His apartment was above the garage which advertised one-day car repairs but now stood dark and empty due to the absence of the owner, Jacob Slevin. Jean didn’t particularly grieve when the Jew had suddenly disappeared one day in sunny July; he didn’t have a car that needed repairing and besides, he wouldn’t miss the constant noise from downstairs, that’s for sure.
Brigitte welcomed him with her usual smile but threw her arms around his neck as soon as he opened his jacket to show her the goods he brought. His two small boys stood on the threshold as well, their little fingers in their open mouths, hungry eyes fixed on Papa’s bundles. It was Wednesday, which meant Papa would bring treats. They were too small to know the days of the week yet but the Occupation fostered a kind of dog-like reflex in both. Interesting, how wars always shifted priorities.
“Your friend from work is waiting for you in the kitchen,” Brigitte announced after he held her longer than usual, feeling her firm, round breasts against his chest. She hadn’t stopped breastfeeding their youngest one despite the fact that he was already fifteen months old, but with the current “economy” as she called it, it was the only wise thing to do. “He brought some dried fruit for the boys. Why have you never invited him over? Such a nice fellow!”
Jean scowled and walked briskly along the dingy corridor toward the small kitchenette, already sensing trouble. What friend could possibly be waiting for him? He had no friends among the workers. They were all communists and him… well, he snitched to the gendarmes from time to time. So what? He had three mouths to feed.
“Bonsoir, comrade.”
It was worse than Jean suspected. The black-eyed giant flashed a predatory smile at him, opening his arms in a welcoming embrace. Jean made a motion to hug him back awkwardly with a sour expression on his face. No need to make a scene in front of Brigitte. His “friend” did at least have the decency to bring fruit for the boys.
“Let’s go talk in the living room while my wife is setting the table, shall we?” Jean threw a pleading glance at the man. Olivier Chapelain, officially. Jean was more than certain that the name was fake.
“As you wish.”
The two moved to the small living room where a worn-out rug covered the creaky floors aside mismatched furniture and blackout drapes that covered crisscrossed tape on the windows, which was never removed from two years ago.
“What do you want?”
“Just a little help.”
“I suspect the help you need involves something illegal. Why would I, a law-abiding citizen, help you with your illegal activities?”
“So that I don’t march into your kitchen and execute your whole family in front of you, before shooting you in the face like you deserve,” followed the calm reply. “You know us communists. Everything for the Party and Comrade Stalin. We are the only ones in this country who don’t hesitate to pull the trigger, be it to kill a Boche, or a French rat, which is no better. Well?”
Jean hesitated. The man who he knew as Olivier moved his jacket to one side slightly, revealing a German Walther tucked into his belt as though to persuade him of his intentions. Jean swallowed instinctively, in all vividness picturing the communist taking the gun off some dead Boche.
“What kind of help do you need?” Jean sighed.
“A delivery truck will be coming Friday morning, as usual. It must not be searched.”
“No, I can’t! Understand this; I’m not alone standing there in the doors; there’s a German supervisor there as well!”
“I know.”
“And?”
“He needs to be distracted.”
“How?”
“Not my concern.”
“What will be in the truck?”
“That’s for me to know and for you not to find out.”
“I can’t do this!”
“You’re going to have to find a way.”
Jean puffed out his cheeks, tapping his finger on top of his belt anxiously.
“Jean, listen to me. I know you like your gendarmes and German friends since they throw you some money in exchange for some snitching on the side; I understand. You need to feed the family.”
“Yes! Exactly!”
“…and you don’t want to risk your hide doing something highly illegal for some communists. I understand that too. But, Jean, now you will have to think about the future. The Boches aren’t doing too well in Russia as of now. The Allies just landed in North Africa. The Resistance movement is gaining force here in France. It’s only a matter of time before we take out our guns and start actively fighting them on our soil. And guess what will happen? They will lose. Simply because the numbers aren’t on their side. And after they lose, my dear friend Jean, after we exact our revenge on them, we will start exacting revenge on their collaborators. And if you help me now, I may just speak a word in the ears of my comrades in the future, when they come for you, and they will spare your life.”
Jean chewed his lip, eyeing the tall communist. The latter’s lips slowly moved into a grin. “Don’t even consider promising me help and going to the flics first thing tomorrow morning. You know how many people FTP has. They’ll come for you and your family before you know it.”
“Do you promise me protection then? In the end? After the war is over?” Jean stepped forward, finally breaking.
“I do.”
“Fine. Friday morning then?”
“Friday morning.”
“Please, don’t make me regret this.”
10
Lyon, December 1942
Etienne received the man in his house, away from prying eyes. God knew, there were far too many of those lately, and particularly after the Gestapo started shamelessly offering money in exchange for information, setting their agents in each café, each bar, each corner, where they only could. Giselle was the first one to inform Etienne of the Gestapo’s tactics, and if its chief, Barbie, was openly offering his personnel positions as his informants, the whole city would soon become rotten through and through. Not that Etienne could blame his compatriots; the whole nation was starving.
