The Paris Collaborator

by A. W. Hammond

TWENTY-THREE

  Duchene sat between Armand and Casin as the engine of the small truck rattled to life. They waited and watched until Philippe appeared, Jean behind him with an arm around Marienne, who was now dressed. They got in the black Citroën and started their engine.

  Armand took the truck out into the street and pulled up alongside them.

  ‘Be smart, stay safe,’ said Philippe.

  Armand nodded.

  Duchene watched the car drive off down the street. He could see Marienne’s face in the back window, staring towards him; she was probably fighting the same grim thoughts as he was.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Armand asked Duchene.

  ‘Thirteenth. Fifty-four Rue du Château-des-Rentiers.’

  Casin picked up a map from the cabin floor and folded it to the relevant arrondissement.

  The sun had long since passed its zenith, and the silent streets of the morning were no more. Activity was commencing, furtive but dedicated. In the Place des Ternes, women, children and men were pulling up cobblestones and adding them to the beginnings of a barricade. At its centre was a park bench that had been dragged into the street and onto which two young men were placing a tree grille.

  The further they drove the more makeshift defences they saw. A burnt-out Fiat reinforced with a street urinal. Kiosks carefully stripped, their wares shared out before they were deposited at strong points throughout the city.

  ‘A tank will go straight through that,’ said Casin as they passed a group of men sharing cigarettes on top of a downed tree reinforced with boards and stones.

  ‘A tank will go through most things.’ Armand’s eyes were fixed on the road as he navigated around the barricades and slowed for pedestrians wandering in front of the truck. ‘Except another tank. That’s what we need to work towards. Like in the nursery rhyme – a fly, then a spider, then a bird …’

  Casin shook his head. ‘They’ve hardly got anything. Just one rifle between them.’

  Deeper into the city, tricolour flags were being raised where once they had been forbidden: hospitals, schools, government buildings. And still no Germans.

  ‘They’re planning something,’ Casin said. ‘They have to be.’

  ‘If you want to stay clear of Germans, you should cross before or after the Île de la Cité,’ Duchene said. ‘Our police have fortified their headquarters there. You can guarantee that’s where the Germans will be headed.’

  Armand opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and nodded.

  They followed the Seine before crossing at the Pont de Tolbiac. Armand paused the truck in the centre of the bridge, and Casin took out a pair of binoculars. He climbed on the roof of the truck.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Armand.

  ‘Not really,’ said Casin. ‘I can see smoke.’

  ‘That’s who we should be liberating,’ said Armand. ‘Thousands of police could all be fighting alongside us. That’s the way to force out the Germans.’ He hit the roof of the cabin, and Casin slid back in through the open window.

  ***

  After an hour of traversing the streets, they found themselves on Rue du Château-des-Rentiers. Casin scanned the street numbers, calling out as the truck neared a small public park and children’s playground. Directly opposite was fifty-four, a townhouse.

  The road was blocked by a barricade made up of play equipment and trees from the park. A crowd had gathered, watching as a group of men hauled a tree grill and an empty oil drum to bolster the barricade. A few older children were playing on it while two toddlers were being soothed by their mother on the roadside.

  Armand parked the truck, and the three men got out. The locals stared at them – unfamiliar people arriving in an unmarked vehicle when civilian automobiles of any kind were a rarity.

  Duchene walked with Armand and Casin to number fifty-four, and Casin swung the knocker. It echoed in the hallway beyond it.

  ‘Pray he’s at home,’ Armand said, looking at Duchene.

  Casin knocked louder and held his ear to the door. ‘Silence,’ he said.

  The mother was watching them. Duchene straightened his tie and walked over to her. Her face soured as he approached, and the toddlers buried their faces in her skirts. He’d removed his jacket, but blood was spattered on his collar and shirt.

  ‘I know, Madame, I look a state.’ He tapped the gauze on his head. ‘Fighting Germans. It’s not always pretty.’

