by Martin Lake
‘Where to?’
‘Aix-en-Provence. We’re to take it and hold it.’
‘Who’s in command?’
‘I am.’ Weiser handed him the letter as the car moved off.
‘Congratulations,’ Mundt said. He was delighted for his friend. ‘I doubt I’ll ever catch up with you now.’
‘Who knows what the fortunes of war may bring to you as well as to me.’
‘Lots of wine and pretty girls, I hope.’ Mundt leaned back and watched the waters of the Rhone rippling in the November sunshine.
‘And what happens once we’ve taken Aix?’ he asked. ‘Is a Major allowed to hear this from his Oberst?’
Weiser chuckled. He could rely on his old friend to keep his feet firmly on the ground.
‘The army will occupy the whole of France west of the Rhone,’ he said, ‘and the Italians will get east of the river.’
‘So we’ll all the fighting and the Italians will get the prize,’ Mundt said.
Weiser smiled and gave a nod.
‘Trust the Italians to get the Riviera,’ Mundt said. ‘Lucky bastards. So we should enjoy it while we can.’
COLLECTING THE PAPERS
Marseille, 11 November 1942
Alain returned to his hotel and booked for an extra night. He spent the rest of the day visiting his usual contacts, using the time to try to arrange some deals. This proved harder than usual. The traffic from North Africa had inexplicably dried up a few days before and the port appeared to be handling goods only from France and Italy. This was poorer trade for Alain, foodstuffs instead of cigarettes and fancy goods, but he did what he could.
He ate a sparse supper of fish-stew and stale bread before making his way to the monastery. The streets were empty and unlit and he found his way by occasionally switching on a small hand-torch. He fingered the flick-knife in his pocket. He knew better than most how dangerous these streets could be. Despite the knife he had no relish for a dispute with street-fighters and hoped that any such would recognise him before an attack. After all, he had been dealing with the most powerful gangs for ten years now and that counted for something.
His footsteps echoed on the walls on either side, almost as if they were the sound of pursuers. If anyone pounced on him he would have little chance to fight them off. He would shout out the name of Gabriel Chiappe, say he was his friend, and keep his fingers crossed that his attackers were not the Corsican’s enemies.
The streets near to the monastery were the quietest yet and he found himself moving into the centre of the street, away from the buildings. The moon rose, not yet full, and cast a cold light over the streets, enough for him to pick his way forward without the need to use the torch.
Finally, he saw the monastery ahead, breathed a sigh of relief and hurried towards it, putting out of mind, for the moment, that he had an equally worrying journey back to the hotel.
He had almost reached the monastery when he heard it. A deep-throated roar of vehicles pounding along the streets. There was a blare of lights and then, flooding into the space in front of the streets, came half a dozen motorbikes followed by three large lorries. The canopies of the lorries were flung back and men leapt from them to the ground.
At first Alain thought they were police and slunk into the shadows. Then his mouth gaped wide. They were wearing military helmets, not police ones. And they were shouting in German, not in French.
A moment later an armoured car nosed into the square and an officer climbed out and directed some men to the door of the monastery. They hammered on it for a while and, when no answer was forthcoming, laid a charge and blew it to pieces.
For a moment, Alain was rooted to the spot, too scared and too fascinated to move. Then he realised the danger, pushed himself against the wall and tried to calm his breathing. The soldiers were now spilling into the monastery. They must have heard about Benoit’s work. He could hear the noise of their calls and then the sound of machinery being smashed. That was the end of the friar’s operation, he thought bitterly. The end of the friars too, probably.
The German troops were now engrossed solely on the monastery. He took a few steps backwards, waiting for the moment when he could safely slip away. His heart was like a piston in his chest.
And then he saw a solitary friar race through the grounds of the monastery, holding a large bag. He darted through the darkness, sure-footed in his knowledge of the place. He made it to the street and then turned, heading in Alain’s direction. He’ll get away, Alain thought.
