by Alex Gerlis
‘And?’
‘They took him away.’ She shifted in her seat and tipped some more cognac into her cup. ‘I guess you want to know what happened to him? Le épuration sauvage: he was handed over to a group of Jewish resistance fighters who were specifically looking for people who’d informed on Jews, leading to their deportation. They made him write a full confession.’
‘And has he been put on trial?’
‘There’s a French saying: manger les pissenlits par la racine. How would you translate?’
‘It means to eat dandelions by the root,’ said Wilson.
She paused, looking at the others for a reaction. ‘It means he’s dead. Thank God.’
She smiled sweetly as she opened her handbag, removed her lipstick and proceeded to apply it. ‘That’s my story, so to find someone who knew le furet will be a pleasure. I will make some calls this afternoon and speak to people. Let’s meet back here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’
* * *
Paris had continued to feel like a honeymoon. On Wilson’s recommendation, they dined that evening at Fouquet’s on the corner of the Champs-Elysées and Avenue George V. They both had caviar and duck and agreed that after what they’d both been through Tom Gilbey would find it hard to deny this meal on their expenses. They toasted Gilbey with a champagne cocktail, and Prince explained how the talk was that Gilbey’s family had set up one of the most famous gin distilleries in England.
When they turned into rue de Duras just before eight o’clock the next morning, a heavy drizzle had made the cobbles slippery and a black Citroën was waiting outside the bar, its engine running. As they approached it, the passenger door opened and Marguerite gestured for them to get in the back. She turned round as it pulled away.
‘I think I have had some luck – maybe. We’re heading to Val-de-Marne, it’s about half an hour’s drive south of Paris. There’s a large prison there called Fresnes. The Germans used it as a place to imprison and torture many of our resistance comrades. Now it’s full of collaborators – we’re interested in one of them.’
‘But if they’re a prisoner, won’t this all need to be official?’
‘You don’t need to worry about that. The resistance still carries considerable moral authority. Last night we arranged for the prisoner to be moved to a section that is under the control of one of our former comrades. The only thing I ask is that you don’t speak until we’re in a room with them. Meanwhile, enjoy the journey. Do you like this car?’
‘It’s magnificent!’
‘One of the fleet of Citroëns the Gestapo had in Paris. My group borrowed them.’
* * *
An hour later, they were in a small office in the basement of the prison. The car had driven through a side entrance, passing through three security barriers until they reached a small cobbled courtyard, where a tall, strikingly handsome man in a black uniform was waiting for them in an open doorway. He shook their hands, introduced himself as Benoît and told them to follow him.
He led them into a room in the basement and closed the door. ‘I have made sure my most trusted guards are on duty today. They’ll bring the prisoner in and then wait outside. I can give you a maximum of forty-five minutes with her. Marguerite, you have the file there on the table. I’ll give you a few minutes to read it, and then they’ll send her in.’
Prince and Hanne sat either side of Marguerite at a metal table as they studied the file together:
Name: Anna Lefebvre
Age: 47
Residence: Sarcelles
Date of arrest: 17 July 1945
Alleged offence: the prisoner Anna Lefebvre was employed by the German occupying forces from October 1940 as a clerical worker. From November 1941 she worked for the Gestapo at 11 rue de Saussaies in the 8th arrondissement. We have specific information from three sources that after a period as a records clerk in January 1943, Lefebvre transferred to a section of the Gestapo that comprised French citizens who undertook surveillance on other French subjects. See appendices to this file for details of cases she worked on, which include infiltrating a resistance group and informing on hidden families. Lefebvre is understood to have been an active member of this unit until July 1944, when she left Paris ahead of the liberation. In July this year, acting on information received, she was arrested in Blois, where she had been living under the false identity of Eugénie Paquet. She claims she was forced to work for the Gestapo and says it was only ever as a clerk.
Action: trial of prisoner Anna Lefebvre scheduled for November 1945 at Fresnes.
When Anna Lefebvre was led into the room, she looked surprisingly defiant. Despite her prison clothes, she had a certain elegance. The collar of her prison blouse was turned up, and she appeared to be wearing make-up. She held her hands out in the expectation that the guards would remove her handcuffs, which they did, and sat down before being asked to do so.
Marguerite spoke. This was part of the investigation into Lefebvre’s case, she said; part of the preparation for her prosecution. There was a possibility that significant cooperation on her part could help reduce the seriousness of the charge against her, which at present was one of treason, carrying the death penalty.
Anna Lefebvre sat impassive, looking at Prince and Hanne as if trying to work out who they were. Even when Marguerite said the words ‘death penalty’, she didn’t flinch. She ran her fingers across her hair to make sure it was in place.
‘Are you prepared to answer some questions?’ Marguerite asked.
Lefebvre shrugged. ‘Depends if I know the answers – I doubt it, though. I keep telling you people, I was no more than a clerk at the Gestapo. The cleaners would know more than I did.’
‘According to this file, there is evidence that you were more than a clerk – you were part of a Gestapo unit spying on citizens. There are witnesses.’
