Paris

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Whatever one might think of Hitler and his inner circle, they could be clever when they wanted. The appointment of an ambassador to France at all was a well-calculated gesture to preserve the fiction that France was still a sovereign state ruling herself—with a little help from her German friends. But their choice of ambassador was inspired. Otto Abetz was urbane and cultivated, and he had a French wife. His job was to reassure the French and help them accept German rule.

  Abetz was quite young, only in his late thirties. He was immaculately tailored, and might have stepped straight from a Parisian salon. With his appreciative bow and greeting to Roland and his son, he conveyed in an instant that he was well aware of who they were, and that they were considered as aristocratic friends of the regime who shared its values and, still more important where trust is concerned, its prejudices. To Marie, he then turned with practiced charm.

  “Madame, I hope you will help me persuade your brother to take a more active role in Paris life again. We all need him. He was good enough to accept an invitation to the embassy”—as if he could refuse, she thought—“and I begged him to let me come to see his wonderful collection of pictures. My wife has already read two of his monographs, which she says are as elegant as they are scholarly, and I have them by my bedside to read myself.”

  Marie could tell that even Marc, who had seen more winters than most in the art world, was not entirely immune to this flattery.

  “It has not been easy to persuade him from his retirement for a number of years,” she offered, “but I always tell him that if he does not take exercise, he will grow old.”

  “Voilà!” The German turned to Marc with a broad smile. “I do not ask you to listen to me, my friend, but you should listen to your sister, who is wiser than either of us.”

  The following month, Marc was seen again at a reception Abetz gave for the cultural and academic elite of the city. He still didn’t go out much, but no doubt Abetz was content that he served the German purpose well enough.

  Despite the ambassador’s charm, there were still plenty of reminders that an iron fist lay behind the velvet glove. German street signs directed one to all the new German buildings. Even the Hôtel de Crillon on Place de la Concorde was now the huge and threatening offices of the security services. Cars with loudspeakers circulated to remind everyone that troublemakers would not be tolerated. There was a strict curfew at night. Food rationing began in earnest.

  “It’s all right for us,” Charlie remarked. “We only have to go to the château and there is food. I can always go out into the woods and shoot a pigeon. But the poor people of Paris are not so lucky.”

  And what was Charlie up to himself? Marie had been able to do one great thing for him, in the autumn of 1940. But once that was done, she had been careful not to interfere. Sometimes he would disappear for days at a time. She never asked him where he had been or what he was doing. She was fairly sure he had a woman somewhere, and it would have been strange if he had not. But as to his other, perhaps more dangerous, activities, she could only guess.

  If there were resistance groups forming, it was still hard to see at present what they could usefully do, since the German control of northwestern Europe appeared to be complete.

  But as the summer of 1941 began, two events gave a hint that the German supremacy might begin to falter. For in May, Germany’s mighty battleship the Bismarck was sunk. And then, at the end of June, came the astonishing news that Hitler had suddenly turned on his new friend Stalin, and invaded Russia.

  “He must be mad,” Roland remarked. “Doesn’t he know what happened to Napoléon when he invaded Russia back in 1812?” He shook his head. “Perhaps Hitler thinks he’s a better general.”

  “And what do you think?” Marie asked Charlie.

  “I think,” said Charlie, “that this changes everything.”

  For Max Le Sourd, it brought relief. The last year had been especially difficult for him.

  With the French Communist Party joined in lockstep with Moscow, the journalists at L’Humanité had been obliged to follow the party line.

  “We have to advocate collaboration with the Germans,” he told his father. By the end of 1940, he was adding: “I’m not sure how much longer I can do it, and nor are many of my communist friends.”

  But his father had never made any comment at all.

  Since Max’s return from the Spanish Civil War, the relationship between them had been perfectly friendly. Both regretted equally that Franco and his right-wing army had prevailed, and that Spain, for all its Catholic trappings, was really a fascist regime. His father accepted that Max had fought bravely and that his heart was in the right place.

  “But he doesn’t trust me,” Max said sadly to his mother.

  “You mustn’t take it personally,” his mother told him. “But with the communists on the Germans’ side … he can’t.”

  Was his father in a resistance movement of some kind? As the months went by, Max often wondered. His father was well into his seventies, but with his tall, lean frame he seemed hardly changed. He’d still walk from Belleville to the Bois de Boulogne without seeming tired.

  It was no use asking him. Once, in the spring of 1941, Max told him frankly that he was ready to start working against the Germans. But his father made no comment at all, and never referred to the subject again. Max understood, though he still found it hurtful.

  Only at the end of June, when Hitler invaded Russia, did the situation change.

  “We’re organizing a communist resistance movement,” Max told the older Le Sourd. “I don’t know details yet, but I shall join it, of course.” He gave his father a careful look. “Unless you have any other suggestions.”

  And this time, though his father didn’t say anything, he put his arm around Max’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. A few days later, on a warm day in July, he suggested: “As it’s a beautiful day, let’s go for a picnic, you and I.”

