Liberation

by Ellie Midwood

  She repulsed him immensely with her red hair and matching lipstick, with that hunger in her eyes. She loved money no matter where it came from, and he seemed like he had it. Philippe leered and spoke louder than needed, “From Paris, ma petite. But my money – from London.”

  “Are you a spy then?” she whispered, widening her eyes in excitement.

  “No. But the Brits pay well for dead Boches, and I don’t mind making my living that way.” He downed another glass. Liquid courage be damned, but he needed it desperately tonight.

  “You killed somebody?”

  “Mais oui! Perhaps, you even read about it. February 13, two Luftwaffe officers, right in the middle of the Place de la Concorde.” Philippe’s sneer came out more than persuasive as he pretended to aim and fire two shots in the invisible enemies’ chests. “Colonel Winkler and Major Nussbaum; how about that? More impressive than some private in Lyon?”

  The table fell silent, a few pairs of eyes peering eagerly at him. How fast they swallowed the bait!

  Philippe nodded when Suzanne excused herself for a moment (“I’ll just powder my nose and be right back with you, mon chèr!”) and poured himself another glass as he pictured her, in all her vividness, dialing the phone in the back.

  Having sent Marcel on his way to Father Yves earlier that morning, with the first rays of the breaking dawn, Philippe waved him off when the two stopped on the crossroads.

  “The rest of the way you’ll have to make on your own. I’ll try to go there and get her out. I managed to get her out once; maybe, luck will be on my side this time as well.”

  “How will you get inside the prison? They say it’s impenetrable.” Marcel protested as Philippe had expected.

  “I’ll just have to get arrested, I guess.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

  His wish was soon granted. The Gestapo came enviously fast, and soon he understood why; they’d barely driven for five minutes when the driver stopped in front of what Philippe knew as Ecole de Santé. Apparently, this is where they’d made their new nest after the old one couldn't accommodate all the criminals they were holding. They took him to a room for the initial interrogation on the ground floor.

  “I’ll only talk with Monsieur Barbie,” he threw insolently in their faces.

  They shrugged and escorted him to the fourth floor.

  “This man claims that he killed Colonel Winkler and Major Nussbaum in Paris in February.”

  Klaus Barbie, who was sitting at the desk with a beautifully-dressed young woman on his lap, lifted his brows curiously.

  “Is that so? He approached you out of the blue and told you that he killed them?”

  “No.” The orderly, a tall blond man, lowered his eyes, as though used to such berating remarks. Something told Philippe that he was. “He bragged about it to one of the girls in Moulin à Vent. She called our office.”

  “So I see.” Barbie craned his neck and, following his gaze, Philippe only now noticed a motionless body near one of the baths. A uniformed man nudged it half-heartedly with the tip of his boot. “Is he still unconscious? Wake him up; don’t just stand there! We can’t have him dead now, can we?!”

  “I don’t think he’s breathing,” the SS man muttered in a gruff, husky voice, kicking the naked man in the back with more force.

  “Hit him in the stomach then!” Barbie demanded, becoming aggravated.

  His orderly did as instructed, and with such unrestrained brutality that the man, whose ankles and wrists were tied, sputtered a mouthful of water and went into a violent coughing fit. With horror, Philippe recognized the familiar features. It was their Chief, Etienne Delattre.

  “Merde.” The curse broke off his lips against his better judgment.

  Barbie pricked his ears at once, his hard mouth giving way to a devious grin. “Do you two know each other by any chance?”

  Etienne turned his head towards Philippe and turned away again, looking strangely disappointed.

  “I see that you do.” Barbie broke out in laughter, rubbing the leg of the girl on his lap. “Wonderful! Isn’t it nice to have a good comrade by your side when someone is beating you unconscious?”

  Barbie seemingly forgot about his presence in the room, turning all his attention to the young woman again. While the guards were busy undressing him and manhandling him into the corner, Philippe watched Barbie kiss her and grope her breasts through the silk of her dress. Philippe couldn’t tear his darkening gaze away from the couple, marveling at the infinite adoration with which the woman was looking at the German connard. She resembled Giselle when he’d first met her, when she was still elegantly-dressed, arrogant and blonde.

