by Martin Lake
‘He calls here more when you’re away than when you’re here.’
Alain shrugged. ‘He’s probably keeping an eye on you.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
Alain glanced at her, mystified by her words. Sometimes he couldn’t follow the flow of her thoughts. Most times, in fact. Nor of any woman, now that he thought about it. Including his daughter.
‘Anyway, I shall get the papers. I have contacts in Marseilles.’
‘Forgers? Criminals?’
He put his fingers to his lips. ‘I don’t ask questions. That way I don’t get answers I might not want.’
She brushed his hair. ‘Be quick then. And be careful.’
PURCHASING PAPERS
Marseille, 11 November 1942
Alain peered out of the dirty window which looked over the port. Somewhere over there lay the island of Corsica which was where the two men in the room hailed from. The man sitting behind a table was called only by his nickname, Le Taureau, the bull. He was one of the biggest bosses in Marseille. His fingers were said to be more numerous than the tentacles of a jelly fish, and more dangerous. Alain had never met him before today.
His contact was Gabriel Chiappe, a man as tiny as Le Taureau was large. Chiappe was head of one of the gangs which specialised in smuggling, and he and Alain had engaged in deals together for many years. As much as possible in such a business, they liked one another.
‘Marc Ferrant can provide the papers for my friend,’ Chiappe told Le Taureau. ‘He is diligent and efficient. And there will be no trace back to us.’
Le Taureau stared at him in silence. Alain sensed Chiappe’s nervousness, something he had never witnessed before.
‘That is good,’ Le Taureau said at last. ‘I piss on the fools in Vichy but the Germans? They are a different matter.’
‘The Germans are a long way north,’ said Alain lightly.
Le Taureau turned his gaze on him. His eyes were like that of a basilisk. Ice-cold, unblinking, barely human. Alain’s heart froze.
He allowed Alain to dangle from his gaze for a little while before turning his attention back to Chiappe.
‘Do it,’ he told him.
‘Good,’ Chiappe said, reaching for his hat.
‘The cost?’ Le Taureau said.
Chiappe opened his hands. ‘Ten thousand francs is usual.’
Alain swallowed a gasp. That was half the money David’s mother had given them. He forced a smile on his lips. If it had to be, it had to be.
‘Not enough,’ said Le Taureau. ‘Fifty thousand.’
‘That’s impossible,’ cried Alain. ‘I don’t have that much.’
‘And this is my concern?’ Le Taureau said. ‘Tell me how it is.’ His cold eyes held Alain’s in an icy grip.
‘Maybe twenty thousand,’ Chiappe suggested.
‘I’ve said the price,’ Le Taureau said. ‘Forging papers for Jews is risky.’
‘I didn’t say the boy’s a Jew,’ Alain cried.
Le Taureau gave no response other than to gesture to the door.
Alain and Chiappe paused at the top of the stairs.
‘Can you do it for less?’ Alain asked.
‘Yes. If I want to end up as a corpse in the sea. What Le Taureau says is the law in our world. I’m sorry, my friend.’
Alain sighed. ‘Then the least you can do is to buy me a good lunch.’
‘Gladly.’ He took Alain’s hand. ‘Truly, I’m sorry.’
Now what?’ Alain wondered. How could they protect the child?
He stayed the night in a little hotel in the back streets of the old part of Marseille. The owner, Monsieur Guizot, knew him of old and allowed him to put his motorbike in a little lean-to in the yard. He spent much of the night tossing and turning in the chill room, missing Viviane and worrying about what they should do next. The last thing he remembered, as he finally drifted off to sleep, was that he would have to let the boy take his chances in an orphanage.
He was hungry when he woke and, leaving his bike in Guizot’s safe keeping, went towards his favourite cafe near the port. The day was cold and dreary with a fierce mistral wind screaming across the sea, lashing the waters into turmoil and sending rubbish on the quay-side cascading across the streets.
His eyes were wet and raw from the buffeting wind, his ears ringing with its shriek, and he was glad to duck into the warming fug of the cafe.
