by Kate Mosse
Swarms of children were running up and down the paths below the old city walls of the Bastide. Two little girls of seven or eight were playing cache-cache, until the mother of one of them appeared, smacked the child on the back of her legs and dragged her away. The march shuffled past the Jardin des Tilleuls, where the Foire aux Vins was held each November. On a normal day, she thought, the old veteran might be sitting with his comrades beneath the trees in his dark suit and beret. Today the benches were empty.
On the far side of the road, Sandrine caught sight of Max and Lucie, standing with Max’s sister, Liesl. She had pale skin and wide brown eyes and wore her black hair long to the shoulder, not waved or pinned up.
‘Liesl’s rather beautiful, isn’t she?’ Sandrine said to Marianne.
‘Very.’
Lucie was wearing the same dress she’d had on at the river. She looked bright and eye-catching, as if she was going to a fair. She waved and they pushed through the sea of people to join them. Lucie kissed them both. Max, formal as always in a sombre black suit, lifted his hat. Liesl gave a quick smile but said nothing.
Then Sandrine noticed Marianne’s friend, Suzanne Peyre, Thierry’s cousin. At nearly six foot tall and with cropped hair, she was very distinctive, towering head and shoulders above everyone else.
‘There’s Suzanne over there,’ she said.
Sandrine tried to move forward, but she found her way blocked by Monsieur Fournier, their unpleasant next-door neighbour’s equally unpleasant brother. Sandrine disliked him, not least because he always stood too close. She wondered why he’d come. He made no secret of his support for Pétain, and his outspoken opinions about ‘the Jew conspiracy’, as he called it, were well known.
‘Mademoiselle Vidal,’ he said.
‘Monsieur Fournier.’
‘I’m surprised your sister allowed you to come.’
Sandrine forced herself to smile. ‘You’re here, Monsieur Fournier.’
‘What would your father have said?’ he said, taking a step closer. Sandrine tried to move back, but the crowds were too dense and they were being pressed together in the crush. She could feel his sour breath, ripe with tobacco, on her cheek. ‘Then again, he was another Jew lover, wasn’t he?’ he said. ‘Like Ménard’s girl over there.’
Sandrine was shocked by the blatancy of it all. Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say to defend either her father or Lucie.
‘Problem?’
Somehow Suzanne had picked her way through the crowd and was now standing between her and Fournier.
‘Not really,’ Sandrine said.
‘My friend doesn’t want to talk to you,’ Suzanne said, turning to him, ‘so if you don’t mind?’
‘I’ll talk to whoever I like, éspèce de gouine.’
Fournier’s hand flashed out to grab Suzanne’s elbow, but she batted it away and put her own hand up to warn him not to touch her again.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, taking Sandrine’s arm. ‘Bad smell around here.’
‘Sale pute,’ Fournier hissed.
As Suzanne steered her back through the crowd, Sandrine couldn’t help herself turning round. Fournier was still looking after them with hate-filled eyes.
‘Don’t let him get to you,’ Suzanne said. ‘Not worth it.’
‘No. No, I won’t,’ she said, but she felt shaken all the same.
Some cafés were closed, but most on this section of boulevard Barbès had put out flags and bunting and banners. The Café du Nord was packed, people spilling out from the pavements into the road. The reason soon became clear. A display board was offering, at the price of only one franc, a special cocktail, ‘la blanquette des Forces Françaises Libres’. There were huddles of men standing around high bar tables set out on the street. Even though it was only just after eight o’clock in the morning, demand was already outstripping supply.
The house band from the Hôtel Terminus had set up on the terrace. The sheets of music, held in place by wooden pegs on the music stands, fluttered in the Tramontana breeze. Trumpet, horn, euphonium, brass glinting in the early sunshine, banjo, clarinet and drum, the accordionists apart from the others. The men wore black button-up uniforms and képi caps with their insignia on the brow.
Sandrine noticed an army of journalists and newspapermen camped on the opposite side of the street. Photographers with cameras and tripods jostled one another to get the best spot – first-floor balconies, the narrow perch of a wall. A reporter from La Dépêche was stopping people, asking why they had come, while a colleague snapped away.
‘Hey, girl with the white belt. Over here!’
Sandrine turned round, in time to be caught as the flash went off. Quickly she dropped her head and hurried to catch up with Suzanne.
‘Be in tomorrow’s paper,’ the journalist called after her.
‘We wondered where you had got to,’ said Marianne.
‘A photographer just took my picture.’
‘Sandrine!’
‘It’s all right, he didn’t get a proper shot. Although what’s the point in coming if we’re not prepared to be seen?’ She looked around. ‘They can hardly arrest all of us, there must be three thousand people here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘In fact, I’ve a good mind to go back and give him my name.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Marianne said. ‘No.’
Then someone started to shout. They all looked up. Sandrine felt nerves fluttering in the pit of her stomach and she reached for Marianne’s hand. For a moment there was no response, then a quick squeeze and their fingers intertwined.
‘They’re here,’ Marianne said. ‘Someone’s about to speak.’
