter a word began in earnest. Gisèle was relentless—he must never flinch at loud noises from any direction; he must never make a sound in public unless he had to cough, sneeze, or clear his throat; he must never appear to understand what anyone was saying to him or near him; he must avoid eye contact with police, Gestapo, soldiers, or anyone in a suit and coat who looked remotely official or suspicious.
She warned him that he would be stopped and challenged by the Germans and Vichy police many times before his escape could be arranged. When that happened, she instructed, he was to act as “stupid and slow” as possible, no matter how aggravated or aggressive the inquisitor became. Even if they struck him, Gisèle said, he must never respond. He must take the abuse, play his part, and limp away.
Gisèle apprised him of the Germans’ pet tricks to trip up a man they suspected was feigning deafness. They might grin and amiably ask him if he had a cigarette or a light. If he automatically reached into a pocket or even shook his head, he was finished.
Another danger was women. As Gisèle said with a teasing smile, Arthur was a handsome man, and if an attractive woman noticed him and said even a casual bonjour, he must refrain from answering or even returning her look. Gisèle glowered when she advised him to especially ignore “loose women” who were collaborators and traitors. They would give him up in a minute to the Gestapo or the police.
If Arthur was on a street anywhere and heard a cry for help from anyone, even a child, he must not “hear” it and not respond.
When Arthur asked if it might not be easier to conceal him and move him from spot to spot until an escape could be attempted, Gisèle emphatically told him no. There were so many collaborators spying on their neighbors throughout southwest France that Brutus had found it easier to hide airmen in plain sight.
She took him to a window facing the home’s backyard and opened the shutters just enough to see across the stre
et. Pointing at the Gestapo headquarters, she advised him to study the way the Germans dressed and moved so that he knew not to look just for the men in the black uniforms, boots, and visored caps, but to recognize how they looked in civilian garb such as brimmed hats, trench coats, and dark suits.
She pulled a chair over to the window and told Arthur to watch everyone who came and went from the building and to familiarize himself with how they moved, how they acted, even how they lit their cigarettes.
Whether in Lesparre, Bordeaux, or Toulouse, she said, there was a sameness to the Gestapo officers’ appearance and behavior. She left Arthur in the chair for at least an hour while she went downstairs to fill orders at the pharmacy.
While he waited for her to return, Arthur followed her instructions: he studied his enemy.
Focused on a pair of plain-clothed agents rushing from the headquarters, Arthur strained not to jump from his chair at a sudden smack a few feet behind him. His back flaring with the effort, he sat still.
“Much better, Georges,” he heard Gisèle say.
Pierre came back around 5 p.m., having made his rounds and visited several patients in the town. From an overcoat pocket, he removed an envelope and spread its contents on the dining room table. Several photos of a somber-looking Georges Lambert lay there.
Gisèle tapped one with her finger. “That one,” she said.
Pierre pasted the image onto Arthur’s identification card, gave him a pen, and told him to sign the box in the right-hand corner of the document—but just remember to sign “Georges Lambert,” not “Arthur Meyerowitz.” Arthur knew the man was not kidding. From here on, Arthur Meyerowitz was Georges Lambert.
Dinner that evening was early, at 6 p.m., a bland porridge and a batch of small carrots. Shrugging and smiling, Gisèle said that the previous night’s dinner had been a special occasion for a new friend. This was how they normally ate.
Arthur wanted nothing more than to go to bed right after dinner, worn out from the ordeal of the past few days. A knock on the front door startled him, but he relaxed when Pierre and Mimi Delude stepped into the dining room with several bottles of wine.
“Not yet, my friends,” Pierre Chauvin said with a smile. “We still have a few hours before curfew, and our American guest still has a few lessons left.”
For the next hour, Gisèle and Pierre fired a barrage of questions at Arthur in French, German, and English. “Who are you?” “What is your name?” “Who is helping you?”
Every time his face twitched, Gisèle would admonish, “No! If you show anything, the Germans will know you can hear.”
Pierre and the Deludes took turns ambushing Arthur by dropping books and metal pots and pans behind him from time to time. If he flinched or started to duck, all four reminded him to control every reaction of a man who could hear.
“Concentrate!” Gisèle chided him firmly.
Pierre Chauvin thrust a piece of paper and a pencil in front of him. “Sign,” the Frenchman growled in a commanding way.
Arthur picked up the pencil.
Again, Pierre Chauvin snapped, “Sign!”
Arthur stared woodenly at him. A book slammed against the floor somewhere close behind Arthur. He did not stir.
Pierre leaned close to him and scowled, pointed at the pencil, and then pointed at the paper.
Arthur did not react for a moment. Then, slowly, he took the pencil and began to write.
Gisèle snatched the paper from the table. Again, Arthur did not budge.
Scanning the paper, she smiled and handed it to her husband. Arthur had written “Georges Lambert.”
“Your lessons are over for the night, Georges,” she said.
Arthur did not move or react to her words.
“Very good,” she said softly.
She excused herself for a little bit to take care of a few things in her pharmacy downstairs, and her husband went with her.
Pierre Delude opened one of the wine bottles and poured a glass for Mimi, Arthur, and himself at the dining room table. Pierre raised his glass and toasted in a quiet but defiant tone, “To victory and to our American friend’s safe escape.” 1
They all took a sip.
