Under Occupation

by Alan Furst

  “Still,” Ricard said, “a lot of money.”

  “It isn’t really, because the way we fight these days is with money. That’s our weapon.”

  * * *

  —

  So, a safe house. Where to look? Years earlier, after leaving his room near the Sorbonne, Ricard had looked for a new place to live. In time he found his garret by chatting with street-market vendors in the quartier because these women, toughened and weathered by years of selling vegetables in all seasons, knew everything that went on. “See Madame Cabard,” he’d been told, and he had tracked her down at her vegetable stand. She had a friend who owned a building on the Rue de la Huchette, and Ricard, searching for an apartment, soon had a garret. “For an artist, or a poet, it’s just right,” Madame Cabard said.

  Of course, Paris had changed in 1940, and there was now a surplus of apartments for rent. Some had belonged to Jews who’d been rounded up by the police, some had belonged to foreigners—mostly American or British—who’d once upon a time, with money to spare, thought an apartment in Paris was a fine trophy. The war had chased them back home, and now the For Rent pages of the newspapers had columns of available apartments, and available houses.

  * * *

  —

  Ricard began by considering the city arrondissement by arrondissement; the streets around his own neighborhood, the Fifth and the Sixth, were full of uniformed Germans, who had replaced the Americans and the British in colonizing the Left Bank—Saint-Germain-des-Prés—student and bohemian Paris. The Seventh remained a bastion of the old, rich families who had lived there for generations. Ricard wanted a neighborhood where strangers weren’t so much the subjects of speculation and gossip. There were numerous vacant apartments in the Marais, but those had once been Jewish apartments, and the area now felt desolate and abandoned.

  To Ricard, the Sixteenth and Seventeenth were occupied by the well-to-do, who cared too much about someone moving in next door. Perhaps the Fourth, Ricard thought, which was technically part of the Marais but was just across the Seine from the Fifth and, until you reached the Eleventh, had the same character. He walked there—it wasn’t far from his own street—taking the Pont Marie, then headed for the Place des Vosges, where he found fancy shops and an inviting café, the bistro Ma Bourgogne, which occupied one corner of the park. Here he stopped to have a coffee and a look at the local population.

  This was an attractive part of Paris, but there were few Germans about, maybe it wasn’t in their guidebooks. The bistro patrons looked shabby and poor, but that was due to the occupation, Ricard knew the bonne bourgeoisie when he saw it. This was the proper country for the writer Ricard, he felt at home here, but this was not the proper place for the secret agent Ricard. He wanted, in that role, anonymity, and it wasn’t there at Ma Bourgogne—he could have comfortably struck up a conversation with any of the people at the tables on the terrasse.

  Ricard was tempted by the Tenth, where the two railway stations, the Gare de l’Est and the Gare du Nord, were located. But if agents traveling on any of the escape lines were going to be hidden there, they would be surrounded by German travelers in great numbers, going on, or returning from, leave in Germany. So, Ricard thought, the Tenth won’t work. What he would need was a railway station from which trains headed south, toward Perpignan, then Spain, for agents trying to get out of the country. This meant the Gare de Lyon, in the Twelfth Arrondissement.

  * * *

  —

  Ricard took the Métro to the Gare de Lyon stop and walked up the stairs. Coming out of the station, he saw the span of railroad tracks that emerged from a tunnel, headed for the La Chapelle freight yards, the rails glinting silver in the sunlight. Staring at them, Ricard wanted to be on a train going far away, far away from claustrophobic, occupied Paris. How he’d loved his city. Before the war. Now it was a prison.

  Well, tant pis, he thought. Too bad. Walking north from the station on the Rue de Bercy, he was close to the Seine, could see barges being worked up the river. Here he came upon the Rue Crémieux, a sullen street with a couple of cheap hotels. In the middle of the block, he found a narrow—two rooms wide—building, plastered in darkening tan stucco, with a small boulangerie on the ground floor that had a FOR RENT sign in the window. He entered the shop, bought a demi-baguette, asked about the building, and was told to see the notary at his office on the next block. One Monsieur Luc, who turned out to be a talkative gent with white hair. Monsieur Luc paged through a dossier and said, “It’s been vacant for a long time.”

  “It’s a good place for me,” Ricard said. “I’ll take it.”

  After hesitating, Monsieur Luc said, “Monsieur, you don’t…” He didn’t finish, but Ricard knew where he was going. Ricard didn’t look like the sort of person who would live in such a place. “I need a building to store equipment,” he said, then paid two months’ rent in occupation francs, signed a one-year lease, and Monsieur Luc gave him the key.

  Ricard returned to the building and, after a struggle with the lock, went inside. The interior was empty of furniture and smelled of dust and mold. A narrow wooden staircase led up to the second floor, one room right, one left. The floorboards were warped, now bare wood and gray with age; and the walls, painted white a long time ago, were stained. On the top floor, a chimney rose through the roof. At the base of the chimney was an opening with a square black stain on the floor where a small stove had stood. Looking out the window, Ricard saw that he was above a courtyard with some kind of workshop, one story high, opposite the window. Ricard cranked the window open and smelled fresh varnish—perhaps they made furniture in the shop. Closing the window, he thought about actually living in the building, a safe house had to have a guardian.

