by Pirate Irwin
“So if a writer can be dealt with like that, then there is no hiding place for the highest civil servant in Vichy. They will take your life as a means of meting out the sentence they wished to impose on Petain. That is unless you give them a very good reason for not doing so, and I suggest that we work with Gerland on that. What do you think?” asked Lafarge gently.
His father steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and rubbed the tip of his nose, deep in thought.
Lafarge left him to it, rising from his chair and lighting a cigarette paced up and down his half of the room, hoping his father would not fall back on another family trait - stubbornness.
“Okay Gaston I understand your argument and I am touched that you are taking care of your elderly father,” he piped up finally, a trace of a smile flitting across his lips.
“However, look at my position! I no longer have the protection of the Marshal and am imprisoned with the very wolves we fought with throughout our time in power, and they prevailed with the Nazis support.
“We were kept in place because of the Marshal’s standing with the people, but Laval and Bousquet, subsequently Darnand, along with Henriot, Doriot and Deat ran the show. Now I am at their mercy, and there is no such thing as a trial in this prison. Their maxim is like the Musketeers, though they do not have the elan or honour of that quartet, one for all and all for one and I truly believe if I step out of line I will suffer.”
Lafarge winced as his father was obviously being hindered in preparing a proper defence because his mind was distracted as to the consequences he could suffer inside Fresnes.
“What about the guards? They must keep a constant watch on all of you, whether in the cells or when you are eating and exercising,” said Lafarge.
His father laughed.
“The guards, yes in the loosest of terms I would call them that! They’re either elderly or on the make. As you probably know from your job being paid is not a given these days with the state of the finances, and those who have the honey here gain some willing worker bees.
“I wouldn’t trust them, indeed some openly joke with us how the Nazis were more reliable employers and they were paid on time. At least we have our own cell, so I shouldn’t have to worry about my safety once the door is bolted at night, although I am in the one which housed Louis Renault and I believe his family claim he was murdered,” said the colonel, referring to the great industrialist who had been imprisoned ahead of his trial for collaborating but had died in October 1944.
The Chief Inspector sighed and admitted his father was in a tight corner, and he couldn’t really see a way of extricating him from it. There was no way he could get him moved and replacing the guards was out of the question. The only hope was he would be tried after the majority of the other accused, which would ease the threat on his life inside prison although they could inflict serious damage on him if they wished to at their own trials.
However, he feared for what the strain was doing to his father, who may be only 65 but under present conditions, a poor diet, a cold cell and threats from within and without, he looked much older and clearly his health was suffering.
“Listen father I will make sure that the ‘bees’ receive some honey, I would prefer to use my position to threaten them with what would happen if harm comes to you, but these goons wouldn’t flinch.
“The Occupation taught me many things about the depths humans can stoop to, and I have the feeling many haven’t ditched their old habits even after a year of being liberated,” said Lafarge bitterly.
His father expressed his gratitude for the offer of the money and rose from his chair, the meeting clearly to his mind was over. It irritated Lafarge somewhat as he gained the impression that had been his father’s motive for agreeing to see him, protection money for thugs who were being manipulated by men responsible for mass murder and who thought being behind bars did not oblige them to change their ways.
“Hold on father,” said Lafarge.
Pierre Lafarge stopped and turned towards his son.
“I will organize the money so long as you do one thing and that is when you appear in court you throw yourselves at their mercy, beg forgiveness and be contrite,” said Lafarge firmly.
Pierre, former colonel and leading civil servant as well as patriarch of the Lafarge family was not used to taking orders from his son and glared at him.
“If anyone had spoken to me like that in the past and given me such an ultimatum I would have had them either shot or thrown out of the house! Clearly I am not in a position to do either, but I am in charge of how I present myself in court and how I do so is up to me. I thank you for your time but I see no purpose in your paying a further visit,” he said, his tone glacial.
“Be it on your own conscience if you feel you cannot bring the money and something unfortunate happens to me. I have explained clearly why I cannot put forward the line of defence you want. As for showing contrition, well that is certainly not what I am feeling, what we did was for the good of France, sadly some people who joined us corrupted our vision but that is not my fault.”
With that, a fit of pique having provoked him into condemning himself, certainly in his son’s eyes, he exited the room leaving the door ajar and Lafarge in an unenviable position. Delivering the money would ensure his father, who he didn’t recognize from the strict but loving man of his childhood, remained alive but it would only prolong the agony for his stepmother as a death sentence surely awaited him once he was tried.
Chapter Four
A dejected Lafarge returned to his parents apartment on the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, in the smart 7th arrondissement and situated not far from the Eiffel Tower on the left bank, unsure of how much of the conversation he should relay to his mother. He was in a quandary as he didn’t have sufficient funds – liquid in any case although he had some valuable jewels he was intending on keeping and selling at a later date -- to pay off the guards and the only person he knew who had that amount of cash was his mother.