The owner gave him a grudging nod, the most acknowledgement he gave to even his most loyal customers.
‘Coffee and some bread,’ Alain said, squeezing himself behind a tiny zinc table. He glanced through the patina of dirt on the window. The quay was crowded with men: stevedores with leather jackets, porters dragging laden trolleys or striding sure-footed with parcels balanced on their heads, fishermen throwing their catches onto carts, and a small scatter of loafers who braved even this dire weather to idle contentedly and watch other men work.
The owner plonked a bowl of coffee and a plate of bread on the table. There was a tiny scrape of margarine to one side of the plate and a smear of what may or may not have been jam beside it. Alain spread the margarine and jam thinly, a gloss much thinner than the grime on the window, yet still it covered less than half the bread. He tore a lump off with his teeth, expecting it to resist but the bread was fresh and surprisingly good. He might have more, he thought, for such rare delights were worth seizing and he had an eight-hour ride home, perhaps longer with this wind. He glanced at the clock above the bar. Half past seven. If he were lucky, he would reach Grasse by evening.
He sipped his coffee which was hot and sweet but then his hand shook so suddenly he almost spilt it. An old man had silently taken a seat across the table from him, even though the cafe was virtually empty. The cafe owner had disappeared from his perch behind the bar.
‘You are Alain Renaud?’ the man muttered, barely moving his lips.
‘Who’s asking?’ Alain said.
‘A Corsican friend suggests you go to the Capuchin Monastery,’ the man answered. ‘Ask for Father Benoît.’ He pressed a piece of paper into Alain’s hands and slipped out of the cafe.
Alain glanced at the piece of paper. It bore an address and was signed with the letters, G.C.
‘Thank you, Gabriele,’ he muttered.
It took Alain an hour to find the monastery and by then the sky had grown an ominous black. He pulled on a bell and heard its dull clang echoing from the other side of the door.
He waited for a while, glancing occasionally at the sky, wondering if anybody had heard the bell and, if they had, whether they would come to answer it. But eventually the door creaked open and a young friar peered out. He was dressed in a brown tunic with a hood pulled back untidily on his neck. He was little more than a boy, judging by the sparse hairs straggling on his chin. He did not speak but merely stared at Alain.
‘I’ve come to see Father Benoît,’ Alain said.
A look of alarm crossed the young man’s face but he swiftly composed himself and took on what he probably imagined was a look of calm. Alain thought it looked more vacant than anything.
‘What do you want with the father?’ he asked.
‘I want his help.’
The friar nodded and cleared his throat. ‘And who sent you?’
‘Gabriel…’ Alain said. He was about to say his surname but suddenly thought better of it and stopped himself. ‘Gabriel sent me.’
The friar’s mouth opened in astonishment. He stared at Alain in silence for a while, then peered at the street behind him as if searching for someone. He stared at Alain in awe, opened the door a little more and crooked a finger for him to enter.
They were in a narrow corridor with several doors on either side. Three religious paintings hung along either wall with a large crucifix on the wall to the right. A staircase was at the far end, leading to an upper floor.
‘Gabriel sent you?’ the boy repeated.
‘That’s right. To see Father Benoît.’
‘Then
come with me.’
The boy hurried off, his sandals echoing in the empty corridor, a curious slapping sound as if a wet fish were being beaten. At the end of the corridor he made for a small door to the left. Alain could see that he was almost shaking with excitement.
He opened the door and beckoned Alain to follow. There was a steep flight of steps immediately in front of them. The walls echoed with a noise of clattering and thumping and the hum of human voices from below.
The young man ran down the steps and waited at the bottom.
Alain joined him and looked around in surprise.
They were in a large cellar, which must once have served as a storehouse. The roof was low and vaulted and hanging from it were a line of very bright electric lights. To one side of the cellar were two small printing presses, worked by two elderly friars.
Along the left-hand side were half a dozen small tables, even more brightly lit by lamps, with two young friars and four nuns bending over them with the utmost concentration. At the far end of the cellar, examining a document under the glare of a light, was a middle-aged friar with a long, straggly beard.
