by Matthew Cobb
Morandat did not know it, but he was on a similar wavelength to Chaban, who had arrived in Le Mans after a three-day journey from London. In Le Mans, Chaban had seen the local FFI fighters being rapidly replaced by army officers who for years had done nothing to help the Resistance but had recently taken their uniforms out of mothballs and were now trying to take command. Chaban sensed that this would cause problems, and in a letter to General Koenig – the nominal head of the FFI – Chaban insisted that as long as the FFI were helping the Allied offensive, ‘they should keep their organisation and their leaders . . . If we do not act in this way, we will have internal difficulties that can only lead the Allies to change their attitude.’25 In other words, if a strictly military conception of liberation were applied, with the Free French Army rapidly sidelining the FFI, there could be armed confrontations with parts of the Resistance which would undermine the Free French’s claim to enjoy the full support of the French population, and might lead the Allies to think again about whether the Free French should form the government of liberated France.
*
Conscious of the power of propaganda in cowing the public, von Choltitz made his first declaration to the Parisian population. He recognised that food, electricity and gas supplies were problematic – how could he deny it? – but he claimed this was due to ‘sabotage’. In a statement that was widely reproduced in the collaborationist press, Choltitz told the population, and the Resistance, what he would do: ‘Order will be imposed with the greatest possible determination. The food supplies of the Parisian population depend on order.’26 The article spelt it out: ‘In case of sabotage, attacks or riots, the Military Governor von Choltitz is determined to immediately apply the most severe, indeed the most brutal, means of repression. The proximity of the front line places particular responsibilities on the German Military Authorities, and justifies this intransigent attitude. All means that repress disorder, including the harshest, will be employed . . . Everything necessary will be done to maintain order and to pitilessly repress disorder.’27
Von Choltitz prepared to put his threat into action; Berlin had ordered him to destroy the dozens of bridges in Paris and the suburbs to block the Allied advance – a week earlier, the Germans in Florence had destroyed every bridge over the Arno, with the exception of the historic ponte Vecchio. Because most of the bridges across the Seine and the Loire to the west and south of the French capital had already been destroyed, the only direct route eastwards would soon pass through the centre of Paris. To ensure that von Choltitz had the means to carry out this order, Hitler had dispatched an ordnance battalion, which was billeted in the Senate building under the watchful eye of German quartermaster Robert Wallraf. As Wallraf settled the men in, he talked to their commanding officer, a squat and surly man, sunburnt from months of campaigning. When Wallraf asked whether the task of destroying so many bridges was daunting, the officer boasted that his unit had already carried out similar missions on the Eastern Front, in Stalingrad, Kiev and Kharkov, without any problem. The order would certainly require a huge amount of explosive, but that was already at hand in the form of several hundred torpedoes that the German Navy had stored in a disused road tunnel at Saint-Cloud. To expedite matters, von Choltitz ordered lorries to be put at the disposal of the ordnance battalion to transport the torpedoes from the western suburbs into the city centre.28
For the second day running, von Choltitz met von Kluge and the other commanders in the massive German command bunker at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, to discuss the preparations for the defence and eventual destruction of the city.29 After the war, Lieutenant-General Bodo Zimmermann, who was not present at the meeting, claimed that von Kluge and von Choltitz agreed not to defend the city by house-to-house fighting in order ‘to avoid destruction and loss of life’.30 If this decision was taken, it seems unlikely to have been based on a humanitarian desire to protect Paris or its population. A more probable justification would have been a sober estimate of the morale and battle-readiness of the German garrison, coupled with secret doubts at the highest level – two weeks later, von Choltitz admitted in a private conversation: ‘I have been a defeatist for the last two years, and I no longer feel optimistic about the outcome of the war.’31
After the meeting, von Kluge left Army Group B headquarters to meet with General Eberbach at Nécy, eight kilometres south-east of Falaise, and discuss the increasingly serious situation on the Western Front. But von Kluge never arrived, and the alarm bells began to ring in Hitler’s headquarters in Poland. Hitler’s paranoid suspicions about von Kluge’s loyalty flared once again, and rumours spread that Kluge had gone over to the Allies.32 Eberbach received an urgent message: ‘Establish whereabouts of Field Marshal Kluge. Report back every hour.’33 For the next twelve hours the Wehrmacht vainly scoured the Normandy front for signs of their leader. Eventually, around midnight, von Kluge turned up at Eberbach’s command post. An Allied fighter plane had attacked his car and he had lost all radio contact; he had spent much of the day hiding in a ditch while Allied aircraft buzzed overhead, and then found himself on roads jammed with the chaos of retreating German vehicles. Back in Poland the damage was done. Hitler was convinced that von Kluge was untrustworthy and made preparations to replace him with a commander who looked and behaved like a cartoon Nazi, bullet head, monocle and all: the utterly loyal Field Marshal Walter Model.
