She said‚ ‘You know‚ I like you. So much‚ I could never go to bed with you.’
‘What about on a desert island?’
‘Even with all the time in the world‚ I’d never be able to enjoy it. I’d be too busy thinking what a pity it was.’
‘And what about that guy Heiss … I mean‚ Lagarde‚ what do you make of him?’
‘Ah‚ he’s got me under his skin. He comes to see me every evening. I’m not too happy about it myself. I do it to please you.’
‘You think there’s reason to suspect him?’
‘I couldn’t really say. Not yet. He’s a real hard nut to crack. But I’ll get there. He’s already told me that the Germans are going to bring out a secret weapon soon. Something first-rate. He sounds as if he can hardly wait. You must give me an address or a phone number‚ so I can get in contact if there’s anything new.’
This fellow Heisserer bothers me. I was really too rash‚ too trusting‚ for once. I can’t get rid of him now. Besides‚ it seems he’s very good at the job. Intelligent. And doesn’t lose his nerve. At the Gare de l’Est he got through a police checkpoint by showing them a fake Civil Defence card.
All the same‚ I’m going tell the others they must keep their eyes open.
Chapter X
16 June 1944
I’m in a bad way. Fragments of the German grenade that knocked me out for the count‚ in June 1940‚ have reawakened. They roam about‚ in my side‚ my hip‚ my neck. They tickle‚ prick‚ scratch‚ throb‚ and sometimes leave me prostrate with attacks of absolutely unbearable convulsive pain. The only remedy against this is morphine injections‚ which I want to avoid at all costs.
For the past nine days – since the great drama – I haven’t taken anything solid. I’m living on my nerves. I stink of bleach‚ creosol‚ formalin‚ any disinfectant I can lay my hands on. Despite the fact I spend all my time rubbing it into my body‚ I’m haunted by that smell of fresh cadaver‚ warm blood‚ steaming entrails. It’s horrible. It’s fortunate my life is not my own any more. I’d have committed suicide. I say‚ ‘it’s fortunate’‚ but who knows?
At nine o’clock one morning Solange had come rushing over to my place in a panic. I’d already left. My old mate Bourgoin was there‚ coding messages for that evening.
‘You’ve got to get in touch with him right away‚ at once: you’ve got to warn everybody. That Alsatian guy of yours‚ he’s a Kraut‚ with the Gestapo‚ a traitor. Now he’s got the address of this place‚ of your operations centre and your letter drops‚ he wants to round up the entire network in one go‚ and take charge of the raid himself in order to get the reward. He’s a real bastard!’
While they were searching for me in all the places that I might be‚ I was watching the unloading of phosphorus bombs and their transfer from the railway station to ‘my’ camp. Bourgoin carried off everything that needed to be moved somewhere safe: maps‚ documents and codes. The codes especially. But he left behind the revolver hidden in a guitar that had no back to it‚ hanging on the wall.
I arrived at the Gare D’Austerlitz at about four o’clock. Bourgoin was waiting for me there: Solange was posted at the station on Place St-Michel.
It had been a relatively easy job to clear out the operations centre. They sent a kid up to the floor above‚ to ring a doorbell and then go away‚ apologizing for having made a mistake. The kid spotted some guy studiously polishing the parquet on the landing right outside the door of our office. In the caretaker’s lodge‚ a fat guy smoking cigars was sitting by the door and had the caretaker trapped.
Our guys‚ having worked out in detail what they were going to do‚ went into the next-door building‚ terrorized a bewildered pianist who’d been taking a nap and couldn’t understand what they were doing using regulation Civil Defence pickaxes to break through the wall of his bedroom. They were able without difficulty to rescue the mailbag‚ documents‚ money and even the two typewriters.
But as far as I was concerned‚ it wasn’t such a picnic. I had fifty minutes to tip off the radio operators who were due to arrive just before five. Bourgoin positioned himself downstairs on the café terrace. I went up at four thirty. Debrive was already out on the roof‚ setting up the aerial. I signalled to him to get down between two chimney pots and wait to see what happened.
Just in case‚ I handed him one of my two bakelite grenades that look like sticks of shaving soap.
