by Richard Wake
"But the gold story, that's dynamite," Leon said. "There isn't enough to publish yet, but I can start asking questions about it tomorrow. I know a guy who works at a bank. I helped him out of a jam, and he owes me a favor."
"What kind of a jam? A female jam?"
"Not important," Leon said. And then he smiled that fabulously wicked smile of his. It really did feel like 1930 again, for maybe a second.
46
The next afternoon, because this was Paris and mornings were for chumps, apparently, I met Leon outside the Saint Paul station. It was an easy walk for me from Le Meurice, on the Rue de Rivoli, across from the Jardin de Tuileries, because the bank was paying for this trip whether they knew it or not. And Saint Paul was a Metro station that was right in the Marais, where Leon lived. He was the least Jewish Jew that I knew, but the Marais was Paris' traditional Jewish neighborhood and, as he said, "Fuck it, I figure if I live there, I don't have to go to temple."
He had a friend he wanted me to meet. Over my late, ridiculously expensive breakfast, I fought my way through two Paris newspapers. My French was actually decent, with practice -- back-when in Brno, before I escaped as a teenager to live with Uncle Otto in Vienna, we had a French cook who taught me and left me with what one woman in Strasbourg once told me was "a charming Alsatian accent," which was good enough for a few kisses but also a very curt karate chop to my wandering right hand. So exactly how charming was it, after all?
Anyway, the papers were full of political intrigue. Most of it was about 200 former Communist mayors and deputies who had been exiled to internment camps on islands in the Atlantic after the party was outlawed. Military tribunals pronounced their sentences and put them on the boats, operating under the theory that you need to cut off the head of the snake first. But the papers were full of stories that quoted unnamed party members who said their members were never more motivated than they were when the boats pushed off from Fromentine with their former leaders on board.
France was crazily, and maybe fatally, unstable. The Communists hated the rightists and pretty openly smooched photographs of Stalin -- well, at least before they were outlawed. The rightists, whom the Communists called Fascists, didn't hate the Commies -- they feared them. Fear is a much stronger emotion than hate. And while the rightists couldn't smooch Hitler photographs in return -- some things just weren't done -- it was fair to say that said portraits gave them stirrings in places unseen behind their desks at the banks, and beneath the white linen tablecloths at their current favorite restaurant.
That left the people in the middle trying to govern, a group whose number seemed to shrink by the hour. They were like the people who ran for club president in every little club that you ever belonged to, the people who tended to win because nobody else wanted the job, or wanted to deal with the shit, and who spent their entire existence getting yelled at from a minimum of two directions. All of which meant that if a French government lasted as long as six months, they should have had a parade to celebrate. I'll never forget that they had no government when Hitler marched into Austria in 1938. Even if there had been some inclination to offer help -- and I'm not sure the phrase "offer help" has ever been in the French dictionary -- who was going to arrange it? The bell captain at the Ritz?
One thing there wasn't a lot of in the newspapers was war news, as in, none at all. Leon had warned me.
"They set up this Ministry of Information about six weeks ago," he said. "It's turning out to be the ministry of no information. Nothing in the papers, nothing on the radio -- you need to get a London paper to find out anything about Norway."
"How is Norway going, by the way?"
"Shitty," Leon said. "But like I said, you can't read about it here."
He was right. There wasn't anything. Thus fortified after breakfast, and assured that this place was as fucked up as ever, I met Leon. We were on the Metro's Line 1, the oldest line, and it soon became apparent that the friend we were meeting was going to be at the end of the line, the Chateau de Vincennes.
"All the way the hell out here? Why?" I said as we got off the train.
"Because this is where he works," Leon said.
"But what's out here? We're, like, how many miles--"
"About five or six from your hotel, probably."
"But what's out here?"
"Just that." Leon pointed as we took the last few steps up to the street. Just the chateau, perhaps the most fabulous combination of size and ugliness ever conceived by an architect.
"He works in there?" I said.
"They all do."
"Who's they?"
"The French high command," Leon said. He looked at his wristwatch. "We're a bit early. Let's take a lap."
As we walked, Leon played the tour guide. He said he knew all of the history because it was the subject of one of his newspaper columns. The headline was, "A Submarine without a Periscope."
"The press guy from the army was furious," Leon said. "I told him that the writers don't write the headlines. Of course, I didn't tell him that I suggested it to my editor. It came from an anonymous quote in the story from one of the junior officers on the staff who resented having to come all the way out here every day, to the ass-end of the Metro line."
"That junior officer wouldn't be the friend we're going to meet later, would it?"
"I'll never tell," Leon said. His smile, of course, gave it away.
The chateau was just odd looking, both wide and tall, with these massive battlements in the middle. It was the home of kings, going back centuries, obviously built more for defense than looks. There was even a moat to keep out the barbarians, only it was now dried out and beginning to sprout spring grasses.
"Based on what my friend tells me, he believes Gamelin would actually fill it with water again -- just one more barrier to keep the politicians outside," Leon said.
