by Leon Uris
“I can’t stand another one.”
“This one you’ll stand.”
The champagne came as André was recounting his life as a member of the Spahis. They lifted their glasses. He looked over the terrace and came to his feet. “Nicole,” he whispered. “Nicole!”
“André!”
8
ANDRÉ WAS SO FILLED with the weary glow of love-making he was oblivious to the chatter of Jacques and Robert as they ascended the hill to the Villa Capucines, residence and office of General Pierre La Croix. The nearby Fromentin Heights held the girls’ college, now the seat of the Free French Government.
When they entered the modest villa, one could sense the almost consecrated air of people moving about with silent urgency.
Jacques and Robert paced the outer office, alternately coming back to André to whisper suggestions as the nervous parade continued in and out of the General’s sanctum. Then booming through the thin walls came the voice of Pierre La Croix!
“The dirty sons of bitches! Inform those bastards they’ll do what is expected of them or I’ll have their balls.”
And thus, without formal introduction, André was to meet Pierre La Croix.
The voice within continued in the same lusty barracksroom vernacular, so bawdy that even Jacques Granville blushed.
“He expresses himself rather colorfully,” Robert understated.
The recipients of La Croix’s outburst fled the Office. One was pale, the other crimson.
André’s palms felt damp and his mouth dried as they were summoned in.
Pierre La Croix, the maverick of the French military, sat ramrod-straight in an ornate mahogany chair before a paper-littered baroque desk. The Cross of Lorraine on a tricolor hung on the wall behind him. He neither stood nor smiled nor gave greeting as the three advanced to his desk and came to attention.
La Croix squinted at André through nearsighted eyes.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said in the manner of a king granting audience. A secretary quickly set André’s dossier before him. He scanned it for a brief moment and looked up.
“What do you have to say, Devereaux?”
“I am devoted to the cause of Fighting France. I have come a long way and I intend to prove myself.”
“France expects nothing less than this devotion,” he said. “I am assigning you to my intelligence staff. Proust here will acquaint you with your work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“France welcomes you. That is all, gentlemen.”
Outside the villa they caught their bearings as Robert pumped André’s hand long and hard.
“Well? What do you think of him?” Jacques asked.
“I’ve never seen a man like that.”
“He is France,” Jacques answered simply.
André shared an office with Robert Proust in a villa on Rue Edouard Cat, plunging into his mission and living up to the demands of the General. He proved himself so at home in intelligence matters that he was advanced rapidly to the special title of “Charge of Mission” and became one of the General’s personal advisers.
Still in his early twenties, André Devereaux was immersed in the struggle of Free France, never ceasing to marvel at Pierre La Croix, who was capable of irritating his major allies as though he had fifty divisions of troops at his command instead of a handful of regiments.
But André’s admiration was not total, as was Robert’s and Jacques’. It was tempered with the fear that if one day La Croix came to rule, his strong-man traits could become undemocratic. Furthermore, his drive for power was a mania that could be channeled effectively by the less scrupulous of his staff.
With access to top-secret documents, André was able to trace La Croix’s struggle and the wizardry he had performed in the name of France.
Free France had been shut out of all the top-level decisions in military and political planning by the Anglo-Americans. Innumerable documents seemed to bear out La Croix’s fear that the British aspired to replace France as the dominant power in several areas of the Middle East that had traditionally been in the French sphere.
In the early stages of the war, Churchill continued to bow to Roosevelt’s pressure by not arming or allowing the Free French to fight in Allied campaigns. Finally, La Croix made the blunt threat to send a division of Frenchmen to fight alongside the Russians against Germany on the Eastern Front. Only then was La Croix able to increase his military role.
His most painful affront came when the proud Frenchman was invited to Casablanca by the American President. La Croix and his staff were greeted coolly in Casablanca, without military honors. In this, a French possession, they were billeted inside barbed-wire compounds under the guard of armed American soldiers. The American President bluntly warned La Croix to place his forces under the supreme command of Admiral de St. Amertin.
But even with American backing, Admiral de St. Amertin was no match for the brazen Pierre La Croix, who outmaneuvered him at every turn. La Croix was splitting his forces from him, rallying the territories to his cause. And when negotiations opened for a merger and a national council, it was predestined that La Croix would emerge as the supreme head. No small part of La Croix’s advantage was due to the fantastic intelligence network he built, and young Devereaux was one of its driving forces. La Croix’s people seemed to have the tactical advantage and answer to every Anglo-American move against him.
Despite the ground swell of Free France, America continued to withhold recognition. Pierre La Croix had no embassy in Washington, only a mission.
Then André Devereaux obtained evidence of American intentions to “occupy” France. With the evidence at hand, he asked for an immediate and urgent appointment with the General and raced to the Villa Capucines.
“General,” André said, “we have the proof here, in their own orders, that the United States intends to install an American military government in France in much the same way they will occupy conquered Germany.”
9
“FEEL THE BABY,” NICOLE said, pressing André’s hand to her stomach. “It’s kicking up a real storm today.”