Chapter 25
Raoul moved through the crowd, aware of César to his right and Gaston Bonnet somewhere up ahead. In the crush, he’d lost track of Laval and Robert Bonnet, and there was no sign of Coursan at all. He pressed leaflets into people’s hands and shopping baskets. So far, it had gone well. People were reading them, looking at the photographs. Raoul slid one under a door, another beneath the windscreen wiper of a delivery truck parked at the bottom of boulevard Barbès. People would see the leaflet and start to understand what was really going on. Understand that the newspapers were all propaganda and lies.
His eyes darted from side to side to side, occasionally recognising a comrade, greeting one another by a glance or a slight nod of the head. There was a strong visible police presence, though they were clearly under instruction not to intervene or prevent the demonstration from marching. The plain-clothes men were harder to spot, though he did recognise Fournier, a well-known local collabo. Despite the carnival atmosphere, Raoul knew the crowd was thick with collaborators, police informers, with Deuxième Bureau.
Close to the Place des Armes, there were a couple of newspapermen with cameras. Raoul turned his face away and crossed to the opposite side of the street. Then there was an outbreak of applause up ahead and he stopped and looked towards the monument, like everyone else.
The crowd surged forward, then again. Through the forest of arms and shoulders and backs, Sandrine could just make out the clutch of men standing in front of the empty plinth. She recognised Henri Gout, the former socialist deputy of the Aude. Each carried a green wreath. Bons homes, that was what Marieta had called them. Good men.
‘Who’s that with Docteur Gout?’ she asked.
‘Senator Bruguier,’ replied Suzanne. ‘A member of the Socialist Party before the war. He refused to support Pétain’s dissolution of the constitution. Voted against the proposals. Like Docteur Gout, he’s been relieved of his duties.’
Through a crackling loudhailer, Sandrine could hear Gout’s voice, then another man, then another. She couldn’t make out what any of them were saying, but the sentiment was clear. An outburst of applause, then another man, shouting and fierce, stirring up the crowd.
‘Quite something,’ said Suzanne.
‘Wonderful.’
Suzanne looked at her. ‘That clown earlier didn�
�t upset you too much?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? People like him.’
‘What happened earlier?’ Marianne said, raising her voice to be heard over the noise.
‘Fournier.’
Sandrine saw a flash of disgust in Marianne’s eyes. Then up ahead, there was a crescendo of applause and they all turned to look.
‘France libre,’ someone shouted. ‘France libre. Vive la France.’
Another outbreak of clapping, hand against hand against hand, growing louder. Cheering and yelling, the sound reverberating off the high stone walls of the old Bastion du Calvaire, the cathédrale Saint-Michel, the façade of the Caserne Laperrine on the far side of the Place des Armes.
‘De Gaulle, de Gaulle, de Gaulle.’
The chanting grew stronger, braver.
‘France libre, France libre.’
Sandrine’s heart was pounding. All around her she felt the spirit of those courageous men and women who, in the past, had stood as she did now in the streets of Carcassonne, and who would do so again in the future. Voices raised in protest.
Then, above the noise, a woman began to sing.
‘Allons, enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé . . .’
Her voice floated above the crowd, a simple soprano line, as the words of ‘La Marseillaise’ filled the air. One by one, people joined in. Tainted by its adoption by Vichy, on this forbidden Bastille Day the anthem was being reclaimed by the daughters and sons of the Midi. Holding her sister’s hand on one side and Suzanne’s on the other, Sandrine joined in the final words of the song.
‘Marchons, marchons, qu’un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!’
Applause, again. Another song began, the notes rippling like a wave through the crowd.
This time, the words caught in her throat. Sandrine was suddenly overwhelmed by affection for this band of women – Marianne and Suzanne, Lucie and Liesl, other friends and neighbours elsewhere in the crowd. And she knew that, whatever happened in the future, she would always remember this day. Standing together beneath the endless blue of the Midi singing for peace. For freedom.
‘Vive la France,’ she cried, punching the air with her fist. ‘Vive Carcassonne!’
Raoul had not intended to be drawn in, but the simple innocence of the crowd, the shouting and the singing, car horns beeping, touched him. He realised he was smiling. Bruno would have loved it. Been proud to be a part of it. The true Midi standing up for what they believed in. The pavements were five, six people deep, so Raoul climbed on to the base of a street lamp to get a better look. Now he could make out the distinctive features of Henri Gout. Could hear his rallying cry. His call for the crowd to fight for France, to resist the occupation of the North, to disregard Vichy. Raoul stuffed the remaining leaflets he was holding into his jacket pocket, moved by the emotion of it all. He pushed on where the crowds were densest and climbed up on to a low wall.
‘Vive le Midi!’ The shout went up for the last time.
The band on the terrace of the Café du Nord struck up again, playing louder, faster, wilder, like a tarantella, notes spiralling, twisting in the air, as when dancers lose their footing at the Fête de l’ne. Hats were being thrown in the air. Bellowing, shouting, berets and workers’ caps and bonnets of straw and felt. Carcassonne in glorious colours. Around Raoul, the crowd on the boulevard Barbès, the Places des Armes, in the tiny side streets. Matrons and maîtres, men and women of all classes, all ages, united in the moment. Flags and placards, banners.