As we circumnavigated, we came upon a statue on one corner of the property of Louis IX, known to you and me as St Louis. But this also was a place known for death: Henry V of England died there, and the spy Mata Hari and many others had been executed there. As we turned a corner, we came upon a gaggle of school children, maybe 10 years old, about 30 of them being shepherded by two very outnumbered teachers. If they managed to get back to school on the Metro without losing at least one of those kids, they deserved the Croix de Guerre.
"You can go on a tour of the place if you are so inclined," Leon said. "Lots of big, dark, cold, damp rooms. A bunch of furniture from the 16th century that appears as if it couldn't survive a healthy fart at this point. A few suits of armor, if that's your thing. And they'll show you the courtyard, part of the barracks where they shot Mata Hari."
"I'll pass," I said.
"The truth is, it's nicer inside. These big walls -- it was built as a fortress, after all. They were trying to keep people out."
"And still are, it sounds like."
"Ask my friend," Leon said.
47
We waited at a cafe across the street from the chateau. If it had a name, it wasn't obvious. There was nothing written on the glass door, and nothing on the green-and-white awning, either. The menu was chalked on a small slate that the waiter dropped on the table with a mini-thud.
After a few minutes, Leon and I watched as an officer in uniform crossed the street and walked in our direction. He looked about our age, maybe a little younger. Leon introduced him as "the Captain."
"No names?" I said.
"Not for now," Leon said.
"Hell, I don't care," the Captain said, sticking out his hand. "Georges."
He ordered coffee, and I made conversation. I looked at Georges and said, "Well, how did you two meet?"
"Well, that's a story," Leon said. I loved it when Leon said, "Well, that's a story." I think the first time I heard him say it, our unit was a few miles outside of Caporetto, after the battle. I don't remember all of the details, but the tale that day involved a redhead and a scarf that doubled as a restraint. Whenever he pre-announced, "W
ell, that's a story," it was.
"So," I said.
"Well--" Georges said.
"We met because we were fucking two sisters," Leon said.
"And then we had a contest," Georges said.
"Let me guess," I said.
"Shut up, it's our story," Leon said.
"The contest was simple," Georges said. "Who would be the first one to fuck the other sister. Loser buys the winner drinks for a night."
"Ah, so it was true love," I said.
"I thought he told you to shut up," Georges said. I liked him immediately. He described the two sisters for me, just to round out the picture. His (original) sister was, as he said, "the more voluptuous of the two." When I arched an eyebrow, he said, "Not fat, voluptuous. Am I right?" Leon nodded.
"So how would the winner prove to the loser--"
"What do you think we are?" Georges said. "Our word is our bond. We're gentlemen, for fuck's sake."
His faux outrage was pitch perfect.
"So don't keep me in suspense. Who won?"
At this point, Georges actually stood up and raised his arms above his head, hands balled into fists. He looked like a boxer standing over a fallen opponent, splayed out on the canvas. It would have made for quite the scene, had there been anybody else sitting at one of the sidewalk tables.
"Leon, you're losing your touch," I said.
"What my worthy opponent failed to mention was that I lost by three fucking hours. I lost because I bought mine dinner and he only bought his a drink. Shows you where being a gentleman gets you."
"All's fair in love and war," Georges said. "That fits perfectly, doesn't it? Although, whoever said that, I kind of doubt he had our contest in mind."
The preliminaries aside, we began to talk about why I had traveled to Paris. Georges just let me speak, never interjecting, just nodding occasionally. I probably went on for a half-hour, my frustration with the leadership at every level of officialdom spilling out.
Finally, I was done. Georges shook his head. Then he cleared his throat, turned and spit on the sidewalk.
"Gamelin knows this -- or, should I say, most of it," he said. "I'm not sure he knows the Ardennes information is coming from three sources. I don't know if he knows the May 10th date comes from two sources. But he knows. Trust me, he knows."
"And what does he say?"
"We're, and I quote, 'awaiting events.'"
Georges sipped his coffee. It was cold. He raised his hand to get the waiter's attention. Waiters hated that, but he was wearing a military uniform, so screw the waiter. He pointed down at the table and drew a circle with his finger, for another round of coffee.
"Awaiting fucking events," he said. "I've personally heard him say that a half-dozen times, and I don't get into half of the big meetings. He must say it on the hour. Such a goddamned fossil. We are so doomed."
Fossil. I thought about the old men in Cafe Fessler, arguing about the positioning of FC Zurich's midfielders. They were as old as Gamelin. Hell, Gamelin was probably older.
"Why doesn't Gamelin believe it? Why don't his people believe it?" I said.
"Because of the plane crash." Georges began to tell the story, about the crash into Belgium and the original invasion plans falling into Belgian hands, a little scorched but readable. I stopped him midway.
"I know, I know. But that was months ago."
"But don't you get it -- it fits with what Gamelin knows, and what he knows is the last war."
"But--"
"There's no but," Georges said. "They have about two staff dinners a week. I get invited to about two a month. I've been at this post for seven months, so 14 dinners, give or take. And at every one of them -- every fucking one -- the conversation has turned at one point or another to the Marne. And Gamelin is always the one who turns it there."
I felt like crying. But Georges was wound up now and just spewing.