  “As you like. Where do you want to go?”

  “The Bois de Vincennes,” said his father. “We can bicycle out there, together.”

  Max hadn’t been there for years. Not that it was so far away. He’d forgotten how delightful the old forest was.

  For if Parisians could enjoy the open spaces of the Bois de Boulogne on the western side of the city, on the eastern side the Bois de Vincennes was just as fine. The old royal forest still contained an ancient château that kings had used until the days of Louis XIV, but people mostly came to walk in the woods.

  They found a pleasant, deserted spot and set out their little meal of bread, pâté and cheese. Max had provided a bottle of vin ordinaire, and as he looked at his father stretched out so comfortably on the grass, he felt a great wave of affection. They ate and drank for a little while before his father broached the subject that was on his mind.

  “You were serious about working in the Resistance?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to tell you something about it?”

  “I do.”

  His father nodded thoughtfully.

  “You know that, as a socialist, I’ve always believed it’s of paramount importance to be organized. Random acts of violence are useless. The thing is to have an organization well prepared so that, when the time comes, one is ready to seize the initiative. It’s the same with any resistance movement. Especially when you are dealing with a ruthless enemy like Hitler.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Now that there’s an eastern front, we could make enough trouble to tie up troops here. That might cause Hitler some difficulties. One day, perhaps, if America comes into the war, it may even be possible to liberate France. A big Resistance network could be crucial in providing information and sabotage prior to an invasion.”

  “You’ll need good links with de Gaulle in London, then.”

  “Up to a point, yes. But don’t forget the bigger picture. In the event that French and Allied troops can liberate France, we need to be completely organized so th
at the France they liberate belongs to us. By the time they get to Paris, it will be a Commune.”

  “The old dream.”

  “It’s a hundred and fifty years since the French Revolution and we still haven’t made good its ideals. But maybe this time it can be done.”

  “That’s what you’re fighting for?”

  “Yes. I want the Nazis out, of course. But my ultimate goal is to complete the Revolution, for France to reach her true destiny. And I hope it may be your goal as well.”

  For the next ten minutes he gave Max some details of the networks as they were emerging. It was evident to Max that his father was telling him far less than he knew, but it was clear that, both in Vichy France and in the occupied north, they were extensive.

  “The cells are linked, but also separate. Only a few key individuals know much outside their own cell. That’s for security.”

  “What will your role be?”

  “Propaganda. I’m getting a little old to run around blowing things up. But we need a newspaper. We may revive Le Populaire, which was suppressed. Underground of course. I’ll be helping with that.”

  “I want to do something more active. My time in the Spanish Civil War taught me a good deal.”

  “I know. And that’s the point. I’ve gathered together a bunch of boys, and I think I should turn them over to you and your friends. They all want action.” He grinned. “Do you know, I even found the fellow who cut the elevator cables in the Eiffel Tower? He’s about the same age as me, but he’s still going strong. And we have some villains from the Maquis. In fact, I have all sorts of fellows. Are you interested?”

  “Absolutely,” said Max.

  His father drank a little more wine and stared through the trees. He seemed to see something that caused him to nod, but when Max glanced around, he saw nothing.

  A couple of minutes later, a tall, handsome man suddenly came into the little clearing where they were, hesitated, and apologized for disturbing them. To Max’s surprise, his father turned to the stranger and remarked: “You are not disturbing us at all, my friend. This is my son, Max.”

  The stranger, who was in his late twenties and had a decidedly aristocratic air, bowed and said that he was delighted to meet him.

  “Max,” his father continued, “this is my good friend, who is known as Monsieur Bon Ami. Please remember his face so that you will know him when you meet again.”

  The two younger men gazed at each other and smiled. Then Monsieur Bon Ami slipped away through the trees as quietly as he had come.

  “Who the devil was that?” asked Max.

  At first, when Charlie had thought about how to make himself useful to de Gaulle, there had been one great obstacle. Who to talk to, and how to find them? So many of his own contemporaries had been among the million prisoners of war taken into the German work camps. Others might have been amenable to doing something, but they had no idea how to make contact with the Free French across the water.

  Of his father’s generation, even the most patriotic military men all seemed to be following Pétain.

  It was Marie who made a clever suggestion. After a few telephone calls, she found an instructor in the Staff College who’d been close to the English officer she had met before the war. Her approach to him was subtle. Was there any way that he was ever in contact with the Englishman, she inquired?

  “I doubt that such a thing is possible, madame,” he replied. But she noticed that he did not say that it was out of the question.

  “I should be grateful if you would not mention this to anyone, because my husband and his son are ardently for Pétain, and would not wish me to have any contact with the Englishman at all, but before he left Paris, he left some prints with me and asked if I could dispose of them for him. I did so, and I have the proceeds. If you ever think of a way of my discreetly letting him have his money, I should be glad. That is all.”

  “It will probably have to wait until the cessation of hostilities, madame,” he told her. “But I will make inquiries.”