‘Ask those witnesses whatever questions you have then. It’s all right for you, with your posh accent and your airs and graces, but a poor woman like me didn’t have any choice. I had an elderly mother and no job; we’d fallen behind with the rent and were about to be kicked out of the room we shared. The first job I got was in a police station – that’s hardly collaborating, is it? Then I was ordered to go and work at rue de Saussaies, and I could hardly refuse that, eh?’
‘Plenty did.’
‘Well good for them. They probably knew where their next meal was coming from. Look, I know that everyone now claims they were in the resistance and those of us forced to work for the German were collaborators. But it really wasn’t as simple as that. The whole country collaborated, in the sense that the vast majority of people passively went along with the occupation. You people see everything as being black and white, whereas in truth most of us were forced to live in an uncomfortable grey world in between.’
‘I want to ask you about one person, Lefebvre, a German who worked for the Gestapo here in Paris. We’re not sure when he arrived here, but we know for sure he was here in December 1943 and left Paris sometime in early 1944. According to the description we have, he’d have been in his late twenties, and had blonde hair and what are described as bright blue eyes.’
‘Are you serious? You’re describing the majority of Germans who were here! Have you not heard of the Aryan race? Most of them in Paris looked like pretty good examples of it.’
‘His nickname was the Ferret.’
Both Hanne and Prince picked up on her reaction, perhaps before Marguerite did. Between them they must have interrogated hundreds of suspects, and both knew there was a point in an interrogation when someone was asked a question they knew the answer to but were reluctant to give it. It might be some information that would incriminate them, or they might be too scared to answer, or they might just want to keep quiet and see how much their interrogator knew. But the reaction was invariably the same – a momentary look of surprise, perhaps a pursing of the lips or a twitching of another facial muscle, accompanied by an adjustment in their seating. And the answer would a
lways be a bit too quick to be convincing.
‘I have no idea who you’re talking about.’
‘Think about it very carefully, Lefebvre, because your life could depend upon it. I promise you if you give us his name then this will count in your favour and the charge against you will be reduced.’
Anna Lefebvre leaned forward, as if she was interested but trying not to show it. ‘Could I have one of your cigarettes?’
Hanne lit one for her and passed it over. Lefebvre looked closely into her eyes as she did so, still trying to work out who she was. She smoked the cigarette for a few moments and then pointed it towards them. ‘These two – do they speak?’
‘These two, as you call them, are the people who can decide whether you live or die. Think about it, Lefebvre, a Gestapo office matching that description who was nicknamed the Ferret. I find it very hard to believe that if you worked at rue de Saussaies for all that time, you never came across him or heard the name.’
‘Ask her about Dijon.’ It was the first time Prince had spoken, and Lefebvre raised her eyebrows.
‘Ah, yes – he was involved in a case in Dijon where he raped a British agent and then shot her dead.’
A slight narrowing of the eyes as if this had rung a bell, but still Lefebvre said nothing as she finished her cigarette.
‘Let me say this.’ Prince was speaking in a friendly manner, smiling at her. ‘I think I understand your situation. You may well have been junior in the Gestapo, but I find it very hard to believe that in the nearly three years you worked for them, you never came across that nickname.’
Lefebvre shrugged. Hanne lit another cigarette for her.
‘But you are probably wondering whether we’re telling you the truth – whether if you give us the information, we really will ensure your charge will be reduced. Is that the case?’
Lefebvre nodded.
‘You’re not exactly in a position to bargain with us. If you know anything, tell us and we can assess how helpful it is. After all, your life is at stake – why should you risk it to protect a Gestapo officer who’s probably living it up somewhere?’
Anna Lefebvre ran her fingers through her hair in a more agitated manner and sighed as she looked up at the ceiling. ‘He didn’t work at rue de Saussaies.’
‘So you had heard of him?’
‘I heard this nickname but I don’t know his real name. He had a reputation for being both violent and incompetent. I think when he first came to Paris he was based at Avenue Foch, but then he was moved. As you know,’ she looked at them, ‘or maybe you don’t, each of the twenty arrondissements in Paris has its own town hall, a mairie. The Gestapo had an office in each mairie. If my memory serves me correctly, this Ferret character was based in the mairie of the 15th arrondissement. That is all I can tell you.’
Marguerite started to speak, but Hanne placed a hand on her arm to stop her and whispered in English, ‘Tell her that’s not good enough. She’s no fool. She’s obviously holding something back.’
‘Did you understand that, Lefebvre?’
The woman nodded her head.
‘We need something more than that.’
Her shoulders dropped as if in resignation.
‘Ask Charles Girard… and give the bastard my regards.’
Chapter 9
Paris, September 1945
No one in the mairie of the 15th arrondissement admitted that they’d heard of a Charles Girard or come across a blue-eyed blonde German who answered to the nickname of the Ferret. No one even knew about a Gestapo bureau in the building.
There was much shaking of heads. Try rue de Saussaies – number 11.
‘No, we understand this man worked here, in the mairie.’
Of the 15th? Not possible.
‘Are you certain – we were told the Gestapo did have an office here: perhaps a small one?’
More shaking of heads. Avenue Foch – that was Gestapo too, have you tried there?