The only clothing I kept on were a pair of underpants and a dressing gown. I set up my amateur painter’s easel‚ and scattered about my tubes of paint. With some fresh stuff smeared on my palette‚ I started having another go at some wretched still-life I’ll never finish. Too bad for posterity.
Ten to five. A knock at the door: it was Heisserer.
He seemed cheerful‚ all spruced up. He’d brought along a half-bottle of brandy.
I said‚ ‘Pity there’s no ice here.’ I went to fetch some glasses and a carafe‚ and ran some water from the tap.
Heisserer boasted of his prowess.
‘Three times now I’ve been stopped in the street‚ and once in the metro‚ and each time I’ve avoided being searched. I think I’ve proved myself. But in case I get caught‚ I’d really like to be taken on officially. It could be useful. Later on.’
I say‚ ‘Absolutely. Do you have a pen?’ And I hand him a form to fill out his personal details. ‘You’ll be RJ1682.’ (That’s my own code name.)
He sat by the window‚ placidly writing.
There was a string hanging down from the roof which I was supposed to pull in case of emergency. Debrive‚ sitting above my head‚ was holding the other end of it.
I walked over to the far side of the room and took down the guitar. Without raising his eyes‚ Heisserer lit a cigarette.
‘Heisserer.’
He leapt up‚ caught off guard. His eyes dilated in the most amazing way. My 92 cylinder‚ held close against my hip‚ said it all. Nevertheless I spoke.
‘You’ve got fifteen seconds. If you behave. Look at Notre-Dame.’
He knew there was nothing he could do. The smallest movement and he’d have lost this respite.
Notre-Dame is in the background: nearby is the tower of St Jacques. You can see the top of a horse-chestnut tree between two gables.
I aimed at his lower back.
It wasn’t me‚ it was a machine‚ an automaton‚ a remote- controlled robot that walked over to that repository of sapped life‚ painfully collapsed on the badly polished wooden floor thirsty for his blood‚ and finished him off with a bullet in his ear.
The two Jerries that paid me a visit a quarter of an hour later didn’t really know what they’d come for. Their mates were searching the building‚ they were doing the same. They’d divided the task between them‚ floor by floor. I delayed them for a while. When they came in‚ they stepped over a rolled-up linoleum lying in front of the doorway into the main room. Inside it was Heisserer. As I had paint on my fingers I asked them to help themselves to my papers from the inside pocket of my jacket. I opened the brandy and offered them a drink.
One of them went over to the window and said‚ ‘You didn’t hear two shots fired?’
‘Sure I did. It came from the stairwell. I don’t know how your submachine-guns are designed but I think you need to be careful the way you handle them. What’s going on round here anyway?’
They made an evasive gesture‚ the Lance Corporal asked me how many neighbours I had on the same floor – I’ve still no idea – and wanted me to go with them and act as their interpreter. I said I didn’t really want to do that‚ I wasn’t a policeman and I didn’t really want to make myself unpopular in this building where I was a new tenant. They agreed I had a point.
They didn’t check the roof.
I was told they conferred at length on the ground floor with their commanding officer: they couldn’t work out how their informer had disappeared.
Once they’d left‚ Debrive was able to climb
down from the zinc roof guttering where he’d been perched. We searched the body. The bastard wasn’t even a member of the SD‚ merely accredited at Avenue Foch: all he had was a Dienstausweis [service pass]. He wasn’t armed. Even the Germans didn’t trust him. He had only six hundred francs on him. In the end we spent five on a wicker basket and a poor quality cardboad suitcase. I sent Debrive home. Although he’d knocked back what was left of the brandy‚ he was spewing his guts out. He took away the dead man’s clothes and shoes‚ with instructions to destroy them.
I’d actually once taken courses in anatomy‚ dissection even – and my mind was extremely clear. But I acted like a totally inept child. Instead of disjointing my stiff neatly‚ at the hip and shoulders‚ I set about cutting him into pieces the way you’d saw up a treetrunk. I thought it would be quite simple. The butchering‚ packaging and cleaning took all night. Pensive‚ with one eye half shut‚ the severed head watched me take care of the rest. I’d placed it on a brass platter that I bought at Bicêtre.
