“You won’t?” Luc chuckled. “And how are you going to stop him?”
“I’ve been thinking. It can be done. But I’ll need your help. Maybe a few other men too.”
“You want me to attack Hitler?”
“No. But if we can cut the elevator cables, then he can’t go up. Unless he wants to walk up, which would be humiliating, so he won’t do it.”
“You’re nuts.”
“I’m telling you, it can be done.”
“Well, I won’t help you.”
“I helped you once,” said Thomas, quietly.
There was a moment of silence. In almost thirty years, Thomas had never made any reference to that terrible night when they had carried the girl’s body into the hill of Montmartre. Luc gazed at his brother, surprised, a little hurt, but cautious.
“You saved my life, brother,” he answered softly. “It’s true. But why should I repay it by getting you killed?” He reached out and took his brother’s arm. “You’re not young anymore, Thomas. You’re over seventy-five, for God’s sake. If you don’t fall and break your neck, you’ll probably get arrested. And then the Germans will shoot you.”
Thomas shrugged.
“At my age,” remarked Thomas with a shrug, “what does it matter?”
“Think of Édith.”
It was amazing really, Luc thought, how little Thomas and Édith had changed. They both had gray hair, of course—not that Thomas had much hair left, just a few crinkles—and many lines on their faces, and some stiffness in the joints now and then, but his sturdy brother still took a two- or three-mile walk every day and insisted on managing the little bar, which he still did so well. Édith had given up running the restaurant some years ago, but with ten grandchildren to keep her busy, she was always on the go. She relied on Thomas though, in every way.
Luc could imagine Thomas climbing the tower. He’d probably get some way up before he tired, or something went wrong. And he was quite sure his brother was entirely serious about his harebrained scheme. But he certainly wasn’t going to encourage him.
“Even if there were time to organize such a thing, I’d say forget it,” he told him. “The answer’s no.”
He went indoors for a few minutes. When he came back, Thomas had gone.
It was quite a while since Thomas had walked into the Maquis. The whole of Montmartre had become more and more built up. Many of the old establishments were still there, even little bars like au Lapin Agile. But more and more they were turning into curiosities for visiting tourists. A little while ago, some enterprising fellows had taken a vacant lot on the backside of the hill and turned it into a vineyard, to commemorate the ancient vines and winemaking that had graced Montmartre in the centuries before. The wine they made, so far at least, was quite undrinkable. But nobody cared. They had a very jolly time harvesting the grapes each autumn, and celebrating in the usual manner.
Even the Maquis was becoming somewhat respectable. Well, insofar as that was possible when some of the old families still resided there.
As he passed an open window, Thomas heard the unmistakable sound of Édith Piaf’s voice singing, and he smiled. He’d seen her perform in a nightclub once—a tiny, sparrowlike girl, who sang with the accents of the street. He knew she’d made one or two records before the war. But if she wanted to make a living now, she’d have to sing for the Germans.
Well, he thought, the voice of the streets was going to fight back.
He found the collection of shabby little tenements that housed the extended Dalou family, and asked for Bertrand.
He still had a mop of greasy hair, but he walked with difficulty. He’d put his back out years ago, and never recovered. Thomas nodded to him.
“You know who I am?” he asked.
“I know. What do you want?”
“I need help.”
“Go screw yourself.”
“I’m going to kick Hitler in the balls.”
“Go and do it then. I hope he cuts yours off.”
Thomas produced a bottle of brandy he’d taken from the bar.
“Let’s talk,” he said.
“You really think it’s possible?” Bertrand said, ten minutes later.
“I know the tower like the back of my hand,” Thomas replied. “As for the elevators, I understand how they work. Give me a little time and I can disable them all.”
“It’s the shortest night of the year.”
“There’s enough time. But I need help.”
“What about your own family?”
“My son’s missing a leg. As for Luc … He thinks it’s a bad idea.”
“He’s a rat.” Bertrand Dalou shrugged. “Why come to me?”
“I need a tough son of a bitch. You came into my mind.”
This answer seemed to please Dalou.
“I’m no good since my back gave out. But I’ve a couple of grandsons.” He turned and called out: “Jacquôt! Michel! Come here.” And a moment later two swarthy and disreputable-looking young men appeared. “You’re going out tonight,” he commanded them.
There were five of them in the end. Michel had a friend called Georges, a small, wiry man who was a steeplejack. That was helpful. Georges had brought his mate.
“We’re going to need a couple of big cable cutters,” Thomas had told them. “The biggest we can get.” A supplier called Gautier, at the bottom of the hill, had them, he explained, but Gautier closed at lunchtime on Saturdays, and he hadn’t been able to get in.
An hour later, Michel and Jacquôt had returned with the very cable cutters he needed. He didn’t ask how they got them.
They decided to approach separately and rendezvous beneath the tower at midnight. There were thin, high clouds in the night sky that obscured some of the stars, but it was only two days since the full moon, and they had all the light they needed. The great tower was deserted. A solitary policeman patrolled under it from time to time, before descending to the quays along the river and making his slow round again.