  ‘You’re with the Resistance?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. These are my companions, Armand and Casin. We’re hoping you can help us. Do you know where Monsieur Manaudou … where Olivier is? He’s got some important supplies for us.’

  She nodded and pointed at a young man in glasses, who was carrying the board from a seesaw across from the park to the barricade.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Armand and Casin rushed over to Olivier and took the weight of the seesaw from him. He was tanned, dressed in a herringbone waistcoat and mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

  His glasses framed dark-green eyes that narrowed as Duchene approached him with an open hand. ‘Monsieur Manaudou?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We need your help. It’s quite urgent. May we talk inside?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘We’re friends of Lucien’s. We have some things we’d like to discuss.’

  ‘I’m happy to discuss them out here.’

  Armand and Casin tossed the seesaw onto the barricade and started to make their way over.

  ‘I really think we should talk inside,’ said Duchene. ‘It’s to do with another colleague of Lucien’s – a friend of yours, perhaps? His first name is Christian.’

  The colour dropped from Olivier’s long face.

  Duchene whispered to him. ‘If Kloke is inside, say nothing. These men want to know about the guns he stole. If you have them, give them to us and say that the German has fled. I’ll do what I can to protect you. Understand?’

  Olivier nodded.

  Armand and Casin joined them.

  ‘Please lead on,’ Duchene said and pointed to the door.

  As they stepped into Olivier’s house, Duchene listened for movement. A narrow corridor passed a staircase that led to the upper levels. Beyond this, he could see the kitchen and a window that looked into the back garden.

  Build trust. And fast.

  ‘Please,’ he said to Olivier, ‘here is good.’ He pointed to the left of the main entrance, at a doorway that revealed a small sitting room.

  ‘Check the house,’ Armand said to Casin.

  ‘Perhaps we don’t need to just yet,’ said Duchene.

  ‘If there’s a Boche waiting to surprise us with a machine gun, I want to know about it.’

  Duchene smiled. ‘If there’s a Boche waiting to surprise us with a machine gun, there’s not much we can do about it. He will have the element of surprise. We need to negotiate our way through this. I’m sure Olivier is ready and willing to help us.’

  ‘I am,’ he said, removing his spectacles and rubbing them with the corner of his handkerchief.

  ‘You see?’ Duchene said to Armand. ‘Perhaps Casin could watch the corridor and you the street.’

  This seemed to satisfy the maquisard, at least for the moment. He drew his revolver and took up a place by the window, looking through its lattice blinds.

  Duchene sat in a wing chair adjacent to Olivier while Casin stood by the wall, staring back down the hallway. He pulled the slide on the Luger.

  Olivier shook his head. The blood had rushed from his face and his hands were shaking. Even so, he managed keep his voice calm. ‘Are you here to kill me?’

  ‘We’re absolutely not about to do that,’ Duchene said.

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ said Armand. ‘He’s a collaborator.’

  ‘Le
t’s save the ammunition for the Germans.’ Duchene nodded at Olivier. His jaw was starting to tire from forcing a benign expression onto his face. His shoulders were stiff, and he caught his hands digging into his legs. The fact was, nothing about him suggested he was relaxed or trustworthy.

  Play it out. Build rapport.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what we know, and you can fill in the rest.’

  Olivier nodded.

  ‘You had been using the services of Lucien Martin to buy from the black market, to trade for supplies. Nothing strange about that.’

  ‘Is that true?’ said Casin, looking over.

  ‘It is. Was.’

  ‘You also met Christian. Became friends – more than friends, lovers …’

  Olivier nodded.

  ‘Again. Nothing wrong with that.’

  Armand hissed.

  ‘You introduced Lucien and Kloke, perhaps during a delivery one day. They hit it off – recognised something of themselves in each other. Is that true?’

  Olivier nodded again.

  ‘Now, this is the important part. Did you know anything about any schemes they hatched together?’

  ‘They had a few.’