The upper part of the body‚ that made the suitcase bulge slightly‚ has been deposited at the left luggage at Gare Montparnasse. The lower part at Austerlitz. We’ll see what happens.
Better beware of the newly dead
Of the white-handed ghost
And the brightness of these lamps …
wrote Luc Berimont in 1940‚ in Reign of Darkness.
I’ve always felt the greatest reluctance to go anywhere near‚ to touch‚ a fresh corpse. For me‚ it’s an unseemly thing. Useless. Hostile. Cunning. Dangerous. The ‘presence’ is much stronger‚ more perceptible one hour after death than one hour before. By my observation‚ this was not the case with Heisserer.
He was entirely absent from his head‚ his hands‚ his quivering body. He was gone instantly‚ unburdened of his absurd life‚ released.
It’s no good my friends telling me the execution of Heisserer was a remarkable feat‚ trying to persuade me it averted a whole chain of disasters; this mental obsession‚ my shame and distress are beyond‚ beneath‚ the judgement of men. I don’t need to reflect‚ calculate‚ weigh up my rights and obligations‚ to find myself guilty of an offence against human nature itself. I shouldn’t have taken part in this battle‚ got bogged down in this mire. I’m stricken with remorse of a melodramatic kind: I think of his aged parents waiting for their weekly letter. Of course‚ it’s ridiculous. But no argument‚ no logic will pacify me.
It’s the act in itself that’s vile. I should have left to others the task of carrying it out. What’s excusable for anyone else‚ I myself can never be forgiven for.
The next evening I went over to see Solange. The tiredness‚ delayed shock‚ disgust had caught up with me.
I threw myself on her bed fully dressed. She sat beside me on a low chair and took my hand.
‘You see‚ he spent his last night here‚ lying where you’re lying now. He hardly slept. He was dreaming out loud‚ making plans. He said he’d soon have lots of money‚ that afterwards he’d go to South America‚ he’d take me if I wanted to go with him. And then all this (gesturing with both hands‚ she indicated the walls and the ceiling) must have got to him. In the morning he talked‚ he got it all off his chest. Then he fell asleep for an hour. When he left‚ he was worried‚ he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said to me. I told him‚ “When you started snoring‚ we were in Brazil together.” That reassured him. You shouldn’t let it prey on your mind so much. I know it was no joke having to bump him off‚ but that’s Paris taking its revenge. Think of Keep-on-Dancin’.’
The Sleeper on the Pont-au-Double
July
I was now in increasingly acute pain all of the time. In desperation‚ I turned to the Sleeper‚ having got myself an introduction from Lassenay the sapper. The brother examined my torso with probing fingers‚ asked me some questions so pertinent that I suspect he’s pursued some extremely serious medical studies.
Then he said to me‚ touching his forehead‚ ‘Things don’t seem to be quite right in there. You must be very stressed.’
If he only knew.
He placed the Sleeper’s hands on my painful side and on my head. I’m down for the third session on Sunday. I’m amazed to feel the real benefits of this mysterious therapy. It was high time I returned to form: we’re overwhelmed with work.
September
Phew! The Germans have left. Without too much devastation‚ which is a miracle. I’m working as both journalist and officer – in uniform‚ at last – redeployed to military security. I’m on celebratory duty at the paper every evening. More specifically‚ I’ve been given the task of retelling in instalments the epic story of the liberation of Paris.
If I wrote down what I really think‚ I’d be hacked to pieces. I saw a body gathered up at Les Halles – a kid in short trousers‚ fifteen years old at most. He’d attacked a Jerry truck that was flying a white flag. The kid was armed with 5.5 pistol with a mother-of-pearl grip: a 1924 lady’s handbag accessory. The real criminals weren’t in the truck.
My old neighbourhood’s been invaded by blacks from the plantations. They’re nice guys when they’re sober‚ terrible when they’re drunk.
