Mr Campion's War

by Mike Ripley

  Astrid Lunel spoke little on the drive from Toulouse, apart from giving directions to the family apartment once we had reached Pau. Her husband had told me that had been their home, although both were caught in Marseilles during the round-up of Jews. I asked her if she thought the Pau apartment would be safe, as I had no idea what the Vichy line was on the property of its Jewish victims. If the example of Germany was anything to go by, an awful lot of ‘confiscation’ or ‘appropriation’ had gone on which in any civilized context would have been labelled as pure theft.

  She told me that ownership of the apartment had been put, legally, in the name of a Madame Prisca Henneuse, a widow of the First War and the concierge of the building, in late 1940 – Madame Henneuse being a family friend of the Lunels and totally trustworthy. There was no doubt at all in Astrid’s mind that the apartment would be clean, warm and welcoming when we arrived, and it would be the first place her husband would head for once he was free of the clutches of the Pirani gang and Vichy.

  I did not have the heart to tell her that her husband was still firmly in the clutches of Vichy, if not his criminal employers, but I was delighted that we had a base in Pau. The camp at Gurs was only thirty or so kilometres away, and Pau was the perfect jumping-off point for an escape route through the mountains into Spain, providing we could beat the winter, not to mention the small matter of obtaining Nathan Lunel’s freedom.

  Exactly how all this would be accomplished was still in flux, and I was both delighted and relieved to learn that the Lunel’s apartment was equipped with a telephone.

  The concierge, Madame Henneuse, proved to be exactly the faithful family retainer Astrid Lunel had promised, and their greeting was a genuinely warm one. The apartment had been kept spotless during the Lunels’ absence and Madame Henneuse had resisted the temptation to move in, although she had every legal right to do so, preferring to remain in her two-room lair by the front door of the building. She may now technically be a woman of property, but her needs were few and, after all, she was the concierge and had her basic duties to perform: intimidating visitors and deterring tradesmen.

  I was introduced to her simply as ‘M’sieur Didier’ and described as ‘a family friend’; I would be staying only for a few days until we were joined by her husband and then we would all be leaving, and for good. Madame Henneuse looked both relieved and apprehensive at the news and interrogated Astrid about the health of both the forthcoming baby and the mother-to-be, accompanied by much fussing and the brewing of some rather unpalatable herbal tea.

  When Astrid declared that she needed to bathe and find some clothes which made her look less like a gypsy fortune-teller, I managed to get Madame Henneuse alone and, using all my natural charm, got her talking about the Lunels. She did not need much encouragement, as she was relieved to have the opportunity to talk about them in the present tense after months of uncertainty.

  Nathan Lunel – a true gentleman if ever there was one – and Astrid had left Pau in June that year. Nathan often worked away for long periods, and it was only natural that he would want his pregnant wife close to him, although at that time she was hardly showing.

  The three of them had discussed the possibility of Vichy action against the Jews and taken what steps they could. The round-up, when it came, caught the Lunels in Marseilles, but left their Pau apartment – now no longer in their names – intact. A local Vichy official (at this point Madame Henneuse made as if to spit at the very thought) had called round to check if there were any Jews in the building and had been sent away with several fleas in his ear. No one else had visited the apartment or enquired after the Lunels that summer.

  I explained that there might be some strange comings-and-goings over the coming days and discretion would be required. I need have no fear of that, Madame Henneuse assured me, as ‘her’ Astrid had told her that I was the bravest man she had ever met and had promised to get her and her husband out of France.

  With such a glowing character reference, and several portions of Madame Henneuse’s excellent boudin noir stew inside me, I slept like a log that night in the smaller bedroom of the apartment. I greeted the morning with a bowl of real coffee and some freshly baked rolls served with home-made apricot jam. Madame Henneuse, in my eyes, was proving herself to be invaluable, and with a view of the majestic Pyrenees from the casement windows I found it difficult to believe there was a war on.

  But there was, and I had to get on with it.

