by Martin Lake
He pointed out the words at the bottom of the document. ‘The ink has run a little, you see. Most people wouldn’t notice it, perhaps, but I was trained in the fraud section in Lyons.’
He held the papers out to her. ‘You’d be advised to put this right, Viviane.’
She stared at him in terror, unable to speak or to respond in any way. She did not know whether to take the papers or not. If she did, would this be an admission that she knew they were forgeries? Should she pretend to be confused? Should she deny everything?
She felt the tears welling in her eyes and prayed that they would stop. Everything seemed about to collapse around her. She would lose everything, David, Alain, her freedom, Celeste. She heard a sob beginning to sound in her chest.
‘Now on your way,’ Villiers said. He thrust the papers into her hand. ‘And see to these as soon as possible.’
He patted David and Celeste on the head and headed off down the street.
‘You’ll have to get David new papers,’ Viviane said.
Alain scowled. His stomach was still churning from Viviane telling him about the encounter with Villiers. He always got anxious when the Police started poking around in his affairs. It was even more worrying now that David was living with them. He did not know much about Villiers but he needed to find out more about him. He guessed that some of his contacts would have had dealings with him, good or bad.
‘New papers!’ Viviane repeated.
‘I don’t know how I’m going to get them,’ he said. ‘The friar’s printing presses were destroyed.’
‘Gabriel Chiappe got the last papers,’ Viviane said. ‘Can’t you get you some more from him?’
Alain sighed. ‘I don’t know. And if he can, I have no idea how much it would cost.’
‘It doesn’t matter how much it costs.’
Alain looked at her dubiously. She was in a panic, a frenzy. He understood this but money was not limitless, far from it. He very much doubted he would be able to find enough for new papers and he was reluctant to ask for more money from Dorothy.
‘Also,’ he continued, ‘don’t forget that the papers Gabriel provided had a flaw. I don’t know if he’ll get us better ones next time.’
Viviane gave him a cold look. ‘You’ll just have to make sure that he does. After all, you always boast that he’s your friend.’
Celeste clattered down the stairs with a dolly under arm. She was humming happily to herself and tugged at Viviane’s apron. ‘Maman, can David and me go and play with Monique?’
‘No you can’t,’ Viviane snapped. ‘Go and play in the yard. And keep your voices down.’
Celeste was shocked at her mother’s angry response. Her bottom lip began to quiver and she had to force back the tears. Then she stomped out into the yard, calling on David to follow.
‘You don’t need to take it out on her,’ Alain said.
‘Who should I take it out on then? Pétain, Laval, Churchill, Hitler?’
Alain got up and caught her in his arms. She resisted for a moment, quivering like a hind caught in a trap. Then she gave a tiny cry, part anger, part despair, part surrender. She put her head on his shoulders and began to weep.
NEW PAPERS AND MORE
Nice, 12 May 1943
The next morning, Alain parked his motorbike in a street just off the flower market in Nice. Gabriel had a small apartment in the old town, up a little winding street a little beyond the Cathedral. He would never go there, of course. To arrive there alone would be to invite a shot in the belly from one of Gabriel’s trigger-happy cronies. But he knew his old friend’s habits and strolled along the nearby streets, peering into every cafe and bar.
For five minutes the only response he got were the cool glances of the cafe owners and the calls of the working girls to come and buy them a drink. Then he heard a shrill whistle and turned towards it. Gabriel was sitting in an ill-lit bar with two girls perched beside him.
Alain pulled up a chair and the girls immediately sidled closer to him.
‘Buy me a drink, won’t you,’ one of them said. She was in her thirties, with a fine figure and a challenging look. The other one was much younger, perhaps only fifteen. She should be in school, Alain thought sadly. She did not say anything but reached out and took his hand.
‘I need to speak to you,’ Alain told Gabriel, trying without success to disengage the young prostitute’s grip.
Something in his tone made the older woman take notice. She dropped all pretence of interest and lit a cigarette, leaning her head against the wall and retreating into a kinder world.