But then a soldier happened to glance up and saw him. He was ordered to halt but this served only to make the friar run more quickly. Three soldiers raced out of the monastery grounds cutting across the road to block his escape. He hugged the bag close to his chest and held out one arm as if to fend them off.
The soldiers seized him, yelling at him with a nervous aggression. One dragged the bag out of his arms and this seemed to enrage the man. He tried to wrestle it back and landed a punch on the soldier’s chest. In an instant, all three men retaliated, knocking the friar to the ground with savage blows and then kicking him as if he were a piece of rubbish littering the road. He held his hands over his head, screaming in terror but still the soldiers kicked and stamped.
Then, to Alain’s amazement, the man leapt to his feet, grabbed the bag from the soldier’s grasp and fled towards him. The soldiers chased after him, reaching him a mere half dozen steps from Alain.
The moonlight shone on his feet and Alain recognised him. Lawrence, the young friar who had opened the door to him only this morning. Lawrence recognised him too and thrust the bag into his arms.
‘Save the papers, monsieur,’ he cried and turned to face the soldiers. Two smashed into him, flinging him to the ground once again. The third leapt at Alain, taking hold of the bag and trying to drag it back. Instinctively, Alain pulled hard on the bag and for a few moments, he and the soldier engaged in a desperate tug of war.
I must be mad, Alain thought, and then he let go of the bag. The soldier was still pulling on it ferociously and now, with Alain no longer struggling, he fell back onto his comrades.
Alain wasted no time. He turned and fled back the way he had come. He had no concern for any criminals roaming the streets now.
He ran in a daze. Time seemed slow, time seemed fast, his feet like lead, his feet like wings. Finally he stopped and tried to calm his breathing so he could listen better. He could just about hear the cries of the soldiers and the continual noise of metal being broken. He closed his eyes and then vomited against a wall.
He wiped his mouth and realised that he was a dozen steps from the hotel. He slipped inside and locked the door behind him, fetching a chair to jam against the handle, a futile gesture he realised even as he did so.
He would leave Marseille before dawn.
DOROTHY STEPS UP
Grasse, 12 November 1942
‘Papa’s home,’ Celeste called to her mother.
Viviane hurriedly pulled the last of the washing from the line and rushed into the house.
‘Did you get the papers?’ she asked.
Alain shook his head and sat down. ‘I nearly did. And then things got very bad.’ He went to the cupboard for a bottle of cognac and some glasses, slumped down in his chair and held his head in his hand.
‘Tell me,’ she said. She was fighting to keep the nausea down.
He told her how Le Taureau had put an end to any chance of getting the papers from his contacts and then how he had been more successful in approaching Father Benoît. Until the last moment.
Then he paused and took a large gulp of cognac.
‘So what happened?’
Alain took her hand. ‘The Germans have invaded. They’ve overrun the south of France.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘But why? Maréchal Pétain said we would remain free.’
‘The old fool was wrong.’ He poured another glass of cognac. ‘I’ve seen the German tanks roaring through Marseille.’
> ‘And the papers?’
‘The Germans must have heard about the monastery and its work. They destroyed the whole operation, printing presses included. I don’t know if any of the friars even survived. At any rate, that’s an end to any hope of getting papers from them.’
He placed his chin in his hand and stared out of the window. ‘It’s a shame. Father Benoît was a good man.’
Viviane nodded, although she did not much care whether Benoît was an angel or a devil. All that mattered was that he had offered to provide the papers but could not do so again.
‘Why do you think they invaded? The Germans?’
‘I know why,’ Alain said. ‘I heard it from my friend Gabriel just as I was leaving this morning. The Allies have invaded North Africa. American and British troops landed in Morocco and Algeria a few days ago. The Germans know that this means the end of Pétain’s control of North Africa. Presumably they don’t trust him to hold the south securely anymore.’
‘Against the Allies?’
They’re only eight hundred kilometres away, Viviane.’