  The telephone in the apartment was working and I placed a call to the Hôtel Libéria in Marseilles and asked to speak to the manager.

  ‘This is Ignatius Saint of Trinity Street, Cambridge,’ I said to identify myself and indicate that I was alone and could speak safely in the code Robert and I had established.

  I had spoken in English, and if Robert was in any way compromised, he would answer in French or German, demanding to know who I was and what the Dickens I was talking about.

  ‘So, you are safe?’ he answered in good, safe English. ‘All of you?’

  ‘All present and correct and quartered safe out of danger.’

  ‘In Pau. A beautiful city, don’t you think?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘A guess; but remember, I have been taking an interest in Nathan Lunel for some time. I know about their apartment in Pau and I knew you were heading in that direction, so I took the precaution of having a man watch the place.’

  ‘You have a local office?’

  I was sure I could hear Robert smile down the wire.

  ‘We like to know who is coming and going over all those escape routes to Spain, but Pau is perfect for our purposes and I would have suggested it myself as a base of operations. I can be there by this evening.’

  ‘That sounds ominously like you have a plan.’

  ‘I have, and you won’t like it.’

  Robert gave me an address and more things to worry about before cutting the connection, which required me to place another call, this time to a café in Toulouse, to a number which Olivier Courteaux had made me memorize as we stood on the station platform.

  This time I identified myself simply as ‘Didier’ and asked to speak to ‘Javel’, which was Olivier’s code name based on the Paris metro station system favoured by the Free French. I was told to telephone again in one hour and eventually had Courteaux on the line.

  ‘I have important news,’ I said.

  ‘As I have for you,’ he countered.

  ‘But first I must know if our young friend is safe.’

  ‘Yes, she is safe here with me. She sleeps all day and eats whenever she wakes.’

  ‘Good. Keep her close. Actually, send her away, far away. On no account let her go back to Marseilles. She would be in great danger there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She has made a big enemy there, in the Panier.’

  ‘We all have enemies there,’ Olivier said lightly, but there was concern in his voice. ‘Have they taken the loss of their guest badly?’

  ‘Very badly, and it is worse than that. During the … removal … of that guest, there was shooting, and one of the casualties was Paul Pirani himself.’

  ‘Fatally?’

  ‘No, but he will walk with a limp from now on.’

  ‘A pity. You should have been a better shot.’

  ‘I was not the one shooting and I did not know it was Pirani who was chasing us, but on the general principle, I have to agree with you. The Panier gang have already started a campaign of revenge. They suspect the girl and are hunting her; the first place they went was the shop of Madame Joubert.’

  ‘Be assured, I will keep Corinne close,’ said Courteaux, ‘but now you must listen to me carefully. The word from our Spanish friend is that you should look to the Ilhéou valley and the black lake beyond Pont d’Espagne. He will be watching for you at noon on the Pilgrim’s Way the day after tomorrow, and for the next three days. He said you would understand.’

  ‘I do. Thank you for that.’

 
‘Good luck, my friend. Keep safe.’

  ‘You too – and keep the girl safe also.’ I took a deep breath. ‘There is something else I must tell you, but you cannot ask me how I know.’

  The Frenchman did not hesitate. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Pirani’s people have also visited the Seamen’s Mission, which Corinne knows well.’

  ‘We all do. Pastor Nevin is a good friend to France.’

  ‘Not any longer, I’m afraid,’ I said with a heavy heart.

  I told Astrid Lunel not to leave the apartment, use the telephone, or answer the door to anyone who had got past her loyal guard dog of a concierge, and to keep away from the windows while I was away. She looked at me with amazement and not a little scorn; it was rapidly becoming her favourite facial expression where I was concerned. With some disdain she explained that as a Jew she knew only too well how to go unnoticed, but she had no intention of leaving the apartment as she had to prepare it for the return of her husband – the very return I had promised her.

  I left her just before dusk, after Madame Henneuse had given me directions to the address Robert had given me. It was a hotel near Pau Château, once the home of Henry IV, known to the French as ‘good king Henry’ and to generations of English schoolboys as the man who declared that Paris was ‘worth a mass’, which is the sort of thing schoolboys remember even if they have no idea what it meant at the time it was said.