In Paris, wild rumours began to circulate. The newspapers claimed that there was an American general at the Hôtel de Ville, negotiating with the Laval government.34 According to Léon Morandat, it was not a ‘general’ but a US ‘diplomat’ who was discussing with Laval.35 Hidden in his attic, Albert Grunberg not only heard this rumour, he was even told that Paris would be declared an open city, policed by three different forces (French, German and American).36 For Marc Boegner, who was generally well informed, the only thing preventing an agreement between the Americans and the Germans was the extent of the planned German retreat: the Germans wanted to retreat five kilometres from Paris, whereas the Americans apparently wanted them back sixty kilometres.37 There is no evidence that any such discussions were taking place or that a US general or diplomat was in Paris at this time.38
More truthful than any of these fantasies was the gossip that writer Jean Galtier-Boissière recorded in his diary: the ‘collabos’ were getting frightened, while the bankers and bosses were trembling with fear, convinced that each night would bring a communist coup.39 The accuracy of some of these rumours is shown by the behaviour of the fascist Marcel Déat. The man who had been a hero during World War I lost his nerve as the Paris sky was filled with the continuous rumble of distant artillery fire.40 Keeping one eye on the moment when he would have to flee the capital, Déat incessantly demanded to be updated on the number of vehicles and the amount of fuel at his disposition. Appropriately, he noted with satisfaction in his diary that a stylish hearse had been requisitioned for his escape.41
*
As the collaborators prepared to leave Paris, the Allies sent their men into the city. With London’s agreement, Guy Marchant and Adrien Chaigneau of the Jedburgh Team AUBREY, accompanied by the French SOE agent ‘Spiritualist’ (Major Armand), made their way to the capital from their base to the north-east of Paris.42 The journey, by bicycle, was uneventful. Marchant was given Spanish papers, as his French was too poor to enable him to pass for a native; Chaigneau was provided with French papers and a precious motorcycle, and he began organising the scattered FFI forces that were part of the SPIRITUALIST circuit. The third member of the team, radio operator Ivor Hooker, had contracted mumps, so he stayed back at base, relaying messages to London every day or so. SPIRITUALIST’s previous SOE radio operator, Eileen Nearne, had been arrested by the Gestapo in July; although she had been able to convince the Germans that she was simply a French girl mixed up in something that was way over her head, she was still locked up in Fresnes prison.
AUBREY’s instructions stated that if they were arrested, Marchant, Chaigneau and Hooker would be con
sidered as ‘soldiers in uniform performing ordinary military duties’. That was all very reassuring, but they were not wearing uniforms and there was little doubt that if they were arrested they would be shot as spies.43 Despite this very real danger, Marchant moved around Paris, sometimes sleeping at Major Armand’s apartment, sometimes returning to their base in the countryside. Marchant’s report on food supplies in the capital revealed the classic situation of a city in wartime: although there was rationing, virtually anything could be obtained on the black market: ‘In the restaurants there was no shortage of food or wine. Better meals could be obtained than anywhere in London – at a price. A lunch of hors-d’oeuvres, Camembert cheese and peaches for three people cost around 4000 francs. Nevertheless all restaurants were crowded.’44 For ordinary people such luxuries were mere dreams. In many neighbourhoods it was impossible to cook at home as the gas supply was cut completely, so the city council planned to set up communal kitchens.45 Because of the lack of fuel and flour, the bakers announced they would not be able to bake bread.46 Even water was becoming scarce. The water pressure was reduced, and all over the city Parisians began collecting water in bottles and baths, adding drops of potassium permanganate to sterilise it, turning it purple in the process.47
The tenth birthday of Jacqueline Mesnil-Amar’s daughter Sylvie was on 15 August, so she had to have some kind of party. Her only friend still in Paris was duly invited round and the two girls played in a desultory fashion. In a lowered voice, the friend’s mother started asking Jacqueline whether there was any news of André, Jacqueline’s husband, who had been arrested on 18 July for his involvement in a Jewish Resistance organisation and was being held in Fresnes prison. Little Sylvie stiffened slightly and paid attention to what the two grown-ups were saying as she carried on playing; Jacqueline had not told her daughter that André was in prison, preferring to tell her stories about his bravery in the Resistance. In her diary that night, Jacqueline worried about the effect the situation was having on Sylvie and all the other children: ‘They listen, then they play, then they look at us without saying anything, then they play again . . . Does she really believe the stories we tell her? Above all, does she want to believe them?’