The young friar gestured to Alain and led the way to the man, who glanced up, irritated. He was in his late forties, Alain judged, with long nose and deep eyes of a sharp intelligence.
‘What is the meaning of this, Lawrence?’ he demanded of the young friar. ‘Why have you brought a stranger here?’
‘He was sent to us, Father,’ the boy said, making the sign of the cross. ‘By Archangel Gabriel.’
The older friar stared at him in silence for a few moments, a range of emotions chasing each other across his face: anger, incredulity, exasperation and finally a weary acceptance.
‘I doubt the archangel would visit us here, today,’ he said, not unkindly. Then he patted the young man on the shoulder much as a man might a dog who had brought him his most comfortable shoes. ‘Yet who knows. Back to your duties, now Lawrence. I will deal with our visitor and you must forget all about it.’
He gave Lawrence a conspiratorial look which made the boy flush with excitement.
‘I am Father Benoît,’ the friar said, holding out his hand to Alain. ‘You do not look the sort who an angel would deal with but…’ He held out his hands, as if even that might be possible.
‘I was given your name by Gabriel Chiappe,’ Alain began.
‘I don’t know the man,’ Benoît said.
‘Well he knows of you.’ He glanced at the printing presses. ‘I asked him to forge some papers for me, for a boy I have taken in. Gabriel’s colleague, his boss in fact, wanted to charge me far more than I can pay. But Gabriel gave me your name so…’
He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.
‘Forgeries?’ the father said. He gestured to the printing presses. ‘These are but copies of prayers and sermons.’
Alain glanced at the paper on the desk. It was a baptism record. He raised an eyebrow.
‘The church baptises children, my friend. You must know that.’
‘I’m not a church-goer.’
‘May I ask why not?’
‘I’m part Roma. We are not very Christian.’
Benoît tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘So who do you worship? Allah? Shiva? Nature gods?’
‘Money chiefly,’ Alain said, ‘and great men in our past.’ He sighed. ‘Some of my relatives also worship Sara e Kali.’
‘Saint Sarah the black,’ Benoît said.
Alain shrugged. He had little interest in such matters.
‘Will you sell me forged papers or not?’ he asked.
The friar stared at him for a long time. Alain felt abashed by it, almost intimidated, but he refused to lower his eyes.
‘I will sell them,’ the friar said. ‘Although you may not like the price.’
Alain’s eyes narrowed. Priests were more avaricious than crime-bosses, he thought. ‘How much?’
‘No money. But you must promise to keep the child. Keep him safe.’
Alain gave him a suspicious look. ‘That is why I am here.’
‘Then the cost will be easy to bear, my son.’
He picked up a pen. ‘Tell me the name of the boy and his parents.’
‘He’s a Jew.’
‘Of course. Why else are you here? I mean the name by which you wish him to be known.’
‘David Legarde, His mother would be Simone Legarde.’
Benoît noted this down. ‘And the father?’
Alain frowned. Neither Viviane nor he had thought of a man for his father.
‘Shall we say Henri,’ Benoît said. ‘A good French name.’
Alain nodded.
‘The boy’s place of birth?’
‘My wife said that Simone lived near Paris. Close to the Renault factory where she died in a bombing raid.’
‘You have an intelligent wife, Monsieur.’ He bent and wrote carefully, muttering to himself, ‘Place of birth, Boulogne-Billancourt.’
He straightened up.’ I will need to check the churches in that area. Perhaps one that was damaged in the raid. Where the records may have been destroyed.’
He held his hand out to Alain who, to his surprise, found himself kissing it.
‘Return this evening, at ten,’ Benoît said. ‘The documents will be ready by then.’
THE END OF VICHY FRANCE
11 November 1942
Weiser rubbed his eyes wearily. It was only twelve hours since he had received the order to join the invasion force. He glanced behind him at the motorised column stretching into the distance. They had covered over four hundred kilometres and were crossing the River Rhone into Avignon.
