Those in Peril

by Margaret Mayhew

  He handed over his card. For all the major’s helpfulness, Duval noticed that he looked at it closely and carefully before he put it away in his pocket. ‘Did you perhaps fight in the last war, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like myself. But on the opposite side, of course. Were you wounded?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I was. They invalided me out.’

  ‘There we have it, then.’ Major Winter smiled. ‘Such an injury exempts you from obligatory labour. Very simple. More cognac?’

  He accepted graciously. ‘I suppose you’ve been imposing all kinds of regulations since I was last here. I shall have to watch my step.’

  ‘As I said, unhappily some rules are necessary. There is a curfew, as no doubt you are aware. Rationing was here before we came, of course, and your French system of tickets works well, but we have been obliged to make it more stringent, I’m afraid.’ The major raised his glass. ‘The good things of life, like this excellent cognac, are in sadly short supply but otherwise, I hope, you will find things tolerable in the Occupied Zone. How was it in Toulouse? At least, there things are being run by your own government which must make it somewhat preferable. I’m a little surprised that you returned here.’

  He said with a contempt that he saw no reason whatever to conceal, ‘I have no regard for Marshal Pétain and his cronies.’

  ‘Nor I, to tell the truth. It is hard to have respect for them. I found myself shocked by the easy surrender of France – I hope you will forgive me saying so. There has been dishonour . . . even shame.’

  ‘Believe me, I feel it myself.’

  The major drained his glass. ‘I will obtain an Ausweis for you and your military exemption document. As soon as I have them, I will deliver them to you – perhaps even tomorrow, or the day after. Tell me, do you possess a car?’

  ‘An old Citroën.’

  ‘You will need a permit that authorizes you to drive a motor vehicle. I can arrange that for you and I might be able to get you a few gasoline coupons, though that may prove more difficult – I’ll see what I can do. After all, even in a war, artists should be given every assistance. The culture of France must be allowed to survive and thrive. It must not wither. That is of great importance. And now, I will collect my possessions and leave you to your apartment.’ He went into the bedroom and reappeared after a few minutes carrying a suitcase and his high-peaked cap with its impressive Nazi insignia. ‘Please keep the cognac, with my compliments and my apologies. On my way out, I shall give myself the pleasure of a word with Mademoiselle Citron.’

  Major Winter was not the only Wehrmacht officer billeted in the building. On his way down the stairs the next morning, Duval encountered three more of them. Mademoiselle Citron was clearly making hay while the sun shone. He knocked on her door and was not surprised to find that, unlike the major, she was not in the least apologetic.

  ‘I was afraid to refuse, monsieur. The Germans act as they please, take what they want. What can one do?’

  ‘Not what you did, mademoiselle. We had a legal agreement, in case you have forgotten. The Germans are great respecters of the law, as no doubt you will have learned from Major Winter. You will oblige me by keeping strictly to it in future and not subletting my apartment to any more of them.’

  ‘So you will be remaining here now, monsieur?’

  ‘My plans are my business, mademoiselle. You have been paid and will continue to receive payment. There is no need for you to concern yourself with my affairs.’

  He saw the naked animosity in her eyes, as well as the old-maid bitterness.

  He breakfasted Chez Alphonse – weak coffee, coarse, grey bread, a smear of butter, a miserable little spoonful of jam. A mere sprinkling of local customers where, once upon a time, almost every table would have been taken. Alphonse was desolated – his face as long as a fiddle. ‘Things get worse and worse. The Boche have been bleeding us dry. They cram their suitcases and trunks with everything they can lay hands on to take back to Germany. Everything is scarce now – even fish because they will not give enough petrol to the boats. And there are almost no shellfish to be had, except those that the Germans confiscate for themselves. It’s a tragedy.’

  ‘Do they come in here to eat?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Alphonse spread his hands. ‘I have to keep my best rations aside for them. They demand it. I hate the bastards but I can’t refuse to serve them or they would close me down. Or worse. There have been arrests, you know. One cannot be too careful.’