One evening in autumn 1943, Sylvie had been present when the Gestapo raided her grandmother’s apartment; she had hidden under the covers, pretending to be asleep. ‘She never spoke about it,’ wrote Jacqueline in her diary. ‘What do our children know of our terror? They are so close, but also so distant; so often, they leave us, abandoning the world of adults for their life in an eternal present.’ Inevitably, the adult world impinged on Sylvie, who displaced her fears into dreams that disconcerted and upset her mother, such as the one about her 2-year-old cousin, Zabeth: ‘You know, Mummy, I dreamt that they put Zabeth in a big box at the station, and they wrote “Deportation” on it in big letters. What does it mean?’48
All across the Paris region, thousands of prisoners were about to discover the answer to Sylvie’s question. At Fresnes prison, shortly after a breakfast of soup, the prisoners were ordered out of their cells and into a massive hall where there was a roll call. Around 1500 men and women were then led out and loaded into dozens of buses and lorries, guarded by SS soldiers who continually threatened them with guns. The prisoners were ordered to sit down with their heads bowed and not to look up as the convoy crossed Paris. Resistance fighter André Rougeyron recalled: ‘What a contrast: as we were going towards our deaths, thousands of people were enjoying the August sunshine and sitting idly at sidewalk cafés. A few noticed us, and I remember seeing, through the slats in the side of the truck, some horror-stricken Parisians watching our convoy pass by. A few women were weeping.’49
The same scene was repeated in prisons across the Paris region – la Santé, Cherche-Midi, Romainville, Compiègne; Resistance prisoners were loaded up and taken to Pantin railway station on the north-east edge of the capital. As the vehicles went through Paris, prisoners threw notes for loved ones onto the street, desperately hoping that a passer-by would deliver the message to its destination. One note that did get to its addressee, thanks to the help of the prison bus driver, was written by Virginia d’Albert-Lake, an American living in France who had been arrested for helping Allied airmen. As she was taken from Romainville Virgina wrote hopefully to a friend: ‘The entire prison is being evacuated this morning to an unknown destination. Thank you for the parcel which arrived yesterday. It was a lovely one and brought me much pleasure. My fifteen days have passed very agreeably. It’s very sad to be obliged to leave when the others are so near. But what can we do? Morale is high and I’m in good health. I am one of three hundred women leaving the prison. My love to all, especially to my darling. See you soon! Virginia.’50 Along with Virginia and André, over 2200 men and women were literally treated like animals by the Germans: they were herded onto the broad bricked surface of the quai aux bestiaux – the cattle platform – at Pantin goods station and then corralled in groups of up to 120 into cattle wagons, where they were so tightly packed no one could sit down. There was a meagre supply of water that was soon exhausted, and a single central pan acted as a stinking toilet. The heavy wooden doors were slid shut and then padlocked, leaving the prisoners in semi-darkness and fetid, stifling heat. They waited there all day under the baking August sun. Convoy I-264 was being assembled; its twin destinations were the concentration camps at Buchenwald (for the men) and Ravensbrück (for the women).