The young girl squeezed his hand a little more tightly, hope defeating experience, until she too realised he was not interested and let go.
Alain stood up and Gabriel swallowed his drink and followed.
‘Nice friends you have,’ Alain said.
‘Profitable friends.’ He touched him on the elbow. ‘I can give you a special price if you like. You can have both together, if you wish.’
Alain shook his head. ‘I’ve come about business.’
Gabriel opened his hands wide, as if to say, this was business and then chuckled. ‘If it’s in my power, I’ll help, old friend,’ he said.
Alain peered around to make sure that no one was within hearing distance. A man was squatting on a step rolling a cigarette, two old ladies were chatting by an alley way but he could see no one else. ‘I need more papers for the boy.’
Chiappe looked surprised. ‘Why? Have you lost the ones I gave you?’
Alain sighed, wondering how to say it without angering him. ‘They had some flaws, too tiny for anyone to notice except an expert. And an expert noticed them.’
‘Fraud squad?’
Alain nodded.
‘And what did he do?’
‘Nothing. Except to tell Viviane to get some better papers.’
Chiappe rubbed his fingers across his mouth, deep in thought. Then he sighed. ‘I didn’t know about any flaws, Alain. I’m sorry.’
‘I know you didn’t. There is no blame attached to anyone. The forger may have been a little careless.’
‘He’s dead now, at the hands of the Gestapo. Fortunate for him, after what you’ve told me.’
Alain did not respond. He had little doubt that, were he still alive, Chiappe would have been on the next train to Marseille in search of the forger.
‘Can you help me again?’ Alain asked.
Chiappe shook his head. ‘Not in Nice. I don’t have contacts with anyone who provides papers.’
Then he clicked his fingers and gasped. ‘Oh yes, I do.’
He leaned closer to Alain and whispered in his ear. ‘There’s a priest or friar or something who has a printing press in an old church near here. He fled Marseilles when the Germans took over. I’ve heard that he makes passports for Jews.’
‘Father Benoît?’
‘You know him?’ Chiappe asked in surprise.
‘I met him once. I thought the Germans might have captured him.’
‘Maybe they did, but you know what they say about the power of the Church. The Nazis probably got warned off and let him go. Anyway, I know where we can find him.’
He hurried off, with Alain trailing in his wake. They visited several cafes, where Chiappe had swift, furtive conversations with various people. None of them looked like typical church-goers. Alain began to think their quest was hopeless but eventually one hard-faced man looked from Chiappe to Alain and gave a curt nod.
Chiappe’s hands moved so fast, Alain only caught a glimpse of him stuffing some notes into the man’s breast pocket. The man sniffed and said a few words out of the corner of his mouth. Chiappe grabbed Alain by the arm and led him away.
‘Who was that?’ Alain asked.
‘Best not to know.’
They trudged up some alleys which wound like a maze into the innermost heart of the old town. The air grew hot and noisome, panting dogs eyed them malevolently, vermin scurried into holes at their approach. Every third do
orway had a woman stationed at it, some professional whores, others ordinary housewives driven to sell themselves for food. Drug dealers sat on benches or steps, with a few furtive men making trades.
Not so different from Marseille, Alain thought. And what on earth was Father Benoît doing in such a place?
At last they came to a building which looked as though it had fallen in on itself a couple of centuries ago. The roof was missing most of its tiles, the windows appeared to sag under the weight of the walls and the door was at a crooked angle.
‘Here’s the Vatican,’ Gabriel said with a laugh.
He hammered on the door and stepped back.
It opened a crack and Alain caught sight of a man peering out nervously.
‘Vincent sent me,’ Gabriel said.
The door opened and a hand gestured to them to enter.
‘Lawrence,’ Alain said with surprise.
The young man looked at him in terror and then light dawned. He gave a foolish grin.
‘This is Gabriel,’ Alain said, clapping him on the arm and pointing out Chiappe.