They’d driven straight to the mairie from Fresnes after meeting Anna Lefebvre. It was a large building, stretching from rue Blomet on one side to rue Lecourbe on the other, and it took them the best part of two hours to work their way through it. Eventually Marguerite said they were wasting their time, they’d have to think of another way to find Charles Girard. She’d told the driver to park the Citroën further down rue Blomet, and they were walking back towards it when a young woman pushed between them as she hurried along the pavement. She paused to apologise before adding urgently that they should follow her and say nothing.
She turned into rue Gerbert and then continued on towards a church. The building was dark and empty apart from an elderly woman dressed in black dusting the pews in front of the altar. The young woman led them into a small side chapel that smelt of damp.
‘We’ll be safe here for a while. Hardly anyone comes in between masses. My name is Irène.’ She shook their hands formally. She was thin and pale and probably still in her twenties, though her face was lined and her long dark hair had flecks of grey in it. ‘It’s strange being in here again, in a clandestine manner: this church is Saint-Lambert de Vaugirard, and we used it during the war. The priest was very helpful.’
‘We?’ Marguerite looked suspicious. ‘I think you need to tell us who you are, Irène.’
‘I work in the mairie. I heard the questions you were asking and saw how reluctant people were to help you, which doesn’t surprise me. I think I can help. You ask what I meant by “we”. I was FTP.’
She paused and looked at them carefully. Marguerite addressed Hanne and Prince in English. ‘The FTP was – is – Francs-Tireurs et Partisans. It was the communist resistance. You were in it throughout the war?’
Irène nodded. ‘I speak good English if that helps. I studied it at university.’
‘Hang on.’ Marguerite sounded suspicious. ‘Let me ask you some questions first. Which unit were you in?’
‘Grenelle.’
‘So near here?’
‘Very near.’
‘I know about Grenelle: where did you meet?’
‘At first we met in an apartment in rue Violet, at number 41. Then we used the school across the road. The caretaker was a sympathiser and allowed us access to the basement: we stored weapons there too.’
‘Who recruited you?’
‘I only ever knew him as Major Marcel. He was arrested by the Nazis in March 1943 and tortured in Fresnes and then executed. For a while our group was dormant until we were sure Marcel had not divulged anything about us. That’s when we moved our base to the school.’
‘And give me the name of the person who commanded the group after that?’
‘Well actually we merged with another group – the idea I think was to move from small cells to larger ones. The group we merged with was based around Gare Montparnasse.’
‘That was commanded by Captain Edouard, right?’
‘No, there was no Captain Edouard. It was a woman: Germaine.’
Marguerite nodded. ‘How come you joined the FTP: are you a communist?’
Irène shrugged, as if she’d not really thought about it. ‘Maybe… I was married to one, though. My husband, David, was a Polish Jew who’d moved here when he was a boy, and he was a party member. When the occupation started and the restrictions on Jews came into force, he insisted we get divorced so as to protect me. I didn’t want to, but he was adamant. I hoped we could escape from Paris, maybe head south, but it became impossible. I was working at the mairie here and continued to do so throughout the war. David moved around Paris and we met whenever we could. In July 1942, he was living in a room in the 9th, and that was when he was arrested in the grand rafle, the round-up of Jews. He was taken to the Vélodrome d’Hiver, and when I went there to find out what had happened to him, a police officer – a French police officer – told me he’d gone home to Poland and laughed.’
‘Auschwitz?’ It was the first time Hanne had spoken.
Irène nodded.
‘I was at Ravensbr
ück,’ said Hanne, taking the French girl’s hand.
‘You’re Jewish?’
‘No: I’m Danish. I was a British agent – with Richard.’ She turned to Prince and smiled. ‘So I understand, a little.’
Irène was lost in her thoughts for a while. ‘That was when I joined the FTP – a friend of David’s arranged it. I’d avoided being active before that because I didn’t want to do anything that could compromise David. After he was deported, I had nothing to lose. Because I worked in the mairie, I was able to access information that was useful to the resistance – addresses, that kind of thing. Now, you need to understand that most of the people you encountered today worked there during the war. They weren’t collaborators as such, but they were close to it, if you get my meaning. By working in the mairie they indirectly helped the Nazi occupation, so it’s no surprise that they feel sensitive about it now, which would explain why they’re reluctant to help you. They’re certainly reluctant to admit there was a Gestapo office there.
‘So there was one?’
‘Of course! The Gestapo had a presence in all the mairies; it was the best way of checking on people, getting addresses, accessing local information. They used them for the rounding-up of Jews and then carried on throughout the war. It was only a small office, but it was there on the third floor, overlooking rue Lecourbe.’
‘And Charles Girard – and the German, the Ferret?’
‘Ah – that is where I can help you. The man who ran the office went under the name of Charles Girard and he was something of an enigma. For a start, that was not his real name – this is not in itself unusual: many French collaborators used different identities. But it was hard to work out what nationality Girard was – his French was fluent and sounded like that of a native, but he also sounded like a German too. He was more like an office manager at first – and there were always one or two German officers based there. For a while, one of them was the man you describe – he was only ever known as the Ferret.’