  ‘People are afraid?’

  ‘Naturally. You should have stayed in the south, monsieur. It must be better down there.’

  He lit a cigarette. ‘Tell me, Alphonse. You hear and see what’s going on. You listen to what people say, watch how they behave, who is collaborating willingly with the Germans, for example.’

  ‘Ah, those I know . . .’ Alphonse reeled off names of those he considered suspect – among them, Mademoiselle Citron.

  ‘And our esteemed mayor?’

  ‘That’s different. You know how clever he is. He works with the Boche because he must, but he plays his own game, while seeming to obey all their little rules.’

  He paid and strolled along the waterfront in the hot morning sunshine, smoking his cigarette. Most of the fishing boats were already out, but the Espérance was still moored at the far end of the quay. As he drew nearer, he could hear the sound of tools clanging loudly on metal. Jean-Luc, one of the Douarnenez crew, was up on deck, apparently mending a net. When he caught sight of him, he vanished below and presently Lieutenant Smythson appeared in his fisherman’s blouse, canvas trousers and sabots, his dyed hair uncombed for days, his chin unshaven, his hands filthy with grease. Really, Duval thought, amused, one would never ever take him for an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Smythson came close to where Duval was standing on the quayside, and filed away intently at a tube of metal while he spoke.

  ‘The fishing brethren seem to have swallowed the story about the engine OK but I’m not sure how long we can spin it out. It’s not so much the Germans we need to worry about but the French – the maritime gendarmes and the port authorities. Some of them have taken to the new order with gusto, apparently. And we haven’t got the papers and permits for the boat that we’re supposed to have. How long do you think you’ll need?’

  ‘At least until tomorrow. Perhaps longer.’ Duval briefly related his conversation with the German major. ‘I must wait until he brings those documents. This morning I’ll go and see the mayor. He’s a friend of mine. He could be a mine of information. Also, he may be able to get papers for the boat.’

  Smythson nodded. ‘We’ll do our best to hang on.’ He blew on the tube. ‘We got rid of the fish before it went off completely. Flogged it cheap.’

  Maurice Masseron was about his own age. A big man with a head of thick, grizzled hair, a loud laugh, many friends and relatively few enemies. He worked hard at being a popular mayor and all things to as many people as possible, but he was nobody’s fool and nobody’s tool. In his office, in pride of place on the wall behind the desk, there was the painting Duval had done some years ago of the ancient standing stones outside the town. ‘I’m glad I bought it from you then. I couldn’t afford you now.’ He clapped Duval’s shoulder. ‘Sit down, Louis, my old friend. Have a cigarette while they’re still to be had. And a glass of cognac.’ A bottle and glasses surfaced from the bottom desk drawer, good measures were poured, the glasses raised and clinked loudly, one against the other. ‘It’s good to see you again. I’d heard that you’d gone south to the Unoccupied Zone. I was surprised. Frankly, I never took you for a Pétainist.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that! The old fool has just given us the gift of himself – did you hear his broadcast? Je fais à la France le don de ma personne. He has remained on French soil, he tells us, only so that he can preserve the government and the honour of France and save us from military rule. Our flag, he says, remains unstained. What a load of c
rap! He means that he can do deals with the Germans to shame us even more. But the Germans will use him and his cronies to do all their dirty work for them, wait and see – just like they’ll use the rest of us. They’ll take their revenge for Versailles, with interest. My God, we must pay them for the privilege of being occupied! Not all the soap in the world will ever wash the stain from the tricolore. Sit down, my dear friend, and tell me what I can do for you.’

  He said without hesitation, the decision to confide in Masseron already made, ‘I didn’t go to the southern zone, Maurice. I went to England.’

  The bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘To England? How did you manage that?’

  ‘In my boat, the Gannet.’

  ‘My God – in that little pisspot! You’re not kidding me?’

  ‘No. Not a pleasant voyage, I admit, but I arrived – in the end. And I’ve been there since France fell.’