  Barbie’s men, meanwhile, finished tying him up to a chair and placed his feet on the small bench.

  “Sophie?” Philippe managed to whisper to Etienne who lay within a few steps of him. He was trembling with his whole body, his skin revealing a bluish tint. “Where is she?”

  “Not here,” Etienne stuttered in response. His lips didn’t seem to listen to him too well; Philippe could only guess how long he had spent in that bath. “Paris. You should have run…”

  Philippe closed his eyes, condemning his impulsiveness. He should have checked out the facts, learned some information… But it was too late to think about it now.

  “I’m ready when you are.” An SS man was already holding a red-hot iron next to the sole of one of Philippe’s feet.

  Philippe inhaled a full chest of air and closed his eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard Barbie’s girlfriend giggling as a searing pain coursed through his leg.

  Montluc Prison. July 1943

  Etienne lay on the cot, staring at the ceiling. Mosquitoes feasted on his exposed flesh, but he didn’t have enough strength to lift his hand and wave the pestering insects off. It was so stifling hot in this concrete sack, he even started missing Barbie’s ice-cold baignoire. The bath had become such a daily occurrence that Etienne didn’t feel the effects of it anymore, apart from infected kidneys. He felt a constant urge to use the bucket but didn’t bother moving since it was of no use. They hardly gave him water nowadays, and he was so dehydrated that his body barely produced sweat, let alone any other fluids.

  He lost count of the days; yet, he stubbornly refused to speak. Every time Barbie started hitting him or had his men kick him about the room when he would get tired of it, Etienne found it easier and easier to withstand the torture. With every day that passed, and he didn’t reveal anything, he started to experience a strange lightness in his whole body as though he had won another round in the game, the rules of which he was yet to understand.

  How could he speak when Jean Moulin, the leader of the Resistance himself who knew everything, chose to die without uttering a word; to protect them all? If Etienne broke under torture, it would only mean that Jean died for nothing, and Etienne refused to accept the fact that Jean’s death was in vain.

  How could he speak, when he remembered so well the very first day when he met Giselle, and she showed him her scars, left by the Gestapo butchers? If she didn’t speak when they were burning and cutting her, he wouldn’t either. If Philippe didn’t break even after Barbie forced him to lay with his back against the sharp edge of a shovel, embedded in the ground and started hitting him across the stomach until Philippe’s spine was fractured, how dare he, Etienne, complain about a few fractured bones and bruises? They’d dragged Philippe's body somewhere afterward, and Etienne never saw him again.

  With every new passing day, Etienne grew stronger, more resilient inside despite his body being covered in bruises and welts. And then one day, Barbie made his appearance in prison, instead of bringing Etienne to the Ecole, and stood on the threshold of his cell with a sour expression on his face.

  “Your former girlfriend Sophie’s new lover from the Paris SD demanded your immediate release. Apparently, she wasn’t too happy to hear that you were still incarcerated. His exact words were; ‘I will be calling his residence every day at noon, and he’d better answ
er, or else.’ You’re free to go. However, don’t let me catch you again. If I do, whatever I was doing to you before will seem like child’s play.”

  And just like that, in less than ten minutes, Etienne was given a bag containing the meager possessions that were on his person when he was arrested and was escorted outside the gates of Montluc. He stood for a long time, shielding his face from the blinding sun, for the first time in his life not knowing where to go.

  18

  Near Oyonnax, October 1943

  Marcel reflected on the events of the past few months as he observed his new commander, smiles chasing each other over his lips. Major Romans-Petit, the leader of the maquis in Ain, soon became a much-needed figure to look up to and provide guidance after Marcel had lost such a figure in Philippe. Philippe never joined him as he had promised, and eventually Marcel abandoned all hope for his safe return, or for anyone else’s from his cell for that matter. It was a well-known fact that Montluc prison was so overcrowded that the SS didn’t keep anyone there longer than a few weeks. After that, the prisoners either died from torture, were executed, or were sent to German camps in the East. Marcel could only hope they died an easy death, without too much suffering.