Antoinette was in fact his, and his siblings, stepmother but with their real mother having died in 1916 and Pierre having remarried two years later she had seamlessly slotted in and assumed her role as their mother, though she had done it with a lot of tact and deployed her considerable charm to not antagonize any of them. She was only eight years older than Gaston, a strikingly beautiful 50-year-old with thick brown hair, emerald green eyes, a full sensuous mouth and almost translucent skin, although exile in Germany had aged her.
She had returned with a hacking cough, she had always as long as Gaston had known her been a heavy smoker, and he noticed a liking for alcohol which was getting worryingly excessive.
Not that he could chide her for that given his penchant for cognac and a sixty a day cigarette habit, that was when there was enough real tobacco to be had in the tobacconists. Like nearly everything liberation had not brought a bountiful supply of basic goods to the shops, long queues still formed outside shops, and some things remained elusive except to the very rich.
That term applied not to his father but to Antoinette, who had inherited a fortune from her parents, both had died by 1918, her industrialist father shot dead by a Communist anarchist and her mother succumbed along with over 400,000 of her compatriots to the Spanish Flu pandemic.
She had had a son, Lucien, in a previous marriage, her husband also falling prey to the Spanish flu, and had borne one son to Pierre, Jerome, who had been posted as missing in action having fought for Vichy in North Africa.
Yet another of the infuriatingly all too common power cuts obliged Lafarge to climb the three flights of stairs to the apartment which at least gave him some more time to consider what he should impart to Antoinette.
The maid Beatrice showed him into the drawing room, a large high-ceilinged room featuring two long comfortable sofas and two armchairs while the walls were adorned with a mix of Impressionist paintings, several by Sisley, and more classical fare with a couple by Gericault and one by David. Beatrice said Antoine
tte would be in presently.
Lafarge helped himself to a cognac from the well-stocked drinks cabinet, lit a cigarette and stared out the window, darkness was closing in but there was still enough light to observe the people scurrying home as the temperature descended, some but not many dallied to stop and greet neighbours or friends.
The seventh arrondissement was not a neighbourhood renowned for friendliness, unlike his own near Pere Lachaise. The seventh was the preserve of wealthy middle-aged to elderly inhabitants, and many with a less than creditable story from the Occupation years. Some of the most notorious of the collaborators such as the writer Pierre Drieu la Rochelle and to a lesser degree impresario and actor Sacha Guitry had lived there.
Thinking of Drieu wasn’t pleasant. Not so much because he had killed him but because if he hadn’t stopped off to take care of that piece of business his girlfriend Berenice would probably be alive.
“A centime for your thoughts Gaston!” said Antoinette.
Lafarge turned and saw Antoinette was as usual beautifully presented, her hair pinned behind with a couple of strands deliberately trailing down to the nape of her neck, and dressed in a long pretty floral dress and black tights.
He grinned and gave her the traditional two kisses on the cheeks, admiring the scent of her perfume as he drew away.
“Ah you would need a few hundred francs to gain access to those, Antoinette! There are that many of them and a veritable maze to get in and out of!” he said chuckling, though, there was more than a grain of truth to the statement.
He fixed Antoinette – being so close in age it was ridiculous to call her mother -- a gin and tonic, a rather English drink for an avowed Anglophobe and wife of a former Vichy official, but she was full of contradictions.
She retired to one of the sofas and although she patted the cushion next to her signaling for Lafarge to sit beside her, he preferred to take the armchair adjacent to where she sat.
Lafarge decided to come straight to the point, whilst omitting his father’s determination not to plead for the mercy of the court. That could wait. The immediate concern was his safety within the prison, and whilst he was shocked his father had not changed his attitude towards the round-up of the Jews since another ill-tempered meeting they had had in Vichy, he hoped buying time might prompt him to confront the reality of the situation.
“Funny you should have brought up money, but that is exactly what I have to ask you for,” said Lafarge.
Antoinette asked how much and Lafarge shrugged his shoulders and thinking off the top of his head he suggested an initial 5000 francs and some extra cash so he could buy cartons of cigarettes as well as butter and eggs.
Rationing was still in place, the calories permitted well below what was judged a healthy daily intake, and the police did not possess enough manpower to deal with the black marketeers, who were perhaps the only people not to notice the difference between the Occupation and the Liberation.
For them other people’s privations meant big business, and there were only cursory raids made on the hundreds of gangs. Lafarge didn’t get embroiled in such matters but he knew who the main players were and he would pay one of them a visit to obtain the goods.
Antoinette laughed at the small sum being demanded of her and asked was he sure that would be enough for his purposes and when he said it would be she got up, went over to an elegant Louis XV desk, and retrieved the amount in the new 500 Chateaubriand franc notes, a rather revolting violet and yellow colour.
“There you go. The latest novelty to be introduced since the Liberation, the old Vichy 500 La Paix note replaced, following giving women the vote. I wonder which will last longer!” she said laughing.
“Well you better be careful you vote the right way, or accept the 500 note from the candidate to buy your support,” joked Lafarge.
“With this lot nothing would surprise me,” said Antoinette, bitterness dripping from her tongue.