André kissed her cheek and petted her as they went out to the little balcony together to watch the sunset. Nicole was starting to waddle a bit as she grew larger. He adored the wonderment of the whole thing and hoped they would have child after child.
In a moment he became pensive.
“I found some beautiful lamb. A whole rack of it, and I’m making it just your way.”
André didn’t hear her.
“It’s almost like a party when you get home for dinner.”
“The General was in a rage today. I’ve never seen him in such a vile mood.”
Nicole did not answer immediately, but her discomfort was apparent. “Darling, this is the first evening we’ve had to watch the sunset in so long. Let’s not talk about him or Free France or the war or anything but us tonight. I saw the doctor yesterday. He says it’s still safe to make love.”
“You can’t imagine how serious it’s become. If the Americans go through with their plans to treat us like a defeated enemy ...”
“La Croix,” she snapped, “La Croix! Morning, noon, and night, La Croix!”
“Nicole, without the General, France will be reduced to a puppet state after the war. The invasion of the Continent is coming very soon. It will happen in the spring or summer of this year. We have only a few months ...”
“For God’s sake, André! Darling, I have been patient, I’ve tried to understand. But we’ve been married seven months. Do you realize how few nights you’ve come home for more than a half-dozen hours’ sleep? You’re so tired most of the time I have to undress you.”
“Nicole, we promised we wouldn’t get in any fights about this.”
She turned and waddled into the small room that held their bed and was, in addition, kitchenette and parlor. She stood with her back to him, staring blankly at a needlepoint on the wall she had bought in an Arab bazaar. “I sometimes
feel like a stranger. And I think, all during those hours I’m alone, which is most of the time, that you’re not happy I ran away from Spain to come to you.”
“Nicole, you know how I love you. How can you say that?”
“There never seems to be any time for me.”
“We’re in a war.”
“War! Don’t say that word again.”
“Nicole ... Nicole ... I didn’t invite the Germans to invade France.” He came up behind her, dreading to have to say his next words. “I came home early tonight in order to pack. I’m leaving with the General tomorrow for London.”
Nicole turned and faced him slowly, glassy-eyed. “You’d leave me now?”
“I don’t give the orders to General La Croix. He gives them to me.”
“You’d leave me alone!”
“You won’t be alone, darling. We have a hundred friends in Algiers. The doctor and the hospital are excellent.”
Nicole picked up a feather duster and began moving around the room nervously, flicking it at picture frames, tidying up an overly tidy room. André stood in awkward silence.
“You want to leave me,” she said.
“I think not.”
“Then do something about this rotten job of yours. You said we have friends. All right, use them. Get yourself put into some place where we can have a few moments together. It’s no sin in Algiers. Almost everyone hates Pierre La Croix for pushing them into a war against their will.”
“As a matter of fact,” André said in a resigned monotone, “I have already requested a transfer.”
Nicole stopped her dusting. “I didn’t know.”
“I was refused. I asked to be sent to a fighting unit.”
She seized a plate from the table. The lamb on the stove began to burn. She started to hurl the plate but let it slip from her hand and it fell to the floor and broke. “How long will you be gone, André?”
“I don’t know. I’d better pack.”
The de Havilland Dove of General Pierre La Croix slipped from the Maison Blanche Airport bucking headwinds. The coast of North Africa disappeared in the morning mist. General La Croix worked on a card table, thumbing through documents, sketching his forthcoming speech. Captain Robert Proust came down the aisle, stopped by the General’s table, and spoke to him respectfully, giving the flight plan and progress. Pierre La Croix looked up for an instant and nodded without comment.
André went forward and sat in alongside Jacques Granville.
Jacques set his papers aside. “Fight with Nicole?”
“How do you know?”
“For an intelligence man you don’t keep a very straight face. Besides, it figures, knowing you, knowing Nicole. There had to be an argument last night.”
“What the hell, Jacques. She’s pregnant and in a strange place. How can she be blamed?”
“Blamed? She should kiss your feet for the privilege of seeing you a few hours each night. We’re in the middle of a war. How many millions of women have had their men taken away? She’s entirely unreasonable.”
“Somehow,” André answered, “she does not associate herself with the war. When it’s all over and we have some time to spend together, she’ll change.”
Jacques smiled and patted his friend’s shoulder. “You are a perfect La Croix officer. Strange how a man can be so wise in so many areas, then carry with him such a blind spot.”
“What blind spot?”
“The illusion that Nicole will change. And the further illusion that you yourself will change. Now all the hours you spend in your work are justified. It’s war and you’re a soldier. But you’ll always spend those same hours later on, either out of choice or an inbred sense of duty.”
An eruption of sizzling language was heard above the engines. General La Croix had obviously found something to cause him discomfort, and a half-dozen officers leaped to their feet and surrounded the General.
“Our leader calls,” Jacques said. “Look, don’t worry about Nicole for now. She’ll be in Algiers, fatter than ever, when we get back.”
“No, she won’t,” André said, getting out of his seat to answer La Croix’s summons. “She’s left for Spain to rejoin her parents till the end of the war.”