Léopoldie and her girlfriend‚ Alice‚ are making up for lost time. They’re having a ball. Every night‚ at one of the gates of Paris‚ they smuggle themselves into the precincts of a car park‚ and make love with the blacks under their trucks. They’re doing so much ‘work’‚ they’re getting blisters on their buttocks and their shoulderblades. They’re buying everyone drinks. Pépé the Pansy regrets the departure of our former occupiers: the Yanks don’t appreciate his charms. One of them told him he smelt too bad. He’s been dousing himself with violet perfume ever since‚ which is the reason the Pignols decided to throw him out. He was making the place stink.
At Place Maubert‚ the worst scum have taken advantage of some quieter moments to get themselves photographed on the barricades‚ dressed up like buccaneers‚ striking the most heroic poses.
I cut a sorry figure in my uniform: I display my usual rank of lieutenant. Here everyone is at least a major. Only the under-twenties are mere captains.
The cops – whom we now have to glorify – have even arrested two six-pip ‘colonels-in-chief’‚ on Rue Monge. One of them was Armenian.
I’ve noticed that the flash-points in the old part of Paris have been the same since the Middle Ages. The first barricades that sprang up corresponded to only very vague strategic objectives: Rue de l’Arbre-Sec‚ for instance. But‚ it was there‚ it was on Rue Pernelle‚ Rue du Fouarre‚ Rue de la Huchette‚ Le Petit-Pont‚ true to its age-old traditions‚ that trouble broke out in the City.
My bohemian friends more wisely kept out of harm’s way on the first floor at the Quatre-Fesses‚ where Elisabeth prepared meals for them. No change has entered their lives‚ except for Théophile‚ who has returned to the priesthood. He wants to go to Black Africa as a missionary.
December
Marius Labadou‚ known as the Commander‚ was a comic character in his fifties‚ a house painter by profession‚ fond of fruity-flavoured beaujolais.
Between the wars‚ Marius Labadou belonged to that glorious band of reenlisted NCOs who carried to deprived populations in different latitudes the message of Sweet France‚ and asserted with hobnailed-booted conviction the universal brilliance of our culture.
Marius Labadou returned home with the rank of sergeant- major.
Marius Labadou‚ whom the military authorities‚ doubtless under pressure of other concerns‚ had neglected to consult before negotiating the armistice of June 1940‚ was foaming with rage at the sight of the Teutonic hordes who came streaming inside our walls. And Marius Labadou was one of the first to found a resistance organization within occupied Paris. He set about it in a prudent manner: he gathered together a group of five or six Hitler-phobic wine-lovers‚ people who could be trusted. And for four years the private back rooms of Rue de la Huchette became familiar with the r
egular presence of some eminently patriotic figures: Doudou the Gentle Verger‚ Lucien Domaom and his pal Collard‚ known as Teddy Bear‚ a few others‚ and Fralicot‚ nicknamed Les Eparges because of his truly epic 1914–18 war experiences. Under the enthusiastic but circumspect authority of Marius Labadou‚ these honest folk held a daily reunion‚ during which they would bring each other up to date with the latest rumours to have reached their ears that day. A discussion would follow. Bottles of increasing rarity were cheerfully drained – yet another one the Germans wouldn’t get hold of!
Domaom‚ who set great store by reaching firm conclusions‚ would grab each of his mates‚ one after the other‚ by the lapels. ‘So‚ tell me‚ d’homme à homme‚ man to man [hence his nickname]‚ that you haven’t lost hope?’ It’s partly thanks to the Labadou group that the most heartening tall stories came into being‚ circulated round Paris and reached the provinces with blitzkrieg speed.
This was the group’s main activity. I recall the day when news reached France of the outcome‚ for a long time uncertain‚ and as it turned out disastrous for the Germans‚ of a tremendous battle between armoured units somewhere on the Russian front. The Propaganda Staffel had instructed the press to emphasize the scale of military resources brought to the engagement by both sides. The newspaper Aujourd’hui appeared with this banner headline across six columns:
LA BATAILLE FUT GIGANTESQUE.
[THE BATTLE WAS GIGANTIC.]
Which set everyone on the left bank humming the rest of that classic De Profundis:
Tous les morpions moururent presque
A l’exception des plus trapus
Qui s’accrochèrent aux poils du cul.
[The crab lice nearly all died
The hardiest few alone pulled through –
It was the pubic hairs that saved them.]
Paris Noir Page 18