  Le Postillon was an old coaching inn, now a hotel, and had no connection other than in my infantile brain with the famous translation from a Hungarian guide book that ‘my postillion has been struck by lightning’, which surely ranked with la plume de ma tante as one of those phrases which should by law be in the vocabulary of every cosmopolitan traveller.

  I did not know if Le Postillon was the Pau headquarters of the Abwehr or simply a place where Robert liked to stay, so I did not go blundering in there. Rather, I observed the place from a nearby café until a familiar Panhard drew up to the door and decanted Robert and two large suitcases. As the limousine pulled away, I noticed that it was the faithful Erik who was driving, and not for the first time reflected on the irony that in that moment my two most reliable allies in the vicinity were members of the enemy’s intelligence service.

  I watched the doors of the hotel for another ten minutes, eking out a small glass of red wine which the café proprietor clearly thought should have been replenished by now, then strolled across the street and into Le Postillon and asked if a Dr Haberland was in his room.

  With an efficiency which suggested German rather than French management, I was told that Professor Haberland was in residence and expecting a visit from a Jean-Baptiste Hamelin. Thinking quickly on my feet, I remembered that was me and was shown to a room on the first floor.

  ‘I’m glad you are safe, my friend,’ Robert greeted me after stubbing out one of his odiferous cigars in the blue china saucer which served as an ashtray. ‘It would be wise not to return to Marseilles.’

  ‘I have no immediate plans to do so,’ I said, ‘though I assure you it was not I who attempted to assassinate Paul Pirani. I’ve never met the man and I usually insist on being formally introduced before I try and shoot someone.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Pirani lives, and his men have turned the city inside out looking for Madame Lunel, the girl who shoots badly, and you. The Seamen’s Mission was one of the first places they went to and your countryman Sandy Nevin took the brunt of their anger.’

  ‘Pastor Nevin had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘He knew the girl and he knew you, that was enough. That is why they tortured him before they killed him.’

  That was one detail Robert had left out of our telephone call.

  ‘He could not have told them anything,’ I said, feeling weak and rather useless.

  ‘Oh, do be realistic, Albert. Pastor Nevin was a conduit for escaping prisoners and airmen and he had many contacts with those who resist Vichy. He knew, or would have guessed, that you and the girl would contact the Free French in Toulouse.’

  With more defiance than I truly felt I said, ‘That doesn’t mean Nevin told them anything.’

  ‘I know what they did to him and would say that in all probability he did; before he died.’

  ‘Asher,’ I said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Magnus Asher. He saw me at the Mission and the girl was there too. He was also involved in Lunel’s financial transfers and in getting Astrid out of the Jewish round-up. I suspect Mr Asher’s name will feature in Lunel’s ledger of accounts. He has a vested interest in this business.’

  ‘Which could make him more dangerous,’ said Robert thoughtfully. ‘Especially if he knows of the Lunels’ apartment here. We must assume that by now his contacts in Les Milles will have told him that Lunel has been moved to Gurs. The Gurs camp is only thirty kilometres away and Pau is a gateway to Spain. He will make the connection.’

  ‘Then we had better move fast. You got Nathan into Gurs easily enough, but how do we get him out?’

  ‘Through the front gate,’ said Robert, heaving first one then the other suitcase on to the bed, flicking the catches and lifting the lid, ‘wearing these.’

  Each case contained a pair of shiny black leather jackboots, a black peaked cap and a black uniform with diabolic silver piping and insignia.

  ‘Albert, you’re about to join the SS.’

  The next morning saw us being driven out of Pau, with Erik once again our chauffeur, only this time he had exchanged the Panhard for a black Mercedes military staff car to give our expedition a more official feel. Erik was in a nondescript Wehrmacht uniform but there was no pennant flying over the bonnet. Official, but not ostentatious. Any possibility of us travelling unnoticed would quickly go up in smoke if the Mercedes was stopped and the passengers in the back seat examined. German staff cars were not unknown in Vichy, especially this close to the Occupied Zone running along the Atlantic coastline, but SS officers in full uniform were still liable to cause a stir. Neither of us carried pistols, at least not openly, as technically we were in friendly territory.