  Someone would have to live there, to take care of agents on the move or fugitives on the run. Find food for them—they would need ration cards, but these were easily forged—and have a bed for them to sleep in. Looking at the chimney, Ricard thought that a W/T wire could be run up the inside—as long as a heater wasn’t being used. It was now late October, people were walking around barely heated apartments in their overcoats, perhaps, he thought, he could find some thick blankets.

  Heading back toward the Métro, Ricard chewed the end off his demi-baguette. It was dreadful, the same consistency as cotton, baked with occupation flour. He threw the remainder of the bread into the street, where it was set upon by the local pigeons.

  * * *

  —

  10 October, the Gare de Lyon. Ricard began his journey down the SHEPHERD escape line by taking the night train to Troyes, some hundred and ten miles southeast of Paris. At the station, the waiting room was half full and barely lit, so that some of the travelers faded into the shadows. The train was late, according to the Roman numeral clock on the wall. This was confirmed by the appearance of a ticket clerk, who used a rag to erase 23:30—the railways ran on twenty-four-hour time, military time—and then chalked in 00:30. The trip down to Troyes would take two hours or so; Ricard would be there at two in the morning.

  Ricard looked around the room. Were there British agents on the move in here? German operatives hunting them? Two gendarmes—army uniforms and red kepis, flat-topped hats with horizontal brims—entered the room and moved among the benches, asking to see papers. Not for all the travelers, only some of them. They stopped and stood over Ricard, one of them saying, “Your papers, monsieur.” Ricard did as he asked, and the gendarme held up a typed list and compared Ricard’s name to the ones on his paper. He took his time, was careful, and in no hurry, and Ricard grew tense as the gendarme searched.

  What had Teodor told the Gestapo before Ricard had him sent off to Argentina? His name? Likely not. If Teodor had done that, Ricard would have been arrested. Or did they decide to wait? To follow him and see who he met and what he did? The Gestapo certainly operated in that way. The gendarme handed Ricard back his passport and exit visa, then took a long loo
k at him. Your name isn’t on this list, but I’m sure we both know it’s on some list.

  It was almost midnight when Ricard heard the train pulling slowly into the station, and he walked out on the platform. When the train hissed to a stop, Ricard saw that it was wet, water running down the sides of the cars. It had apparently come through a rainstorm on its way to Paris. At one end of the platform, a large group of Wehrmacht troopers were waiting at the first car. As with the Métro, German soldiers had their own private car.

  Where, Ricard wondered, were they going? They were in full combat dress, with heavy packs on their backs and rifles slung on their shoulders. As Ricard watched, they smoked nervously and talked among themselves in low voices. Wherever it was, they clearly weren’t happy to be going there. Maybe Russia, with not much chance of ever returning home. Or, maybe, it was North Africa, to fight against British forces, scheduled to invade Italy once the North African coast was secured. The war was changing, Ricard thought. The Allies were, eventually, who knew when, going to win.

  * * *

  —

  It was dark on the train, Ricard found a seat in a first-class compartment—the Germans were very conscious of class distinctions, and rarely checked the first-class passengers. When a woman with a child looked through the glass partition, Ricard rose and gave up his seat, and stood in the aisle, his canvas satchel between his feet. As the train was about to leave, an older woman, gray-haired, well dressed, stood next to him. “Do you always ride the night trains?” she said.

  “Now and then,” Ricard said. “When there’s no other way.”

  “Are you getting off at Troyes?”

  “I am.”

  “Nice little town, Troyes. Center of trade routes, long ago. You have family there?”

  “No. Going to see a friend.”

  From the woman, a knowing smile. “Always good to see ‘a friend.’ Love makes the world go round.”

  “That’s true,” Ricard said. Was this woman just an old busybody? Or was there more to it?

  “You’ll have to take a taxi at the station, unless you’re being met.”

  “Well, I’m not being met.”

  “Perhaps we can share a taxi. Where does your friend live, in Troyes?”

  “I have the address in my bag, I don’t remember it.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You could get it out, that way we might share a taxi.”

  “Maybe later,” Ricard said. This woman was more than a busybody. Someone had sent her to talk to him and find out what he was doing. His heart sank; was there no end to this? He wanted to help Adrian and he’d been lucky so far. But the enemy was relentless—after he eluded this woman, he would be approached again.

  * * *

  —

  At the Troyes station, there were two taxis waiting. Ricard took the first, and asked the driver to go to the commercial hotel he’d been told to use. The driver was a young man, likely the son of the man who owned the taxi and drove it most of the time. After going a few blocks, he said, “That other taxi is following us, monsieur. Someone you know?”

  “Someone I don’t want to know.”

  “Ah, yes, that occurred to me. Shall I lose him?”

  “Please,” Ricard said.

  “That will cost extra, we’ll burn up more fuel.”