"He's such an odd little old man," he said. "I mean, what in the fuck are we doing out here? We had a nice normal headquarters building at Les Invalides, left bank, almost on the Seine, near everything. But no, we have to come out here, away from the politicians, away from everybody. Do you know he lives in there, in one of the buildings in the back? It's like a fucking jail cell. The man in charge of the French army lives in this dark fucking room -- I think he sleeps on a cot, all alone--"
"With only the Marne to keep him warm," Leon said.
It was every bad thing that I had imagined, only it might have been worse. Still, I just couldn't believe that they were so calcified that they wouldn't listen to reason.
"All right, forget Gamelin for a second," I said. "Tell me what you think. Do you think it's crazy that he won't listen at all? Do you think the Ardennes is impossible?"
"It would be hard," Georges said. "Everything I know about reading a map tells me that. But I have to be honest -- I've never been there. I've never seen it first-hand. All I know about the Ardennes is what people tell me -- narrow, winding roads, trees hugging the sides, no way to get a tank through."
"But have they checked?"
"Checked?" Georges said, his tone mocking the question. "Checked? Like, actually gotten off of their asses? Of course not. All they know is what they remember from a family vacation to the Ardennes when they were 11."
Georges's voice was suddenly drowned out by a half-dozen soldiers on motorcycles, roaring out of the chateau and down the street. He waited until they were gone, past the Metro entrance, headed to who knows where.
"See that?" he said. "You can set your watch by it. That is our modern, 20th Century communication system with the generals in the field."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"That's it," Georges said. "No radios. No teletypes. That's what we have -- messengers on motorbikes. And they aren't even good motorbikes. We are so fucked."
"What does Gamelin say when people your age ask about bringing in radios?"
"Not just people my age -- the old colonels and generals on the staff can't believe it, either. But Gamelin says, 'This is preferable.' He isn't big on giving orders. He's more of a guiding-principles kind of general. I think that's a mistake because I think the generals in the field -- well, a few of them -- are a bunch of fucking donkeys. But that's his style."
"Well, what about the date?" I said. "I mean, it's the day after tomorrow."
"I know. They know. Like I said, we're 'awaiting events.' And what we're waiting for is a German re-run of the last war, a sweep through Holland and Belgium. That's where our best troops are. And the Maginot Line, well, I really do think the Germans will stay away from that."
"And in between?" I said. "What is guarding the Ardennes?"
"Some divisions. Some shitty divisions -- you know, Uncle Pierre and his buddies called up from the reserve, and a couple of canons pulled by horses."
"Armor?"
"Not there," Georges said. "Not really."
"Great place to attack, it seems to me."
"I'll bring this all up again at the next staff meeting." George looked at his watch. "In two hours. But nobody's really listening -- I have to be honest. I might be able to convince my boss to recommend that we move a few more battalions in that direction, but even if I do, they're all just Uncle Pierres -- the best troops will all be in Belgium.
"Let's just hope the Ardennes roads are as narrow as their vacation memories think they are," Georges said. "I mean, hope is all we fucking have at this point."
48
I spent the rest of Wednesday trying to convince myself that the trip hadn't been a total waste. Maybe one more plea at the French high command's staff meeting would move enough men, and move them quickly enough, to make a difference. If they could just slow the Germans down, it might matter. And as for the Nazi gold story, Leon was already in his dog-after-a-bone mode. He went to work after we got back from Vincennes and said he wouldn't have time to see me on Thursday.
So, maybe. My original plan was to take the night train back to Zurich on
Thursday and get home Friday morning, the invasion day. But I changed to the morning train because, well, I just didn't feel like hanging around in Paris anymore. The morning train also took a more southerly route than the night train, and I figured the farther away from the Ardennes, the better.
I liked trains, but I didn't really like trains during the day. It seemed like a waste of time, where the night train was kind of fun and just more efficient. But, besides the route, I just wanted to get home and see Manon. As it turned out, though, an engine breakdown about an hour past Dijon left us stranded for 12 hours. I was glad I had taken a private compartment -- thank you, Bohemia Suisse -- where I could stretch out and sleep. The only upside was that the dining car and, more importantly, the bar car had fully provisioned themselves during the stop at Dijon. One of the porters told me that the railway company would have come rescued us in a lorry had it not been for that.
The passengers who filled the bar car for many of those 12 hours made for an ornery menagerie. I ended up spending a long stretch with a guy named Claude Montreaux, who worked for a company that sold threshing machines to farmers. I could care less about the machines, but enjoyed hearing about his life, which was not all that different from what my life had been in Vienna -- traveling a few days a month, tromping around farms, handholding farmers, hearing their complaints, trying to sell them on the latest, greatest model. And he had the best expense account story.
"Every four months, I put in for a new pair of shoes," he said. "On our expense forms, you have a line to write what the expense is for, another line to write the amount, and a third line to write 'explanation.' For the shoes, my explanation is always one word: cowshit."
"That's two words," I said.
"My story, my grammar," he said.
We eventually got around to talking about the war because, well, that's what you inevitably did, especially if you had been drinking. Claude had seen a London paper on his last trip up to Lille, and said, "Norway looks like a disaster."