  ‘But why come back? You must be mad, my friend.’

  ‘The English asked me if I could find out information for them and, like a cretin, I agreed. I came over on a Breton fishing boat that had fled to England. There are a lot of them over there.’

  ‘So I heard. Nobody can blame them.’ Masseron sipped his brandy and puffed at his cigarette, watching him closely. ‘Who did you come with?’

  ‘Three Bretons and a lieutenant of the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Not in his fine uniform, I trust?’

  ‘No. If you saw him, you’d take him for a Breton fisherman.’

  ‘That’s lucky for him. The English Navy stinks like rotting fish here at the moment. Have you heard the latest news?’

  ‘We were at sea for two days. What news?’

  ‘They’ve just destroyed most of our fleet at Mers-el-Kebir in Algeria. Sent their Royal Navy to do the deed while our ships were tied up in harbour. I imagine that Monsieur Churchill didn’t trust the Germans’ solemn, cross-their-heart promise not to make use of them.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have trusted them either.’

  ‘Nor I. Naturally, the Boche would have used our ships to attack England. They’re not stupid. But you can see why it wasn’t too popular here . . . a lot of French sailors died. Perfidious Albion up to her tricks again. So, you’d better warn your lieutenant. What information do the English want exactly?’

  ‘They need to know everything possible about the German Occupation regulations. They want samples of permits, exemptions, ration cards, papers of any kind that must be carried in order to comply.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘So they can forge them and send their agents to France without them being picked up the minute they set foot in the country. They want to find out everything they can about the German plans for an invasion of England, about the Wehrmacht troop movements, about Kriegsmarine and Luftwaffe activity, about the morale of the French population, about who might help against the Boche and who will not. And they need to know it fast.’

  Masseron whistled. ‘Not much! And you have come to me. I’m very flattered.’

  ‘You can be trusted, Maurice. I know that.’

  ‘Fortunately for you, you are right, or I might be telephoning the Gestapo at this very moment. But this is a very dangerous game for us two old men to play – you realize that?’

  ‘Yes, I realize it.’

  ‘The Boche are not plodding morons. I have already found that out in dealing with them. To their face I treat them with great respect. It’s only when they turn their backs that I spit on them.’

  ‘But you’ll help?’

  ‘Naturally. Some shreds of honour must be salvaged.’ Masseron unlocked a drawer in his desk, took out an old newspaper photo and waved it. ‘This is the man I pin my hopes to: General Charles de Gaulle. But I pin them in private. It’s safer that way.’ He replaced the photo and relocked the drawer.

  Duval said, ‘I’ve had one piece of good luck. A German major who has been occupying my apartment – without my consent, I might add – has promised to supply me with an Ausweis and also military exemption papers.’

  The eyebrows went up again. ‘How did you manage that trick?’

  ‘He is an admirer of my work. He felt guilty at using my apartment. And, naturally, he believes them to be for my use alone.’

  ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Major Winter.’

  ‘I have come across him. A decent enough fellow. I think you may rely on him to produce the goods. So, what other things can I get for you?’

  ‘Anything you can. Copies of work permits. Travel authorizations. Ration cards. Lists of regulations.’

  ‘You have no idea of the tidal wave of decrees and dictates coming from the Militärbefehlshaber and the Kommandantur but I will do my best.’

  ‘I have to work fast. How much time will it take?’

  The mayor shrugged. ‘Impossible to say. I’ll move as speedily as I can, but I shall have to be careful. Come here again at the same time tomorrow and you’ll see what I’ve come up with.’

  ‘There is another thing. The sardine boat I came on, the Espérance, is tied up in port here at the moment, pretending to have engine trouble while she waits to take me back to England. She came originally from Douarnenez but she has no up-to-date papers, no authorized crew list, no fishing permit, no customs clearance . . . nothing that can be shown if she is inspected.’