  “I’ll be happy to pay.”

  The driver sped up, as much as he could—the coal-driven cars could go no faster than forty-five miles an hour—so the driver made up for it by taking Ricard, and whoever was following him, into the old, medieval section of the city, near the cathedral. In a labyrinth of narrow streets, the driver turned left, then right, folding his outside-view mirror flat against the window and taking an alley that seemed too narrow for an automobile. In time, no headlights behind them, they arrived at the hotel.

  The chase left Ricard overexcited and tense and, once in his room at the hotel, he couldn’t sleep. Music had always calmed him, so he turned the radio on and found a woman vocalist fronting a swing band, “Gonna take a sentimental journey, gonna set my heart at ease.” This worked, and soon enough Ricard drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, Ricard found a café and telephoned the safe house, a doctor’s office. This was an extremely important rule, always telephone a safe house before going there, and use the coded protocol:

  “Hello, is Michel there?”

  “You mean Roland,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, Roland. Can you see a patient this morning?”

  “I believe I can.”

  If he’d said, “You’ll have to wait, I have many patients this morning,” it meant that the Germans were there.

  According to Adrian, doctors’ offices were much-favored sites for the civil servants in London; a doctor’s office received calls from many different numbers, messages could be left for other agents, and whoever was bugging the line would not be able to determine which calls had to do with escape lines, as long as the caller was faithful to the use of opaque language.

  Ricard took a taxi there and met with the doctor, a graying man in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. He showed Ricard to an unused examination room where a young couple was spending the night. The room was empty; the couple, according to the doctor, had hidden in a closet when they’d heard the tap on the door. Back in his office, the doctor said, “They are following the rules.” In a safe house, agents were never seen. They had to wait, silent and out of sight, until they were sent on to the next safe house on the escape line.

  * * *

  —

  When they’d returned to the office, the doctor said, “It’s hard on them, having to follow the rules. They’re fighting the war, they want their hands on guns and explosives, but once on the escape line, their worst enemy is boredom.”

  “Is there anything you need?” Ricard said.

  “It would be nice to have some books, reading makes the time pass.”

  “Don’t you have a bookshop in Troyes?”

  “We do. Or, rather, we did. The people who own it now are faithful to Vichy, or worse, and they have filled their shelves with fascist tracts and propaganda.”

  “What would you like?” Ricard asked.

  “Escapist literature. Historical novels and detective stories, novels about life at sea, or the Napoleonic Wars, or fantasies. I had a good collection of Saint-Exupéry—Night Flight and The Little Prince and others—but they fell apart, too much reading.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Ricard said.

  * * *

  —

  The next stop on the SHEPHERD escape line was at a beauty shop, the Salon Lolotte, on the Rue Candolle in the town of Orléans. After the telephone protocol, Ricard went to see the safe house, a spare room above the salon. Entering the salon, Ricard found a row of women sitting patiently beneath chrome hair dryers, the whir of their fans loud in the small shop.

  Ricard found Lolotte at work, cutting a woman’s hair. She was, Ricard thought, properly named, Lolotte a nickname for a merry and fun-loving woman. Lolotte herself had carrot-colored hair, was fat and blowzy, red faced, and coarse. Ricard had identified himself by the protocol and asked to see the spare room. He waited while she finished her haircut, then was taken up to the spare room, where two agents were having lunch.

  Back in the shop, Lolotte said, “Well, they keep coming…”

  “Yes, we’re grateful for your help.”

  “You people could be a little more grateful, you know.”

  “Oh yes? What do you mean?”

  “I mean money. That’s what grateful means, mon ami.”

  “Did they offer to pay you, when you started out?”

  “Not a sou. I’m supposed to do this to help fight th
e Germans, but food for your agents, or whatever they are, isn’t free. And I’m putting myself in danger, that’s worth something.”

  “I’ll try to help you, Lolotte,” Ricard said. “I have some money with me and I’ll bring it over later today.” It wasn’t so unusual to help the guardians of safe houses, but Ricard had the feeling he was being blackmailed. Still, he wasn’t going to argue with her.

  “Don’t forget,” she said, sulky and demanding. “All I have to do is drop a word in someone’s ear and, pouf, there goes your safe house and whoever happens to be staying here. I’ve seen some rough types, you can believe that.”

  “I know,” Ricard said. “Some of our agents are former soldiers.”

  “One of ’em had his eye on me, meant to have my pussy. He wasn’t so bad looking, and my husband died years ago, the little bastard, so I figured here’s my new beau, but then he settled on petite Suzette. Mignonne”—cute—“that one, with her sweet little nose and pointy tits. One of my hairdressers. She saw this rough type and looked at him that way and began wagging her little behind. So much for Lolotte!”

  “What happened to her?”

  Lolotte laughed, more like a snicker than a laugh. “Her? She’s long gone, petite Suzette. Well, I had to say something, didn’t I? She was the one who ran the safe house, and when your people didn’t hear from her they sent somebody to see what was going on, and that’s what I told him.”

  “Madame Lolotte, what really happened here?”