What might surprise her in the future didn’t matter to Lafarge. He was astonished at her lack of interest in what he needed the money for and told her as much.
A fearful look flashed across her eyes, before being as quickly replaced by her normal poise and confident air. She asked him to fix her and himself another drink, requesting he make it stronger than the first one he had served her.
Once settled again, Lafarge guessed her lack of concern was due to preferring to avoid hearing upsetting news rather than any diminishing feeling for her husband.
However, Lafarge felt it best to be frank with her, if anything ghastly were to happen in the future it would be better to prepare her for it.
“The money Antoinette is because I am concerned the guards are not that worried over father’s well-being and might be malleable to carrying out one of the prisoner’s wishes, who are not well-disposed towards him,” said Lafarge.
Antoinette swallowed deeply, her hand trembling slightly as she took a long gulp of her drink and looked away.
“You don’t need to try and hide the truth from me with pompous language Gaston. What you mean is that he is in danger and Laval and Bousquet want him out of the way,” she said.
Lafarge nodded.
“God haven’t they done enough to us! When I think I had to pay them both a fortune so I could get some of my relatives released because they had been falsely denounced for being Jews! They probably organised the arrests in the first place,” she said furiously.
“Haven’t they learnt their lesson, shouldn’t they be tired of the bloodshed? What will Pierre’s death do to help their cases? You would have thought their time would be better spent concentrating on their own defence than worrying about an elderly man.”
“I quite agree Antoinette and I am sure it is nothing. He is probably misreading the situation and interpreting things that are said in the wrong way, but that can happen when one is spending the majority of ones time in a cell. Too much time to think,” said Lafarge seeking to give her some reassurance.
Antoinette didn’t look convinced.
“Besides as you say they should be focusing on their own predicament. In that vein the good news is Laval’s trial begins tomorrow so he will be pre-occupied,” said Lafarge.
“Mind you I don’t think anyone will be taking bets on what the verdict will be. Laval won’t be benefiting from sympathy for his age or his past achievements like the Marshal did.”
Antoinette smiled at the likelihood of Laval, Time’s Man of the Year in 1931 when he was a left wing politician before he made the opportunistic transition to the right and openly wished for a German victory, being brought to account for his crimes.
“One hopes he won’t settle old scores before he is executed, however, even when he’s gone there will still be Bousquet to worry about,” she said wistfully.
Lafarge liked to hope too that would be the case, but he doubted it from what he had heard from his father that Laval would let things slide. Indeed it sounded as if Laval had also given up the ghost on his chances of saving his neck at the trial and had been spending more time on intimidating Pierre Lafarge and others inside Fresnes.
Antoinette was right too because even when Laval went Bousquet would still be alive and seeking vengeance on those he considered hadn’t helped his mentor.
Lafarge also knew that he might have to call on Antoinette for more funds, for keeping his father alive could descend into a bidding war, and Bousquet’s pockets were deep. Ironic he thought that money his mother had paid to him could end up being used to pay for the murder of his father.
“Well look let’s see how this money goes down along with the goods I will also deliver. I will let you know. If I am not completely happy I could try and get some guards moved,” he said.
“However, there understandably not being a lot of sympathy for the inmates, in the higher political echelons that is, that could take time to achieve. The other alternative is I find a go-between to visit Bousquet to try and gauge if there really is a genuine threat to father and if ther
e is, to dissuade him from going through with it.”
Antoinette smiled but her eyes were sad and thanked him for trying so hard for his father and in trying to reassure her.
“Now, do you think a visit from yourself might help boost his morale too and perhaps serve as a distraction from his fears, founded or unfounded as they are?” asked Lafarge as he fixed them a third drink.
Lafarge had understood Antoinette’s reluctance initially to visit his father, as whilst the flat remained in their possession she had had to come to terms with the shame and disgrace and suddenly being ignored by those she had considered friends when Vichy looked like emerging victorious thanks to Nazi battlefield victories.
However, it had been four months now since he had been incarcerated and she had yet to put a foot inside Fresnes.
She grimaced at his suggestion. He had wanted to put it more bluntly than that but knew she would take offence although he regretted now not being more aggressive.
Antoinette would be less confrontational – his father and he were bound to clash again over their divergent opinions on the measures taken against the Jews -- and avoid delicate topics. She was less concerned with his line of defence than Lafarge, and would chat about the past, well the better parts of it at least.
“I’m not so sure I can Gaston, Sigmaringen was like a prison, in fact the food, of which there wasn’t much, was worse from what I hear. I got this bloody cough from there, it was so darn cold! But it’s left more of a mark than that,” she said.
“True we weren’t locked up in cells but there was little freedom of movement and whilst in principle the guards were there to look after our safety, they seemed keener to keep an eye on us and cocked their rifles every time we tried to leave the place. It was very intimidating.
“There were some distractions there, female company at least and a ready supply of books so one could avoid the day to day bickering and blame game going on among the Vichy paladins,” she sneered.