  ‘You may safely leave that to me. One would think this place was Brest by the way our port Administrator likes to throw his weight around but Georges Tarreau owes me a favour or two. Give me the names of the crew – true or false, whichever you are using – and I’ll do the rest. There must be an official list and they will each need a document to show that they are an inscrit maritime – I told you, it’s endless. You say the English want information on German troop movements, but that’s more difficult. Their security is generally tight. All I can say is that there are only three hundred or so Wehrmacht soldiers garrisoned in Pont-Aven and the surrounding district. Obviously, their main interest lies elsewhere in far more important ports – Brest, Lorient, St Nazaire, La Rochelle . . . There are rumours of big submarine pens being built at all those places and much naval activity – but they are only rumours. As to plans to invade England, I have also heard stories of converted barges assembled all along the coast of Normandy, and of the cafés being full of German soldiers bragging about how easy it will be to cross La Manche. But they are just stories – somebody had heard it from someone who had heard it from someone else . . . You know the sort of thing. There is no proof.’

  Duval nodded. ‘But it’s all of interest. It gives a picture. Major Winter told me that civilian rations have been cut.’

  ‘Inevitably. The Germans have to feed themselves here in France and the war must still be fought against England. Also, they are fond of looting. What victor is not?’

  ‘What about morale, Maurice? Have they lost all courage, all pride, all hope?’

  ‘Hard to say. Some have. Some have not. Those who follow the old Marshal will doubtless delude themselves from here until eternity that the honour of France has been saved and that our defeat was all the fault of the socialists. The rest of us must come to terms with the situation, each in our own way.’ Masseron shrugged. ‘Here in Pont-Aven, the few men who remain are mostly too aged or feeble to do anything other than they are told by the Boche, or else they are very young and reckless – like my son – which bodes ill for them. As for the women, they range from the whores who are making good extra money to the demoiselles who will not raise their eyes to a German’s face. In between, I think there are still a few who could perhaps help you.’

  Duval passed a list of names across the desk. ‘Alphonse spoke of these. The first column is those who he thinks can be trusted. The second, those he believes can’t.’

  Masseron ran his eye quickly down the sheet of paper. ‘Very few in the first category, I see. And he has missed several in the second. But, yes, I agree with him in general. Of course, what you have to remember though, my dear Louis, is
that where there are families involved, the Germans will take full advantage. That makes a difference. Who would be willing to risk sacrificing his family in order to help the English, if it came to such a choice? For myself, I’m thankful that my wife and I can barely stand the sight of each other.’

  Duval smiled. It was a slight exaggeration, of course, but it was common knowledge that the Masserons had had a combatant relationship for years. Insults and recriminations were the stuff of their existence. He said, ‘How is Anne-Marie?’

  ‘The same as usual. She drives me crazy. And my son drives me even more so. Luc is one of the reckless young fools that I spoke of. He amuses himself taunting the Germans – writing rude things over their posters, tearing down flags, that sort of thing. I have warned him against it many times but at sixteen one believes one can get away with anything.’ The mayor studied the list, fingering his chin. ‘Robert Comby, Paul Leblond, Jacques Thomine . . . if they were approached, I think they could make themselves useful. There is another name I would add: Jean-Claude Vauclin. Have you come across him ever?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was a commercial traveller in lace before he got some lung disease. Now he mends and sells bicycles for a living. But he will still have contacts all across Brittany and he went everywhere. Shops, homes, offices, farms . . . Also he thinks General de Gaulle is our saviour and that Hitler is Satan. He has a wife, Marthe, but no children. I would put him at the top of the list. I have not seen him for some time, myself, but he is the kind whose beliefs never change.’ Masseron got out his pen. ‘This is where to find him.’

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’

  ‘So, what will you do next?’

  ‘Go to see Vauclin and the others, if I can. After that I will return to my apartment and wait patiently for the major to turn up.’

  Masseron handed back the list. ‘Beware of Mademoiselle Citron. She belongs well and truly in the second category. Just the type of woman to settle old scores by shopping people to the Gestapo with any trumped-up story.’