Gisèle and Pierre would have liked to spend another day or two instructing him, but they had to get him on the move as fast as possible because the local Gestapo would keep up their search for the B-24’s missing airman.
Before Arthur went upstairs to the maid’s room, Gisèle pressed two pills into his hand to relieve his pain and hopefully help him get some sleep. Arthur swallowed them, the medication calming his back a bit. He dozed from time to time, but never fell fully asleep that night.
CHAPTER 11
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PLAYING THE PART
Pierre woke Arthur before dawn and he dressed quickly in the same clothes he had worn for his ID photo. Most of the townspeople, including the nearby Gestapo and police, had not yet stirred.
He took a last look at the iron-framed bed and began to straighten the rumpled sheet and bedcovers. Pierre told him to leave it and come downstairs.
In the kitchen, Gisèle and Charlotte and Christiane Michel were sitting at the table. Jean-Pierre Dupin, his long Gallic face tight and tense, was standing against a counter; he nodded at Arthur and asked if he had any questions before they set out for the autobus stop in the town center. Arthur drew a deep breath and shook his head.
Jean-Pierre reached into an inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a pair of dog tags, and when Arthur realized that they were his, taken from him by the helpful farmer on January 1, he was confused. Jean-Pierre’s reassurance that he had been entrusted with the tags so that one of his radio operators in Bordeaux could relay Arthur’s name, rank, and service number to London eased Arthur’s concern.
After a cup of weak coffee and a slice of nearly stale bread with a small smear of apple jam, Arthur followed Jean-Pierre and the Michels to the front door at 6 a.m. for the 6:30 autobus to Bordeaux. Gisèle hugged him tightly, kissed him on both cheeks, and whispered, “Bonne chance.”
When she released him, Pierre handed him sturdy fleece-lined gloves and a wool overcoat that could not have been more than a year old, given its near-immaculate condition. Arthur hesitated, knowing that the coat was the doctor’s and probably the best one he still owned. Pierre and Gisèle both smiled at him. Arthur, his eyes moist, put it on and donned his beret. He reached into his pocket and offered them several hundred francs, as he had been instructed to do with those who aided him. Gisèle smiled and accepted—for the Resistance.
He headed down the front steps with Jean-Pierre, who wore a worker’s cap and scarf with his heavy coat, and the Michels, both of whom wore winter coats, wool hats, gloves, and boots. Arthur fought an overwhelming urge to look back. Pushing away his emotions, he concentrated on his new mission—life as Georges Lambert.
As Arthur and Jean-Pierre, along with Charlotte and Christiane, walked through a steady snowfall toward the bus stop along Lesparre’s main street, they blended in with a handful of locals starting their morning rounds. Glad to have the beret keeping his head dry, Arthur glanced at the Church of Saint-Trelody, whose brooding Gothic towers and buttresses evoked memories of the architecture of Robert Morris High School, back in the Bronx. He ignored the pang of homesickness and kept moving. Farther down the street, they passed the nineteenth-century Palace of Justice and a nearby prison. A German soldier stood at the entrance with a Schmeisser submachine gun slung from his right shoulder. Arthur avoided any eye contact.
At the end of the street, a knot of people was lined up at the door of a battered green autobus that looked at least twenty years old to Arthur. A policeman, in a dark blue caped overcoat and a Foreign Legion–style cap, or képi, was checking the IDs and documents of everyone who wanted to board the vehicle. Arthur slipped behind his escorts so that if he was cha
llenged and discovered, the officer might not realize they were together.
He scanned the papers of the Michels and Jean-Pierre and quickly waved them onto the bus. Arthur stepped up to the policeman and, as the Chauvins had instructed, met the man’s eyes benignly. “Do not avert your eyes or else someone might think you are trying to be evasive,” the couple had told him.
The officer, a thin-lipped, pallid man, barely glanced at Arthur, gave his photo and papers a cursory examination, and handed back the documents. Arthur hoped his hands were not shaking as he took his papers and stepped into the bus. He walked past the Michels and Jean-Pierre without looking directly at them and settled into a ripped leather seat toward the rear, unsure whether the moisture on his brow and upper lip came from the snow or from sweat. He had no illusions that future checks of his photo and papers would prove so easy.
At 6:45 a.m., fifteen minutes late because of the identification checks, the door clanged shut and the autobus shifted from a grinding idle into rasping motion. It rattled out of Lesparre and southeast onto a divided highway for the thirty-nine-mile trip to Bordeaux. The vehicle was shaking badly, and if there was a heater on board, it was working poorly or not at all. Arthur gratefully pulled Pierre Chauvin’s warm overcoat tighter around himself.
Leaning to the window, Arthur scraped enough frost off it to glimpse the landscape, mostly ancient, gray-stone walls marking the snowcapped boundaries of farms and vineyards. Magnificent châteaus with gables, turrets, and massive windows even more splendid than the manors of England dotted the terrain.
Once, Christiane turned around and smiled at Arthur, but an instant before he returned her smile, he caught himself—he did not want anyone on the bus to link him to the Michels and Jean-Pierre in case he did not pass inspection when they reached Bordeaux. He winced as Christiane’s smile faded and a flash of hurt spread across her young face before she turned around.
The Lost Airman Page 11