10
Albert Hall, London February, 1944
A HIGH-PITCHED MULTITUDE of French in exile filled every seat. Out in the street, thousands more jammed around loudspeakers. Inside the hall, red, white, and blue bunting knitted the balconies. On the rear of the stage stood an enormous Cross of Lorraine and the blazing words, FREE FRANCE. The gathered throng buzzed in nervous anticipation.
Now, a convoy of staff cars inched through the crowd. Inside Albert Hall they could hear the swelling roar outside and the audience came to its feet.
Pierre La Croix, who always aimed to make himself recognized, walked slowly, erect, a giant who hovered over his countrymen. He recognized the adulation by a papal-like wave of the hand. Behind him a bevy of Free French officers followed at a respectful distance.
By the time General La Croix had finished his slow, calculated trip into the hall, the crowd was hanging over the balcony rails and standing on their seats craning for a glance. He walked the center aisle slowly, allowing himself to be stopped by stretching hands, allowing the cheers to swell to a crescendo that trembled the hall.
On stage his military and political advisers and a gathering of French and foreign celebrities surrounded him as he ascended the stairs.
Silence fell.
There were speeches.
And then, the moment. In ringing oratory he was introduced and as he advanced to the rostrum they were all on their feet. The ovation went on as the great Pierre La Croix stared down on them and at last his awesome stature brought the crowd to silence.
André Devereaux watched La Croix’s performance with a mixture of admiration and fear, for grave disenchantment had already begun within him. Yes, he knew that Pierre La Croix was France now and that without him the chances for self-determination and a return to greatness would be small. But in the end, France was France. It was the end that concerned André. The food of “glory” filled every fiber of Pierre La Croix.
“Sons and daughters of Mother France,” La Croix began, “we are gathered here to proclaim to the world the mission of Free France and the mission of Pierre La Croix. La Croix,” he cried, “has accepted the authority of France in the cause of national honor. He left the defeated motherland and climbed from the morass of defeat to the mountaintop. La Croix shall not come down until our beloved France is free!”
They were mesmerized by his phenomenal aura of authority. La Croix had them like a man practicing mass hypnosis. There was a scattering, like André Devereaux, who chilled at the sound of unvarnished demagoguery. What rattled from Pierre La Croix’s throat were the words of a man who would be dictator.
“France has been mortified ... debased ... schemed against ... gone unrecognized ... double-crossed by the very ones who claim to be our allies. But! So long as Pierre La Croix lives. So long as Pierre La Croix has assumed the burden of fallen France ... we shall not succumb. That is my mission.”
In the streets outside and over the clandestine radios in metropolitan France, millions more heard his words. In the name of national redemption it appeared they all stood ready to surrender to this single, fearless man.
“Who is La Croix? He is the man who struggles in the name of France tirelessly. He has unified Frenchmen outside of the defeated motherland. Now hear this clearly. No power on this earth will plot the fate of France behind her back. No power on this earth will make decisions involving the future of France without the consent of France! France will continue to be the mistress of her own destiny!”
People were coming to their feet once more.
“Long live France!”
“Long live La Croix!”
He ignored the emotional tide sweeping over the hall, accepting the adoration as normally and rightfully his. He calmly sipped from the water glas
s, then continued.
“I say to our most powerful ally, I deplore your ambition to rule the world after this war. I deplore your bad manners and gall and your greedy desires to impose your will on the ancient civilizations of Europe. Before this war is over the blood of Frenchmen in the forefront of battle will have established France’s sovereign rights.”
His voice dropped from its pitch to a trembling whisper.... “I weep for the men who die for France. But my heart also bursts with pride. And I shall never be silent to men who plot against my fallen motherland.”
There were tears and screaming and stomping and weeping! La Croix held out his hands for silence like a Christ demanding the waters to part.
“I open my arms to Admiral de St. Amertin! Despite the sin of Vichy, I forgive! But there is only one France! Free France! Join us!”
“To France!” he cried over the hysteria in Albert Hall. “We will free her! We will punish the traitors! And so help me God, we will resume our great and undeniable march to destiny!”
“La Croix!”
“La Croix!”
“La Croix!”
André Devereaux was dazed as a tremor of terror passed through him.
11
AFTER HIS DEVASTATING ALBERT Hall speech, Pierre La Croix and his staff buttoned up in their London headquarters at Carlton Garden to let the Anglo-Americans absorb and remember what he had said.
Two days later the Soviet Ambassador to England, Igor Luvetka, called for an appointment. He arrived at Carlton Garden with “Villard,” a high-ranking member of the French Communist Party who had been brought into England. In addition, “Villard” was one of the chiefs of the FFI, the underground French Forces of the Interior. The Communist wing of FFI was large and powerful and in the forefront of resistance in metropolitan France.
Pierre La Croix summoned a few of his intimate staff, which included Robert Proust and André Devereaux, as he held court for Ambassador Luvetka and “Villard.”
Niceties were exchanged. There were a few perfunctory questions about conditions in France and how the Resistance fared. Then the heart of the matter was reached.