One of the prisoners taken onto the train was SOE agent Georges Clément, who had been caught by the Gestapo in Le Mans two days before the Allies liberated the city. At Pantin, he dropped a scrap of paper marked with the name and address of Andrée Goubillon, whose café sheltered SUSSEX agents passing through Paris. The note, which was duly transmitted to Madame Goubillon, read: ‘Have been arrested. Leaving for Germany. I can forget about resting. In friendship.’ Clément was executed at Mauthausen a month later.51
All over Paris, families were alerted to the imminent deportation of their loved ones, and scores of mothers, daughters and sisters flocked to Pantin, carrying food or simply good wishes. Over half a century later, Geneviève Savreux, who was a child at the time, recalled rushing with her mother to the station to catch a glimpse of her father, Resistance fighter Robert Savreux. She was able to wait on the platform near her father’s wagon: ‘All afternoon I stayed near Daddy, despite the German guards. I was wearing a beige pleated skirt with a red blouse and a belt with laces that Daddy had bought me. In the end, the SS made us leave. I can still hear the whistle of the train when it left.’52 Geneviève never saw her father again.
Madame Guilhamon heard her son, Paul, was being deported on a train from the Gare de l’Est, so she went there, only to discover that the convoy would in fact be leaving from Pantin. She managed to borrow a bicycle from a railway worker and pedalled her way to the eastern suburb. There she was eventually able to say goodbye to Paul. Madame Guilhamon spent the whole evening at the side of the platform, waiting, before exhaustion set in and she was sent away.53 Paul was only twenty-three; he would be dead before the year was out.
Among the dozens of desperate women was 40-year-old Marie-Hélène Lefaucheux; she was not only the wife of Pierre Lefaucheux (‘Gildas’), the regional FFI leader whose arrest in June had led to Rol’s promotion, she was also a Resistance leader and a member of the CPL. Early that morning, Madame Lefaucheux heard that prisoners were going to be transported from Fresnes. She had followed the convoy in a motorbike sidecar driven by a friend, after glimpsing the face of her husband in the last bus. After spending much of the day watching prisoners being herded into the cattle wagons, she finally managed to get through the sentries and onto the platform with a food parcel:
A soldier grabbed me by the arm, shouting that he would shoot. I shook myself free and said that it was ganz egal [no matter] to me and I hurried along the platform, calling out my husband’s name. An officer followed me, uncertain whether to stop me or not. Suddenly a voice replied from one of the w
agons: ‘Lefaucheux? That’s “Gildas” – he’s in the next wagon.’ I turned to the officer and said, ‘I want to give this parcel to my husband.’ He hesitated a second and then gestured to a soldier to open the door. I called Pierre’s name, gave him the parcel and kissed him. Then I left, without looking at either the officer or the soldier.54
At 21:30, in a desperate attempt to stop the deportations, Raoul Nordling went to see Laval at the Hôtel Matignon. Earlier he had been supposed to meet Parodi for the first time, to get Free French agreement for his plans to save the prisoners. But Parodi had not turned up to their Montparnasse rendezvous, so Nordling went empty handed to see Laval. The streets were dark and deserted, and when he got to the Hôtel Matignon, the luxurious building was dimly lit by candles carried by flunkies. Nordling was ushered into Laval’s office, which was illuminated by a hurricane lamp, around which huddled Abetz and Laval. The imminent collapse of collaboration was summed up in this scene of desolation. Once again, Nordling denounced the conditions in which the prisoners were being deported, only for Abetz to claim with some glee that he had personally talked to SS General Oberg and from now on ‘only’ seventy to eighty prisoners would be crammed into each wagon, while the Red Cross would be allowed to give out parcels before the convoy left.
Undeterred, Nordling pressed on and outlined his plan for all political prisoners in the Paris region to be handed over to the Red Cross, stating that in return German prison guards would be allowed to go free. Far overstepping his diplomatic role – and the truth – he stated that he could also speak for ‘the French government’ in this matter. Laval bridled, pointing out that he was the representative of the French government, but when Nordling made clear he was speaking about de Gaulle’s Provisional Government in Algiers, neither Abetz nor Laval batted an eyelid. This was very telling: here they were, the prime minister of France, together with Hitler’s diplomatic representative, apparently negotiating with the Free French, and yet nothing could seem more natural. The only sour moment came when Nordling pointed out that Germany might need the goodwill of the Allies. ‘So, Monsieur Nordling, you think that Germany has lost the war?’ sneered Abetz. ‘I think that things are not going very well for your army,’ Nordling replied.55