  When Marcel had just arrived at this emerald province sixty miles from Lyon, having narrowly escaped arrest in June, Major Petit welcomed him with open arms as soon as Marcel promised Petit’s spirited, but ill-equipped company as much British guns and explosives as they wanted.

  “We’ve been storing them in the cellar of the orphanage in the outskirts of the city,” Marcel explained. “The priest in charge of the orphanage has minded them this whole time, waiting for the right moment to arrive so that we could use them. Well, it has arrived. Our leader has been arrested together with a few people from our cell.”

  “We’ll avenge them,” Petit promised confidently, placing a palm on Marcel’s shoulder.

  Major Petit was not only a true military man but a hero of the Great War, no less. Together with Patrice, who had been helping him train new recruits for the past few months, they quickly organized their motley crew of résistants into a veritable army. Petit was of medium height, stocky, with an authoritative stance that inspired confidence. His hair shone with silver on his temples, his gaze was sharp and steady. More importantly, Petit emanated the sort of personal magnetism peculiar to natural leaders of men. Such leaders were precisely what the maquis needed these days.

  Summer was good to them. They slept under the open sky in the countryside, an ideal combination of steep hills, countless valleys, plenty of woods and hiding places presenting them with excellent cover. Armed with British guns, generously supplied by Father Yves, they raided local railroads, insolently stealing German supplies; set ambushes on the Wehrmacht and executed everyone wearing the hated uniforms; and welcomed RAF planes which, using local pastures, conveniently dropped them more ammunition and food. Soon, they felt confident enough to attempt more ambitious feats; in the first days of autumn, quite a few German officials cringed when reading about the destruction of the power station at Le Creusot and a major ball-bearing factory at Annecy, in their morning newspapers.

  September was bearable, but then October rolled in with its torrential rains under which they were forced to sleep sometimes, and its impenetrable fog and clouds, which made it impossible for the RAF planes to land or even drop their cargo at the right location. As more and more fog-shrouded days paraded in succession, the more the spirits of the maquis withered, together with the luscious green of the countryside.

  “What dreadful weather,” Marcel muttered one morning, observing the mist settling over the valley, from under his knitted brows.

  Major Petit, who stood next to him on the edge of the plateau, heaved a sigh, then checked his watch. “Let’s go back. They won’t be making a drop today. The visibility is zero again.”

  “We’re running out of food,” Marcel remarked, gazing intently at him.

  “I know. That’s not what’s bothering me. Food and all that,” he made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “we’ll steal some from the Boches in the next few days. Visibility doesn’t affect railways.”

  They walked through the woods now, which stood bare and desolate, their legs drowning in the golden sea of sodden leaves. Marcel watched his commander with a subtle smile. He’ll come up with something. He always does, just like Philippe did.

  “The mood in the camp, that’s what worries me.” Petit stepped over the felled tree which blocked the path leading to the camp. Passing the camp by, Marcel waved at his fellow maquisards, who stood on watch on both sides of the narrow passage. “We need to do something to raise the spirits of the men. They’re bored and restless; they need a purpose, a reason to carry on with their duty before France.”

  “We can organize another raid,” Marcel suggested. Petit replied with a categorical shake of his head.

  “No. We need to liberate a town.”

  Marcel stopped in his tracks, staring at the Major in stupefaction. “Liberate?”

  “Why, yes. Isn’t it what we are planning to eventually do with the whole country?”

  “But...” Marcel faltered out loud, searching for words. Petit was joking, most certainly.

  “But what? I say, let’s march into the nearest town in one formation, straight to the town center while singing La Marseillaise, and lay a wreath under the war memorial.”

  Marcel followed him into the camp in silence. Such blatant insolence was beyond credibility.

  “Oyonnax is only sixty miles away from Lyon,” someone replied in a doubtful voice. “The Gestapo will be upon us in no time. They have cars; we – only our own two feet.”