‘That’s a long way. And across the sea. Surely, they would never be able to invade France from such a distance.’
‘Probably not. But who knows?’
Viviane clutched Alain’s hand so hard he winced.
‘Do you think it will mean the end of the war?’ she said. ‘Will we be free once again?’
Alain sighed. ‘I don’t know, Viv. Pétain managed to keep the French fleet out of German hands. Now, they’ll be certain to take it over and then even the Royal Navy will find itself harder pressed in the Mediterranean.’
Viviane heard this news with dismay. ‘Do you think the Allies will give up? Do you think the Germans will win the war?’
‘Who knows what to believe. All I can say is what I saw with my own eyes; that the Germans are now at the coast. My friend Gabriel, who has his ears close to the wind, says that this will be the end of Pétain and his puppets. Hitler will be our master now.’
Viviane’s hand went to her mouth. ‘What will that mean for David?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
He looked away, wondering how to tell her what he had been thinking on the long journey back from Marseille. Things would be too dangerous from now on. They would have to give David up.
The clock on the wall suddenly seemed to take on a life of its own, echoing from wall to wall as if it were now deciding all their fates.
Viviane stared at Alain with growing disbelief. He was not answering. He had already made up his mind. He would say they had to let David go.
‘Alain?’
Her voice shook him out of his thoughts. This was not right. The Germans invading, the whole monstrous war, none of it was right. A sudden anger seized him and he swallowed the rest of the cognac in one gulp.
‘What I do know is that I’m not going to let those bastards win. No little shit is going to destroy my family and take the boy away.’
He squeezed Viviane’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get the papers. Even if I have to forge them myself.’
Viviane swallowed the lump in her throat.
She got to her feet and went to the picture of Maréchal Pétain on the wall. Very deliberately, she unhooked it, took it out into the yard and threw it into the trash.
Viviane decided to unburden herself to Dorothy. Not that she had any real hope of getting help from her. Before Germany declared war on the United States she may have had a little more independence but now that the two countries were at war, Dorothy was as vulnerable as any other person in France. Perhaps even more vulnerable. But, apart from Sylvie, the American was the only person who she felt she could trust. And she had to talk to somebody.
Dorothy was sympathetic but not encouraging. ‘I won’t lie to you, Viviane,’ she said. ‘The German take-over changes everything. I’ve even thought of leaving France.’
Viviane looked crestfallen at the news.
Dorothy gave a humourless laugh. ‘But that option is now completely ruled out. I’m stuck here for the duration. And my enemies are about to come knocking on my door.’
She saw the effect her words had on Viviane who was struggling to keep the tears from her eyes.
‘Cheer up, darling,’ she continued, as brightly as she could. ‘Things are never as good or as bad as we think they might be. And I’ve got plenty of money, which will stand me in good stead.’
Viviane nodded although she was only half listening. Her mind was fixed on how to get David’s papers. And what would happen to him if they failed.
Dorothy stared at Viviane. ‘How much will it cost?’ she asked.
Viviane shook her head in confusion. ‘How much will what cost?’
‘To forge David’s papers.’
‘More than we have. It’s out of the question.’
Dorothy gave a grim smile. ‘No, it’s not darling. The mighty dollar still has some punch.’ She leaned back in her seat. ‘I’ve got a safe stashed full of Greenbacks. Get that man of yours to go back to his cronies with enough money to pay all they demand.’
For a moment Viviane was speechless.
‘I couldn’t do that,’ she whispered at last.
‘Of course not. But I think Alain could. Just view it as a loan. I’ll get it back from David when he grows up and becomes a tycoon or whatever.’
Viviane burst into tears. She couldn’t believe that Dorothy had made such a generous offer. Nor that it meant as much to her as she now realised it did.
RETURN TO MARSEILLE
Marseille, 16 November 1942
When he returned to Marseille Alain found the Germans well and truly entrenched. All the main junctions had barricades and soldiers patrolled the streets with wary faces, their rifles constantly at the ready.