It was a pity that they had outrun the tanks, Weiser thought, but General Blaskowitz was adamant that they move as swiftly as possible. He was racing for the Mediterranean Sea and would brook no delay. He was confident that the tiny French forces would be unable put up much resistance.
His optimism appeared to have been justified. As they hurtled through villages and towns the only French people they saw were bewildered and terrified citizens. One Gendarme in a village near Valance had single-handedly tried to stop the approaching column but a bullet had ended his defiance.
‘That’s a big place,’ Mundt said as they neared the Palace of the Popes.
‘I expect we’ll take it over,’ Weiser said with a grin. Despite his fatigue he was exhilarated by the headlong ride and the chance of yet more conquests.
‘So where do you think we’re going?’ Mundt asked. ‘And why?’
‘You’re like a child going on holiday,’ Weiser answered. ‘I’ve told you all I know. ‘The army is taking over in the south. Just like in the north.’
Mundt offered Weiser a cigarette. ‘And you still don’t know why?’
Weiser shook his head. ‘But I’ll know soon enough. The General has called a conference for senior officers. It will start as soon as the column has reached Avignon.’
Weiser was astonished at what he learnt at the conference. The war had taken a bad turn.
A few days before, the Allies had invaded the French territories in North Africa. Almost four hundred ships had landed seventy thousand British and American troops in a huge arc stretching from Casablanca to Algiers, a distance of fifteen hundred kilometres. The Vichy government’s French forces had offered only token resistance in a handful of places; many had instantly gone over to the Allies.
‘Because of this, Hitler says the French cannot be trusted,’ General Blaskowitz told them. ‘As of today the French Government will, in reality, cease to exist.’
He pointed to the map of France. ‘We are heading for Marseille which I expect to take by this evening. Our next objective is Toulon where the French fleet is moored. At all costs we must prevent the fleet from sailing out of port and joining our adversaries.’
‘Do we expect any opposition from the French?’ a colonel asked.
The General shook his head. ‘There are very few French soldiers in the south. But if the police are
all as courageous as that lone Gendarme then maybe we should be worried.’ He gave a raucous laugh, which the others joined in.
He leaned over the map and quickly outlined the route the army would take into Marseille, pointing out the areas with bottlenecks and potential resistance. He was in his element; the last time he had led an army in such an operation was the invasion of Poland. The conference lasted only twenty minutes but before he walked to his vehicle Blaskowitz called Weiser over.
‘I hear good reports of your work in Dijon,’ he said.
Weiser looked mystified, wondering exactly what had drawn the General’s attention to him.
‘You’re a tough yet fair commander,’ Blaskowitz said. ‘You do your duty efficiently. You also put that scum Barbie in his place. I was glad to hear it.’
Weiser failed to hide a smile. It was no bad thing to have a man like Blaskowitz take notice of one.
He suddenly recalled something he had heard about the General. Rumour had it that he had opposed the worst atrocities the SS perpetrated against the Poles and was refused his rightful promotion because of it. Despite this, his undoubted skills as a commander had now led to his being picked for the invasion of Free France.
‘I want you to take and hold Aix-en-Provence,’ Blaskowitz continued. ‘It’s got a strategic importance as well as being very beautiful.’ He paused and glanced around. ‘There’s an internment camp for dissidents and Jews ten kilometres from the centre. It’s under the command of the Vichy government at the moment but the Wehrmacht will shortly have responsibility for it. See that this is done in a way which brings credit to the army and not to the SS.’
Weiser clicked his heels and saluted.
The General reached into a pocket and gave Weiser a letter. ‘I’m making you an Oberst. You’ll have need of the rank.’
Weiser found Mundt chatting to a group of drivers beside the column. For a moment he envied his old friend for being only a Major. The letter confirming his promotion weighed heavily in his pocket. He took a deep breath. It was an honour to be an Oberst. He would make sure he earned the General’s faith and trust.
‘We’re going,’ he said to Mundt, jumping into his car and gesturing to his friend to join him.