  “And for how long are we going to fear them?” Petit retorted angrily. “It’s about time to show them that we’re masters in our own country! I’ll march; you can all stay here.”

  “That makes two of us,” Marcel suddenly chimed in next to him, Petit’s contagious confidence infecting him as well. “Anyone else?”

  There was a long pause, then several voices joined in, grumbling their approval. The rest stirred their food in silence, thoroughly hiding their eyes.

  “When are we going to do it?” someone asked.

  “November 11, bien sûr. The Armistice Day.”

  This time more men raised hands, some chucking at such insolence. To think of it, they were going to march into town and lay a wreath under the war memorial right under the Gestapo’s nose. That should show those Boches what’s what!

  “Bien.” Petit nodded his head with satisfaction, observing the maquis’ reaction. “It’s all settled then. We’ll start rehearsing first thing tomorrow morning. How many of you served in the Army?”

  Several men offered him their names, including Marcel.

  “Whoever was in the army will have to teach the others how to march. If we want to make an impression on the people of Oyonnax, we need to resemble at least some sort of organized troop, not just some forest bandits as the Gestapo refer to us.”

  “If someone carried a tricolor, it would look nice!”

  “Yes, and we all need to carry weapons so that the collabos in the town can later tell the Boches how well-equipped we are!”

  “But where are we going to get the wreath?”

  “I have a girlfriend in the village; she’ll fashion it for us.”

  “Can she get us a tricolor too?”

  “I’m fairly sure she has it stacked somewhere in the hay, all ready for Victory Day.”

  They all burst into laughter as Major Petit looked on.

  Xavier, a British SOE agent who came and went in and out of the camp like a shadow, always conferring with Petit in private, made his unexpected appearance again several days later, delivering the coordinates of the next drops by the RAF. He replied with immense enthusiasm when Petit revealed the maquis’ plans for Armistice Day. The SOE agent was working somewhere near Lyon, with his group, the main aim of which was to seek revenge against the Lyon Gestapo for the murder
of their agents a few months ago. Needless to say, he was only too happy to hear that the maquis were about to rub the Nazis’ faces in their own impotence.

  At dawn on the day of the planned event, in utmost secrecy, Marcel and a few maquis cut the town’s communication lines, sealing it off completely from the outside world. Petit warned him that this would give them only about an hour before the local gendarmes would raise the alarm and start sending radiograms to Lyon, requesting help.

  Marcel shot a signal flare in the air, and ten minutes later Major Petit appeared on the main avenue leading to the central square and the War Memorial. In white gloves, wearing his full regalia, he paused for a brief moment and shouted at the top of his voice, “Maquis de l’Ain, follow my command!” and proceeded to march in front of his small troop that followed his steps in formation with their heads held high, singing La Marseillaise.

  A small crowd of onlookers started pouring onto the street, following the procession in complete amazement, which was soon replaced by a state of almost crazed deliriousness. Shouts of “Vive la France! Vive les Maquis! Vive la Resistance!” could be heard from every corner, from every open window.

  Petit, looking almost regal in his full-dress uniform, proceeded to the War Memorial and lowered a wreath under it, with a message written on its ribbon: From tomorrow’s victors to those of 1914-18. Throughout the crowd, every single woman was wiping her tears; men were holding their children high. Someone hung a tricolor out of their window; soon, the whole street was full of them. Bar owners began bringing cases with wine outside – to hell with rationing! Those who had cameras snapped pictures and ran back home to hide them. The gendarmes, who poured onto the street as well, watched the action unravel right before their eyes, dumbfounded. Suddenly, one of them stepped forward and joined in the singing; then, the second, the third.

  Marcel looked on, feeling powerful emotions swell in his chest. Yes, they will be the victors soon. People were simply too tired of this reign of terror; no longer could they stand the fact that the former capital of resistance, Lyon, had been turned into the Gestapo capital by the man whom they called The Butcher. This wouldn’t go on forever. Soon, the tables would turn, and justice would be served to those who inflicted so much pain on the people of France. Soon, they would drive them off their land, or wipe them off its face – the latter would depend on the Boches themselves.