‘He told me you’re the angel Gabriel,’ Lawrence explained.
Chiappe looked confused but shrugged and offered Lawrence a cigarette. He refused it initially, but then glanced around and stuffed it into the pouch on his belt.
‘You want to see Father Benoît?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ Alain said. ‘And I’m glad to see that you and he are alive and well.’
Lawrence grinned and loped off, gesturing to them to follow.
The printing operation here was tiny compared to what Alain had seen in the monastery in Marseilles. Three men and two women worked at rickety desks and there was only one printer to duplicate the documents they produced. Father Benoît was perched on a high stool at the rear of the room, scrutinising some papers with utmost care.
He looked up when they approached and his brow furrowed. ‘I seem to recognise you, my son,’ he said to Alain.
‘You kindly agreed to produce some identity papers for the little boy we’re taking care of,’ Alain said. ‘Unfortunately, the Germans arrived a few hours later.’
A look of pain slid across Father Benoit’s face. ‘A terrible time,’ he said. ‘But with God’s will and guidance we continue the work.’
Alain took David’s papers from his pocket and showed them to the friar. ‘I need these to be replaced,’ he said.
‘Why do you need new papers when you have them already?’ Benoît asked.
‘Because there’s a tiny flaw in them.’ Alain pointed to the bottom of the document.
The friar peered at the document, then picked up a magnifying glass. ‘I can see no flaw.’
‘Nor can I. But a member of the fraud squad noticed it immediately. He advised me to get new papers.’
‘And you think we can do better than this?’
Alain shrugged. ‘I hope so.’
Benoît glanced at Chiappe. ‘And who is this?’
‘My friend. He’s an influential man on the coast.’
‘Ah,’ Benoît said. ‘By which you mean a gangster.’ He held out his hand to Chiappe.
Chiappe gave a grin which was part human, part shark, and shook his hand.
‘You have put yourself at risk coming here, my son,’ Benoît said to him. ‘At least in this world. Maybe, by doing so, you have saved yourself in the next one.’
‘Alain’s my friend, father,’ Chiappe replied. ‘And I am a man of God.’
Benoît gave him an unfathomable look. ‘Our Lord works in mysterious ways,’ he said, at last.
He called over one of the women at the table. ‘These documents have a flaw,’ he told her, ‘and have been compromised. They are for a little child and he and this man’s family are in jeopardy. I would like you to produce new papers immediately.’
‘My other work?’ she asked.
‘Of less immediate need.’
‘Then they’ll be ready this afternoon,’ she said, taking the papers back to her desk.
Father Benoît got off his stool and took Alain’s hand in his. ‘And now I must leave you, my son. I am grateful for all that you have done for the boy.’
‘I am his father now,’ Alain said.
Benoit's eyes filled with tears and he gave a little bow.
‘Claude,’ he said in a gruff voice, ‘where is Brother Ludovic?’
One of the men looked up. ‘Have you not heard, Father? He has fallen sick with the flux. He’s in a terrible state.’
Benoît looked aghast. ‘But I need him to translate for me. I am going to see Angelo Donati this morning and I don’t speak Italian.’
‘I was brought up in Menton and can speak Italian,’ Alain said. ‘I can translate for you.’
Benoît stared at him intently. Alain almost took a step back, so powerful was his gaze.
Finally the friar said. ‘This is of the utmost secret, my son. Can I trust you to never breathe a word of what Donati and I discuss?’
Alain gulped, surprised by the intensity of Benoit’s words and manner.
‘Of course. You’re helping me. It’s the least I can do.’
The friar nodded and touched Alain on the arm, almost a blessing.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Chiappe asked.
‘Forgive me, my son, but no. I have told Donati that I will come with only one person.’
Chiappe gave Alain a wry glance, suspecting that Benoît was making an excuse. No doubt the friar’s faith in redemption was tempered by knowledge of the power of temptation.
Father Benoît led the way to the entrance of the building. Brother Lawrence opened the door, peeped up and down the street and gestured that all was clear.