While he was out of sight, they climbed over the barrier and into the stairwell. Thomas needed a little help from Michel and Jacquôt, but he was pleased to find that he could manage pretty well.
The first task was to place a lookout. Since Jacquôt wasn’t sure about his head for heights, Georges the steeplejack took him up to a vantage point about sixty feet up, from which he had a good view in both directions. His signal was a low call like an owl’s hoot.
In the tower’s early years, there had been elevator systems in all four of its legs, but the elevators, operated by huge hydraulic pumps below, were just in the east and west legs now. It took only a few minutes for the men to climb up and get out onto the tracks above the car in the western leg. Six stout wire cables ran up there. They had to be careful as the greased tracks were slippery. The cables, grouped three and three, were easy enough to see in the moonlight, as they ran up the great, curving tracks, passing guiding sheaves here and there, until they disappeared into the soaring tunnel of girders in the sky.
“The pump below powers it,” Thomas whispered. “These metal cable ropes go from the pump all the way up to the big block, which is like a great wheel, about four hundred feet up there, above the second platform, then down to the car, which gets lifted. So, cut through the cables and it’s disabled.”
The cables were thick, though. He could only just get the big cutters around them. He checked to see that the cables were well greased. They were. That would make the job easier and quieter. But it was still going to be hard work. Taking one of the two cable cutters, he showed them all how to cut through a cable.
“It’s just like scissors or wire cutters,” he explained, “but you have to work at it. The cable is spun from a lot of wire strands. But it’s big. Very big. So you’ll just have to keep on working and cutting until you can take a final bite at the central core. Be patient. Take turns.”
It took him ten minutes to get through the first cable, while they all watched. After that, he kept Miche
l with him and sent Georges the steeplejack and his mate across to the eastern leg, while he and Michel worked on the rest of the cables. “After you’ve finished,” he told Georges, “go up the stairs to the second floor. We’ll meet up there.”
They had just started on the third cable when a low hoot from Jacquôt above them warned that the policeman was approaching. Thomas motioned Michel to press himself against the girders by the track. They kept very still. He hoped that Georges had heard the signal too.
The policeman passed under the tower. They waited. He disappeared from view. A low whistle from Jacquôt signaled the all clear.
When they were done, he and Michel clambered across into the stairwell. Thomas gave Michel the cable cutter to carry, and they started up the stairs.
It was a long climb. At the first platform, Thomas rested a little. Then they continued on up toward the second platform. Halfway up this section, Thomas had to rest again. His legs were aching and he felt a little short of breath. He saw Michel looking at him nervously.
“How’s your head for heights?” he suddenly asked the younger man.
“Fine.”
“Good. It’ll need to be,” he added gruffly. That made him feel better.
When they got up to the second platform, they had to wait only a couple of minutes for Georges and his mate to appear.
“All done,” Georges said with a nod. “No problem.”
“This is where it gets more interesting,” Thomas told them.
The elevator system in the top section of the tower was quite different. There were two passenger elevators, linked by cables over the usual pulley wheels up above the third platform, so that they hung, counterbalancing each other. That reduced the amount of extra power needed to raise and lower them. A pair of hydraulic rams under the elevators provided power, raising each car halfway up the ascent. The passengers then got out, walked across a gangway, and entered the other car for the final ride to the top. It was an efficient system, making use of gravity to do much of the work.
There was a little service elevator as well. Georges quickly climbed on top of it and cut the cables. Then he and Thomas had a quick conference.
“I want to make sure they can’t repair this without replacing the entire length of the cables,” Thomas told him. “So I’m going up to the gangplank halfway up. I don’t want to cut right through the cables, or they’ll fall down two hundred feet and make a hell of a noise. But I’m going to weaken them. It’ll be easier for me to fray them if they’re tense. So can you cut almost through the cables on top of the car at this level, but don’t make the final cut until I’ve finished up above?”
“Understood. No problem,” Georges replied.
To reach the highest level they had to mount a narrow spiral staircase. It was hard to carry the long-armed cable cutters for two hundred feet up the metal stairs’ thirty-inch spiral. But eventually Thomas and Michel came out onto the gangway. Looking up, through the soaring girders, they could see the dark square of the topmost platform two hundred feet above them.
They walked across to the closed elevator doors, behind which lay the empty shaft. Two hundred feet below them they could just hear the faint scraping sound of Georges working on the cables above the elevator car.
“We’ve got to climb into the shaft,” said Thomas quietly. They had plenty of light from the moon up there, but it took them a couple of minutes to work out the best way of climbing over the caging that fenced in the gangway. Once over that, they had to ease their way carefully along a girder until they came to the edge of the big open drop of the shaft. The car cables hung in the middle, just out of reach.
“Now what do we do?” asked Michel.
Thomas looked for an upright metal strut.
“Get your leg around that, and one arm too,” he said. “Can you do that?” After a few moments of fumbling, Michel did it. “Now,” said Thomas, “with your free arm, grab hold of my leather belt, right in the middle of my backside. Got a good grip?”
“I reckon so.”
“I’m going to lean out over the shaft, so I need you to hold on.”
“All right.”