He found Gabriel Chiappe in his usual haunt, a down at heel cafe on the quayside, with a clientele who hid themselves behind clouds of cigarette smoke.
‘I hadn’t expected to see you back so soon,’ Chiappe said.
Alain frowned, ‘Nor did I, Gabriel.’
He bought two glasses of wine and told him what had happened to Father Benoît.
‘So what now?’ Chiappe asked.
Alain glanced around to see that no one was paying attention then pulled out a roll of notes.
‘Dollars,’ Chiappe breathed. He gave a little whistle. ‘Almost as good as gold,’ he said. ‘Where did you get them?’
‘Never you mind. I want you to go back to Le Taureau and say I want his agreement to forge the papers. Unless you can do it without him knowing.’
‘I can’t piss without him knowing,’ Chiappe said. He stared at the dollar bills. ‘I’ll go and see him immediately. I’ll meet you at the La Samaritaine at noon. You can buy me lunch there.’
Alain was at the brasserie at a quarter to twelve. He felt sick, knowing that all his and Viviane’s hopes might be dashed at any moment.
Chiappe arrived a little after twelve. His face gave nothing away.
‘Well?’ Alain asked.
‘Le Taureau is happy for the deal to go ahead.’
Alain clapped his hands in joy.
‘But there’s a difficulty,’ Chiappe added. ‘Le Taureau is demanding double what he said before.’
‘But why?’
‘It’s riskier now that the Germans are here. I see his point of view.’
‘A hundred thousand francs,’ Alain said. ‘That’s ten times more than the usual price.’
Chiappe shrugged.
Alain hesitated for only a moment. If the rich American wanted to act so charitably, who was he to disappoint her?
‘It’s a deal,’ he said.
Chiappe said it take a couple of days for the forgers to do their work. Alain bought them both lunch and went back to his usual hotel.
He expected there to be an atmosphere of gloom and despair but far from it.
Guizot, the owner of the hotel, wiped the counter with vehement energy. ‘Those filthy Bosch have bi
tten off more than they can chew in trying to conquer Marseille. We’ll make them shit in their beds, see if we don’t.’
He was either prescient or in the know, for that very night a German patrol was ambushed and killed. The motorbike and sidecar had been dismantled and scattered across the city within an hour of the incident, hidden in cellars or cannibalised onto vehicles in plain sight.
The Germans responded by killing four citizens who lived in the house opposite where the bodies were found. Nobody knew if they were innocent of the deaths or complicit. To the Germans it did not matter. They believed it would prove a deterrent.
The second night two more patrols were found dead.
‘I wonder how this will end?’ Alain wondered, quietly to Monsieur Guizot.
‘As it always will,’ he answered. ‘In rivers of blood.’
Alain frowned and paid his bill. ‘I might not be back for a while,’ he said. He meant that he doubted he would ever return.
‘Then good luck, my friend,’ Guizot said. ‘I hope that you have more success with your plans than you did last time.’
Alain’s heart felt like stone. This was dangerous talk, and he feared it might be deadly.
He met Gabriel Chiappe in a cafe on the port. He looked wary but in good spirits.
‘You seem pleased,’ Alain said to him.
‘With the German occupation?’ He shrugged. ‘Some of our businesses have been hit, smuggling for example. But the Germans have plenty of money and our bars and brothels are booming. Do you know any girls who might be interested in working for me?’
‘A few. But they’re in Grasse.’
Chiappe pursed his lips. ‘Maybe I’ll come and visit you there, one day.’
‘Oh no. I deal with you in Marseille and Marseille alone. If you came to Grasse, you’d scare the children.’
Chiappe chuckled and glanced around the bar casually. ‘Talking of which.’ He pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his overcoat and slid it across to Alain. ‘Birth certificate, baptism certificate and ration card. I even threw in the birth certificate of the boy’s mother. There’s no charge for that, my friend.’