They stepped out and Benoît led them away at a furious pace. ‘It’s best not to be seen near the building,’ he said. ‘Prying eyes and ears.’
‘I could arrange protection,’ Chiappe said, to his own surprise.
Benoît considered this. ‘I would normally say that God’s protection is sufficient but maybe he has asked you to lend a hand. Let me pray tonight regarding your offer.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ Alain whispered in Chiappe’s ear.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe it’s some form of insurance.’
Benoît led them down the narrow streets of the old town. Chiappe said goodbye and the friar led Alain onto the Promenade des Anglais, which ran for seven kilometres beside the beach.
‘Who is this man Donati?’ Alain asked as they hurried along the promenade.
‘I don’t know much about him,’ Benoît replied. ‘He’s said to be an important member of the Italian business world, in banking and other enterprises. But my concern with him is because he is helping Jewish people to gain places of safety.’
They passed the Hotel Negresco and turned right into the Boulevard Gambetta. Benoît stopped a little further along and then darted into a doorway, dragging Alain along with him.
‘You remember your promise to me,’ he said, his voice stern and commanding. ‘Not a word of what we discuss is to pass your lips.’
Alain nodded.
Benoît hurried up the stairs and gave a soft knock upon a door.
It was opened by a well-dressed man in his fifties. His hair was receding with traces of grey close to his ears. He had a long, fine handsome face with a large nose framed by deep grooves on either side which might have made him look miserable were it not for a huge, warm smile. He shook Father Benoit’s and Alain’s hands and then, in perfect French, invited them to take a seat.
Benoît gave a look of astonishment. ‘I was told you could not speak French,’ he said.
Donati smiled. ‘I lived in Paris for twenty years and have been in the south since the Germans arrived. My French is, I believe, quite adequate. Although, in these troubled times, I am careful who I allow to know it.’
‘My apologies,’ Benoît said, ‘I was misinformed.’
Donati waved his hands as if to say it was nothing to
worry about.
Alain wondered if he should leave as there was now no need for him to translate. But the two men began an intense discussion about the situation of the Jews and appeared to almost have forgotten him. He decided to stay.
It was a revelation to him. For a start Donati told them that he was himself of a Jewish background. Then it became clear that he had been astonishingly active in aiding his fellow Jews. His extensive networks meant that he had been able to send Jewish families to secure havens in Saint-Martin-Vésubie and other towns. He had spirited others out of the country to Switzerland and Italy.
All of this, it appeared, was possible because the Italian military were reluctant to take any measures against the Jews, countermanding Vichy orders to imprison them and even, on one occasion, surrounding a Gendarmerie barracks with troops until the French reluctantly freed their captive Jews.
More recently, because of German pressure, the Italian authorities claimed that they were taking stringent measures against the Jews. This, however, appeared to be nothing but a ruse. The Jews were safer with the Italians than they had been under Pétain’s Government. Donati made full use of his countrymen’s reluctance to harm the Jews.
But he was not content with this. He had an even more ambitious plan which was why he had asked Father Benoît to meet him.
‘My people feel a little safer now,’ he said, ‘but it is not enough. Now, I want to ship all the Jews in southern France first to Italy and from there, onward to North Africa and the safety of the Americans and British.’
Benoît gaped in amazement when he heard this.
‘How will that be possible?’
‘We will need more than the support of the Italian military over here. We must get the Italian government to agree.’
‘That’s impossible. Mussolini will never countenance it.’
Donati leaned back in his chair and eyed Benoît with searching eyes. ‘Mussolini is not as impressed by Hitler as he pretends. He is frightened of him, yes, but like a child who lives in fear of a violent father will seek every chance to prove to himself that he is not afraid. Mussolini is not beyond conniving at measures to wrong-foot Hitler.
‘But he will need additional encouragement. That is where you come in, father. I want you to persuade your Pope to intercede with Mussolini and his ministers to insist that the plan goes ahead.’