Thomas leaned out. Stretching the heavy cutters at arm’s length, he could just get the cutter blades around the first cable. He knew his arms would be aching soon, but he could make a start. Carefully, he clamped the cutters tight and started to work them, sawing and cutting at the cable. After a minute, he paused.
“You all right, Michel?”
“I need a rest.” Michel pulled on his belt, Thomas returned to the vertical, and he took a step back. Just then, a soft owl hoot from far below told them the policeman was coming.
Five minutes later, they began again.
“It’s funny,” Thomas remarked as he leaned out, “I was hanging just like this the first time I saw my wife. From a balcony on the Champs-Élysées.”
“Eh?” said Michel.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Thomas. “Just hold on.”
He spent five minutes on the next cable. Rested a bit. Then the same on the third.
“We’ll have to move around to the other side for me to reach the others,” he said.
That took another five minutes. Far below, the scratching sounds ceased. Obviously Georges had done his work. But Thomas was determined to finish his self-appointed task up here. He was just about to start when another hoot from Jacquôt told him to wait.
This time, when they were ready to start again, Michel had a question.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
“What?”
“You know what you said about the two elevator cars balancing each other?”
“Yes.”
“So these cables we’re sawing at, they go right up to the top, over a drum, and down to the roof of the car on the other side.”
“Right.”
“So if you keep weakening the cables, they might give way, and if they do, then won’t the other car fall down?”
“Go on.”
“Well, if the other car falls all the way to the bottom and smashes, it’ll make a hell of a racket.”
“Go on.”
“People all around will be calling the police. We’ll get arrested.”
“Could get shot, I reckon, if you’re right.”
“Then this isn’t a good idea.”
“At my age,” Thomas told him with a shrug, “I don’t care.”
“But I’m not your age.”
“I know. But I’m not worried, because I don’t care if you get shot either. Hold tight.” And Thomas leaned out again.
“Salaud,” said Michel.
Fifteen minutes later, after Thomas had cut more than halfway through all the cables, while Michel watched in the greatest misery, they were back on the gangway again. They paused for a moment. Thomas pointed up to the platform high above them.
“Can you make out the bottom of the elevator car hanging up there?”
“I think so.”
“Well, ever since the American Monsieur Otis invented this kind of elevator, nearly a century ago, they’ve had automatic brakes. They can’t fall.”
“Oh.”
The view from the gangway was truly wonderful. They could see all Paris bathed in the moonlight below. Thomas gazed up at the moon, gleaming against the backdrop of stars.
“You know what?” he said. “If Hitler wants to go up this tower, he’s buggered.”
Down on the second platform, they found Georges and his mate waiting patiently on top of the elevator car.
“All ready,” said Thomas.
They heard the cable cutters snap—once, twice … six times—and it was done. The elevator was disabled.
The descent from the second platform took twenty minutes. Five of those were a welcome rest while the policeman passed underneath. As they climbed out onto firm ground and Jacquôt joined them, they all shook hands and decided to split up into three groups. Thomas and Michel proceeded together toward the river, taking the cable cut
ters with them. The bridge was empty. As they walked across, they tossed the wire cutters over the parapet and heard them make two soft splashes, like a pair of divers, in the waters of the Seine below.
“Can I ask you something?” said Michel, when this was done.
“Of course.”
“You know up there you told me the elevator couldn’t fall because it had safety brakes?”
“Yes.”
“When Georges was cutting the cables finally, I saw you staring up toward the top elevator, and when he cut the final cable, I saw you flinch.”
“Did I?” Thomas nodded. “I was pretty certain,” he admitted, “but”—he shrugged—“I could have been wrong.”
For Louise, the second half of 1940 was a strange time. In the first place, after the beautiful spring and the sudden, terrifying month of war, everything seemed normal.
France still had a French government: Marshal Pétain himself, military hero, in his eighties now, but with all his faculties. France had fought bravely and lost a hundred thousand men. Like Poland, Belgium, the Netherlands, she had been unable to withstand the German blitzkrieg. If Marshal Pétain addressed them as Frenchmen and told them to cooperate with the German occupiers, who needed to argue? It wasn’t as if there was an alternative.
True, the lone voice of de Gaulle spoke from London. But in practical terms, he had nothing to offer. The British army had completely collapsed when they tried to fight the Germans, and been sent scurrying back home. Only the narrow waters of the English Channel had saved the British from being overrun at the same time as France. Their turn would come soon enough.
Meanwhile, the Germans had left France with her honor. Pétain’s French government was still in charge.
Well, more or less. Pétain himself was based in the south, in the town of Vichy, whose pure waters made it such a pleasant spa. The Mediterranean coast, Provence, the Midi, the deep central countryside of Limousin and the huge open hills of Auvergne were all in the Vichy zone. But the north of France, roughly from the Loire valley to the English Channel, was under German military occupation, for which the French government had to pay. So was the western, Atlantic seaboard, from the Spanish border up through Bordeaux, the mouth of the Loire and into Brittany. Within these northern and western occupied zones, the Pétain government was technically in control, and French police maintained law and order, but the presence of German troops reminded everyone that France still had a German overlord whose will would prevail.
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