  Robert had assured me that the uniforms were essential. They would give us unquestioned access to Gurs, where many of the Vichy guards had been trained by the SS in concentration camp efficiency, and throughout Europe it was known that it was never prudent to disobey the bullyboys of the SS.

  When Robert had arranged the transfer of Nathan Lunel out of Les Milles, he had done it with a subtle combination of bribery, threats and fake documentation, which identified Lunel as a person of some interest to the SS, who would be collected by them from his new home in Gurs for ‘onward transportation’ – a phrase most Vichy officials and police had learned not to question.

  He assured me that the paperwork was in order, or at least well-enough forged to impress the officials at Gurs, and two SS men in an official-looking car with a driver would be above suspicion. It was Robert’s way of explaining why I had to be there partaking in that horrid charade. It was not a question of sharing the risk – that I accepted completely – it was the fact that while one SS man might be suspect, two officers in an official car with a driver were clearly an arrest squad.

  I accepted the need for the masquerade, but it still made for an uncomfortable journey, sitting in the back of the Mercedes with that infamous black peaked cap on my knees, its gruesome death’s-head insignia grinning up at me.

  It could have been my imagination, but I was sure I smelled the camp at Gurs, a sour stench of dampness, smoke and open drains, before we saw it. Perhaps it was only the overwhelming sense of dread which closed round me like a clammy evening mist. I put it down to having to wear that hated uniform, and the fact that it allowed us the impunity to enter that ‘place you do not want to go’, as it was known, to rescue just one of the thousands of inmates, none of whom deserved to be there. I was further affected by Robert’s last-minute briefing speech which, although necessary, was ignoble at heart, and nowhere near as inspiring as Harry’s exhortation
s before the walls of Harfleur.

  ‘Albert, you must remember that for the next few hours, you are a person of rank within the SS. I hesitate to use the word “officer” for that would imply that they behave with some shred of honour. They do not, which is why they are feared and not respected. You must think yourself into the role, old friend. You must act as if your orders are always obeyed instantly and never, never questioned. You do not take orders from any Vichy official or soldier, whatever their rank. The prisoners you ignore, for there is only one we are interested in, and he is a Jew; therefore, you do not acknowledge him, certainly not as someone you have met before but also not as a human being. He is a Jew, and if he looks you in the eye or fails to remove his cap, your instinct will be to strike him. If somebody does strike him down, you do not help him up, understand? Do you think you could do that?’

  ‘With difficulty,’ I said, ‘but I know I must try.’

  The road which bisected the camp was long and straight, like an aerodrome runway, flanked by flat fields which had been scoured of vegetation and were now simply squares of mud. To our left the road was lined with telephone poles which, with a low sun behind them, could prove a hypnotic danger to the unwary driver as they flashed by, adding another layer of unreality as the camp itself came into view.

  The line of poles continued into the distance, but suddenly the space between them was filled with a wire fence. There were no watchtowers or machine-gun posts or minefields that I could see, and the wire fence, not much higher than a tall man, was made up of large squares like farmyard chicken wire. At first glance it would seem the easiest of obstacles to climb, the spacings in the wire forming a perfect ladder, but then I noticed the strands of barbed wire woven through the fence in large X-shaped patterns. This boundary fence protected a landscape of grey windowless wooden huts, six straight rows on each side of the road, stretching off almost as far as the eye could see and, between each row, a street of mud. Had it not been for the humans shuffling aimlessly through the ankle-deep mud – men, women and children, all wearing several layers of clothing; and, on the corners of alternate barrack blocks, ramshackle outdoor kitchens with tables and portable wood-fired stoves – the whole camp could have been a chicken farm built by the giant at the top of Jack’s beanstalk.