  A month passed. Charlie kept busy. For a start, he got a list of all the officers who used Louise’s brothel on a regular basis, found out their duties, everything he could about them. He also constructed a list of people who, if they could be persuaded to help the cause, might be useful. Given his social position, and his family’s reputation as German sympathizers, he was often a guest at the receptions that German generals were giving in the mansions they had requisitioned.

  “It’s remarkable,” he said to Marie once, “apart from a German host and a sprinkling of German officers, I seem to see just the same people at all these parties as I did before the war.”

  But it meant that he could gather information quite easily. The question was, would he be able to make use of all this activity?

  It was dusk, one evening in November, when the butler announced to Marie that there was an elderly French art dealer at the door of the apartment, who had been told she might have some military prints for sale. She at once told him to usher the gentleman in.

  The disguise was excellent. Shuffling in, with a low bow, came a man apparently in his seventies. Only when they were alone did he look up sharply, and she saw the face of the English officer.

  “Your message was very clever, madame,” he remarked. “What can I do for you?”

  “How did you get here?” she cried.

  “I am a parachutiste, Madame la Vicomtesse,” he answered with a smile.

  She explained quickly that it was Charlie who was anxious to make himself useful, and that it would be best if the two of them met alone. He immediately suggested a spot in the Parc Monceau the following day and departed.

  When Charlie met him, and explained what he had to offer, the English officer was impressed, and told him that he’d soon be contacted. “You’re just the sort of man Colonel Rémy needs,” he said.

  “Colonel Rémy?” The name meant nothing to Charlie.

  “Code name. Safer,” said the Englishman, and left.

  Within a week he’d received his first instructions from Colonel Rémy. A list of information needed, and the address of a safe drop where he could leave his reports.

  Soon Charlie was making careful notes on all the barracks, the road and rail transport used by the Germans, the places where ammunition and explosives were kept, any information that might come in useful later for sabotage.

  It was useful information. He could see that. But he wanted to do more. He was told to be patient. But Charlie wasn’t very good at being patient. “I want the chance of some action,” he confessed to his father. And it was after some weeks of this frustration that his father finally gave him the name of a man who might be able to help him.

  “I have no idea if he is in any Resistance movement,” his father said, “but I have made some inquiries about him. He is a socialist, and I am sure he is not pro-German. He might be able to put you in touch with people. But tell him nothing about your business with Colonel Rémy. Keep the two activities totally separate, or you could compromise security.”

  A few days later, the elder Le Sourd had been surprised when, soon after he had left his home in Belleville, an athletic young man, almost as tall as his son, fell into step beside him.

  “Monsieur Le Sourd?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I am Charlie de Cygne. My father sent me. May we speak alone?”

  “Why?”

  “My father told me I could trust you.”

  “He did? Why?”

  “I don’t know. He said you were comrades in the Great War.”

  “He said that?” Le Sourd considered. “How do I know you are his son, and that he sent you?”

  “He told me that, if he had been killed, he had asked you to send something to me.” Charlie pulled out the little lighter made from a cartridge shell and showed it to Le Sourd.

  “What else did he say?”

  “That we should not shoot each other until France is liberated.”

  Le Sourd no
dded slowly.

  “There is a little bar along the street, young man,” he said. “We can talk there.”

  When they had finished their talk, Le Sourd had told him that it would be best that he had an operational alias, and asked him what he would choose. After hesitating for a moment, Charlie smiled.

  “Call me Monsieur Bon Ami,” he said. A good name, he thought. For that’s what he’d like to be: a Good Friend.

  When Luc Gascon first met Schmid, he thought the young German wasn’t so bad—for a Gestapo man.

  It had been an icy day in early December of 1941. News had just come from Russia that the Germans had suffered their first reverse. At first, they had swept through south Russia and taken the city of Kiev. But now, up in the north, they had met such furious resistance in the suburbs of Moscow that they had turned back.

  In the Gascon bar that morning, the news had been greeted with pleasure. If the emperor Napoléon himself had been forced to retreat from Moscow, it would have been galling if Hitler had done better. And one of the regulars at the bar had just remarked, “Hitler’s buggered,” when a young man in a black Gestapo uniform entered the bar and ordered a drink.

  Luc had happened to be in the bar just then, and he’d moved quickly as an awkward silence fell. Explaining that he was the owner of both the bar and the restaurant next door, he welcomed the Gestapo man with discreet politeness. Skillfully showing the young German respect, it hadn’t taken him long to engage him in conversation. He soon let it be clear both that he was solid for Pétain, and that he might be a useful mine of information about the city. He also learned that the German was named Schmid, that his family were farmers, that he had a married sister and that he worked in the Gestapo headquarters.

  Karl Schmid was unremarkable to look at. Were it not for his black uniform, he would be the kind of figure who is immediately lost in any crowd. Medium height, mousy hair. Only his pale blue eyes were at all memorable.

  After the German had left, one of the regulars remarked sourly to Luc that he’d been nice to the German. Luc only shrugged.