A woman’s straw hat suddenly flew in front of his eyes, nearly hitting him in the face. Raoul instinctively flung out his hand to catch it.
Then all sound fell away, all he could hear was the beating of the blood in his veins. He took in the elegant woman in a navy blue dress, her very tall friend with cropped hair and the bottle blonde, all standing beside a girl in a green dress with a white belt. Wild black curls.
That girl.
Now she was turning around, reaching up to take the hat from his hand. A crack of light entered Raoul’s numb heart.
Her eyes widened, as if she was trying to remember how or why she knew him.
‘Merci infiniment,’ she said politely.
He climbed down and handed her the hat. She took it, held his gaze a moment longer. Then turned away. Raoul saw her whisper something to the woman in blue, who then turned round to look at him too. Sisters? She was older, pale, with soft brown hair, but they had similar features.
Raoul didn’t dare speak, for fear his voice would betray him. He had found her. Or, rather, Carcassonne had given her up.
The girl turned round again and now was staring directly at him, cautious but curious too.
Raoul was about to smile, about to try to speak, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of four thugs step forward and grab a man whose arm was raised in the communist salute. He was pushed to the ground. Someone screamed.
The mood of the day immediately changed, tightened, sharpened. A second man started to run, going against the tide of people. One of the officers hit him across the throat, and he fell. A woman shouted. Panic started to spread through the crowd. Then, the sound of glass breaking and tables being kicked over, chairs.
‘I’m glad you’re all right,’ he said, allowing himself to touch her briefly on the arm. ‘Very glad.’
‘It’s you,’ Sandrine said.
But Raoul had already turned on his heel and charged towards the café.
Chapter 26
Sandrine felt a swooping sensation, as if she was up high and looking down on herself from a great height.
‘Max has already gone ahead with Lucie and Liesl,’ Marianne was saying. ‘I think we should follow them.’
She stood stock still, watching him go.
‘Sandrine, come on,’ said Marianne impatiently.
She didn’t move. ‘It was him,’ she said, in a dazed voice.
‘What, who?’
‘The boy who gave me my hat back. It was him. From the river.’
Marianne stared at her. ‘But you said you didn’t see his face properly.’
‘I didn’t, not really.’
‘Well, how do you know it was him? Did he say?’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘He just said he was glad I was all right. But when I heard his voice, I was certain. It was him.’
There was another shout, then the shriek of a police siren. Marianne and Sandrine found themselves being pushed forward in the surge of the crowd.
Marianne grabbed her hand. ‘We must get away from here, come on.’
Raoul ran to join César, who was standing outside the Café du Nord. All around on the terrace, tables and chairs were scattered, lying on their sides.
‘What happened?’ Raoul demanded, trying to concentrate on César, not think about the girl.
‘As soon as Gout and the others had gone, the flics moved in. Arrested someone. They’d obviously been watching him.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Ex-International Brigade, working with the Narbonne Resistance now.’
Raoul looked around. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Gaston and Robert were by the Place de l’Armistice earlier.’
‘And Laval?’
‘Saw him up by the Bastion du Calvaire about half an hour ago.’
‘With Coursan?’
‘Haven’t seen him at all. You?’
Raoul shook his head. ‘Keep looking. Make sure no one else is taken.’
‘Fine,’ said César.
Raoul continued up the boulevard Barbès. Most ordinary people, rattled by the altercation, were heading back into the safety of the maze of streets behind the Place des Armes. He caught another glimpse of Fournier, this time with a couple of men he recognised as members of the Fascist LVF.
He stepped back into the shadow of the building.
Then he saw Sylvère Laval was with them. At first, Raoul thought he’d been arrested, but as he watched, Laval
pointed to a man in the crowd and spoke.
‘That one, him.’
Immediately, the police reacted.
‘Attention, arrêtez,’ one of the officers yelled.
The target began to run, darting sideways, trying to find a path through the frightened men and women in his way, attempting to escape.
‘Arrêtez!’ the officer repeated. ‘Stop!’
The partisan desperately pushed forward, launching himself into the sea of arms and legs. Someone fired into the air. A moment of silence, then people began to flee. Some dived for cover, others started running. Their quarry stopped. Slowly, he turned and put his hands above his head. Raoul saluted his bravery. There were women and children, old men who might get shot if he didn’t give himself up.
The police were on him in a second, throwing him to the ground and cuffing his hands behind his back. Then hauling him to his feet and marching him towards a dark prison van parked beside the trees below the walls of the Bastion du Calvaire. As he was marched past the group, the partisan spat in Fournier’s face.
Raoul leant against the wall for a second, his mind racing. Laval and Fournier. Undercover, working with the police, a trap. His thoughts tumbling one over the other in his mind.
He doubled back to where he’d last seen César. No sign of him. He skirted round the periphery of the dwindling crowd, watching all the time. He couldn’t see any of the others. Then he caught sight of Laval again, now standing in front of the Garden of Remembrance by the cathédrale Saint-Michel. He was holding something in his hand.
Raoul watched as Laval bent down, then immediately stepped back into the sheltered west door of the cathedral. As if taking cover.