  ‘Do you know they planned to steal a cache of weapons from a church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you know what happened to the priest, Father Ramelle?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, I’m afraid I do.’ Olivier put his face in his hands. ‘It’s been like a pressure inside my chest. I knew something bad had happened. At first Christian wouldn’t say what it was, but I wouldn’t give him peace until he told me.’

  ‘He killed Ramelle?’

  Olivier rubbed his eyes. ‘Yes. I don’t think he meant to. They were surprised. No one was meant to be there during Mass.’

  ‘This is very important,’ said Duchene. ‘What did they do with the body?’

  ‘Bullshit that’s important,’ said Armand. ‘Where are the guns?’

  Duchene held up a hand. ‘Do you know?’

  ‘Where are the guns, fucker?’ Armand said, stepping away from the window and raising his revolver towards Olivier.

  Flinching, the younger man raised his knees up and shielded his face with his hands. ‘Please! I don’t know. Christian never told me.’

  ‘Where’s Christian?’ Armand said, slapping Olivier’s hands from his face and pointing the gun at the middle of his forehead.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a week. Not since Thursday.’

  Armand pulled the gun from Olivier’s face. He bent forward and howled as though the earth would open up beneath him and his anger would draw out the missing weapons.

  Duchene closed his eyes.

  ‘Old man,’ Armand shouted at him, ‘you have wasted the last of our time. Where’s the telephone?’

  ‘Wait, please,’ Duchene said, trying to control the desperation in his voice. He turned back to Olivier. ‘Is there any chance, any chance at all, that Christian hid the guns in your house – under the stairs, in a cellar, the attic?’ With his eyes, Duchene tried to make Olivier realise that every extra minute was critical to their chances of survival.

  Olivier seemed to understand. ‘Maybe … maybe under the stairs? Or in the potting shed out the back?’

  ‘Casin,’ Armand said. ‘Check them.’ The maquisard started to pace, periodically looking out the window. ‘Philippe was wrong to trust you.’

  ‘We were all wrong to put any faith in Lucien. He knew the truth the entire time. I just assumed he was furtive because he felt guilty for dragging me into this. And he was guilty for having robbed you – afraid I might discover the truth.’

  Armand snorted. ‘There was never any risk of that. Pathetic.’ He pulled back the curtain.

  The crowd on the street were cheering. A young woman in shorts, a blouse and a French Forces of the Interior armband cycled at speed down the road. She threw pamphlets from a sling bag and shouted a call to arms. The crowd clambered to the barricade as she rode by. Women hugged children, and men shook hands.

  And then, in an instant, they stopped.

  Duchene could see very little through the window. He didn’t need to.

  First the light fittings rattled, dropping dust and dead insects. Then the ground trembled as the rumbling – steel on stone – became louder.

  The crowd scrambled down from the barricade, shouting and pushing their way between bent iron and splintered wood.

  ‘Casin!’ Armand called.

  From the street came the staccato crack of three shots.

  The crowd rushed for the doors of their houses and struggled with keys as they hurried to get inside.

  The sound of boots now, moving out from behind the protection of the tanks. Jogging up the street.

  ‘Casin!’ Armand rushed over to look down the corridor. ‘Do you have them?’

  Duchene leant in towards Olivier. ‘If you want to live, you need to run. Now. With me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The back. Away from the Germans.’

  Duchene couldn’t be sure if Olivier’s grimace was an acknowl­edgement.

  And he didn’t have time to check – Casin had arrived at the living-room door. ‘Germans. Armoured platoon. Four tanks.’

  ‘You don’t want to shoot,’ Duchene said. ‘That’ll draw them in here.’

  ‘I can kill a man in silence,’ Armand said as he moved back to the window and made a sideways motion with his head.

  Casin followed. ‘They’re gathering at the other end of the street.’

  ‘Do they know we’re here?’ Armand asked.

  Duchene let out a slow breath as he reached over to the fireplace. Olivier watched, his body seized in tension. Duchene took hold of the wrought-iron poker and nodded. Olivier sat still. Duchene made his eyes wide and nodded again. The other man didn’t move.

  Duchene stood up and swung the poker, keeping hold of its handle.

  It passed between Casin and Armand, shattering the window and punching through into the street. Glass cascaded onto the footpath and smashed into smaller shards.

  Armand and Casin stared, dumbstruck, at Duchene, their bodies seemingly incapable of movement.

  ‘In here! Hurry!’ Duchene shouted in German as he swung the poker back from the window.

  Casin went white. Armand red.

  Duchene’s mind raced faster than his arm could move. He tried to spur it forward, increase its speed by thinking harder. He was swinging down; Armand was drawing his revolver up.

  Milliseconds. Vital moments. His life held in the tick of a second hand.

  The poker hit.

  The revolver fired.

  The men stared at each other as Duchene scrambled to piece together the aftermath. He had tried to hit the revolver but smashed Armand’s hand instead. The partisan’s wrist was bent like the neck of a swan. The gun was facing the ground, a cloud of wool still rising from a hole in the rug.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Duchene, and Olivier leapt from the wing chair and ran to the door.

  On the street, the Germans were shouting.

  Armand raised the gun again, his face contorting when his fingers refused to move. His smashed wrist swelled as fluids gathered at the point of the break.

  Casin was frozen.

  Duchene ran.

  In the corridor, he could hear a German barking orders outside. ‘That house. Firing position.’

  Duchene pulled the living-room door shut. He swung the poker at the handle, smashing it off the door, then used the tip of the poker to push the handle mechanism through the other side. He hoped it would slow down their pursuers.

  Turning, he ran after Olivier, back down the house and through a well-stocked kitchen. Olivier was in the small paved garden, already pulling at the back gate, struggling with a la
tch that was stuck from disuse.

  Duchene could hear gunfire as he caught up. ‘Quickly,’ he said, hoping a façade of calm would inspire the younger man into successful action.

  ‘They’ll come after us?’

  ‘If they have any sense, they’ll leave through the same exit. Let’s not be here when they do.’ Reaching up to the top of the gate, Duchene pulled; the wood shrieked, but the gate didn’t open. ‘Together this time,’ he said.

  Olivier tugged on the latch as Duchene yanked again. The gate burst open, and pain rushed through his shoulder. He held Olivier back from fleeing as he stuck his head out into the narrow lane behind the house. No Germans.

  He could hear a hammering and splintering as wood cracked in the house behind him. Front door or back door? Neither would be good news.

  ‘Show me how to get out of here, away from Château-des-Rentiers.’

  Olivier nodded, and Duchene followed him. His heart was pounding as he struggled to keep up. Olivier skidded around corners, hurling himself forward without caution. At each turn, Duchene was certain they’d come face to face with Germans.

  ‘Olivier!’ he called, increasing his speed to get close enough to talk. His chest felt that it might burst; the air in his lungs burnt. ‘A … phone … where?’

  Olivier looked at the nearest street sign. Paused. Took his bearings. ‘One block over. Opposite the square.’

  Duchene nodded. Moved to wipe his hand across his brow and realised he was still holding the poker. He handed it to Olivier. ‘Thank you. Do you have somewhere safe to go?’

  The younger man nodded.

  Duchene placed a hand on his arm. ‘Sorry about all of this.’

  Olivier stared at him. Turned. And ran.

  Counting every second, Duchene pushed himself forward. Armand would find a phone – would call Philippe. Duchene had to call first. Explain what had happened. Sow doubt. Beg. Anything to keep that bullet from Marienne.

  As he reached the phone booth, the streets were empty. The sound of gunfire had only just stopped echoing around the neighbourhood. He pulled the door open, fought to regain his breath and dialled his apartment building.

  The phone kept ringing, so he tried again.

  There was no answer.