Etienne hardly recognized his guest at first. Henri Frenay, the founder of Combat, certainly knew how to masterfully disguise himself; the thick-framed glasses, beard, and hair slicked back so viciously that it would put any Boche to shame. His appearance made Etienne raise his brows in amazement as the two exchanged handshakes.
“Lyon isn’t safe anymore.” Frenay shrugged calmly. “Better safe than sorry.”
“Not going to argue with that statement.”
Frenay spoke at length – and with much disdain – about Jean Moulin, even though he knew perfectly well that Etienne admired the leader of the Resistance of the former Occupied Zone after the very first time he encountered him in Paris. “You only like him so much because you’ve only met him twice in your life. Had you been working with him as I do, you’d want to slit the bastard’s throat by now”; such was Frenay’s contemptuous explanation. Etienne grinned but didn’t say anything. Moulin was a truly brilliant man, and Etienne discounted all of Frenay’s tantrums on the basis that he was simply jealous of his Parisian counterpart. That, and the fact that de Gaulle had made Moulin his official representative in France must have really rubbed him up the wrong way. But Etienne had studied to be a diplomat, and a diplomat he remained, calmly allowing his fuming colleague to let out all his steam before he’d be ready to deliver him the news from the London summit.
“Armée Secrète, which de Gaulle has finally officially acknowledged, will consist of real fighters – army soldiers, officers, released prisoners of war, and ordinary résistants, of course. I suggested General Delestraint as the Army’s leader, and de Gaulle thought it to be a brilliant idea. The man has a lot of experience and is a good strategist.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, squinting at the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace – a luxury nowadays, even though it was lit up in the study and not the living room, which was immense and nearly impossible to heat in winter. The study was m
ore private anyway, more secure; cozy, old-fashioned, with furniture made of antique wood, polished to perfection, and with walls lined with books. “Unfortunately, just like before, we aren’t allowed any military action, only sabotage is permitted. To my question as to when we may expect to actually take up arms, de Gaulle replied, ‘when you receive my orders’.”
Etienne chuckled softly as Frenay rolled his eyes.
“You still have no direct contact with him?”
“No, because the high and mighty Moulin is the only one who is allowed such an honor, apparently. So, even when he gives the orders, I’ll be receiving them through Moulin.”
“You know why de Gaulle is doing it, right?” Etienne took the empty cognac glass out of Frenay’s hand and went to refill it. “He’s only trying to centralize power within the Resistance so that we won’t fight amongst each other. And he knows how much you two love going at each other’s throats.”
“For good reason.”
Once again, Etienne let the remark pass.
“So, I’m assuming that your communists won’t mind fighting alongside army officers when the time comes?” Frenay took off his glasses, with their horn-rimmed frames, blew on the lenses and started cleaning them with sudden thoroughness. Etienne got the impression that Frenay didn’t feel comfortable asking him such a question.
“They don’t care who they fight alongside, as long as we have a common enemy to defeat,” he replied, handing the man his drink.
Frenay nodded, seemingly relieved. “That’s all I wanted to know. One more thing, my army people don’t like getting their hands dirty with our clandestine business. Would you be able to send someone reliable to receive the load of weapons that a submarine will be delivering? Someone who knows Morse code? They will need to signal the boat, or it won’t surface.”
“Where?”
“Anthéor, near Cannes.”
“I have people, yes.”
“And a place to hide it, I assume?”
“Bien sûr. Also… I’ve meant to ask you for quite some time…” Etienne stumbled over the words.
Frenay appeared to understand at once. “You need money?”
Etienne nodded, trying to hide his embarrassment. “I do have some savings on the side but… I have paid so much in bribes to save local Jews from deportations… I’m afraid I won’t be able to support my men any longer if London doesn’t send us something and soon.”
“London nowadays means Moulin, since all funds go through his hands, and he’s stingier than a drunkard’s wife with them. To beg him for a few thousand francs? No, thank you. I have worked out my own plan for how to get my own funds coming from someone sympathetic.”
Etienne patiently waited for a further explanation while Frenay swirled the amber drink in his glass with an enigmatic smile on his face.
“Someone has to be really sympathetic – and really rich – to offer you support that would rival that which comes from London,” Etienne noted after a pause.
“Have you heard of the American OSS?” Frenay raised his eyes at his host, but Etienne couldn’t detect their expression for they were carefully hidden behind the glasses. “They decided to come up with their own MI6, you see. I don’t know what interests they may have in all this, but that newly established Office of Strategic Services offered me a hefty price for some military intelligence. I agreed, of course. My man, Renouvin, is delivering them whatever is of interest for them through Switzerland. From here, a suitcase with papers; from there, a suitcase with money. Ten million francs a month. A fair exchange, don’t you think?”
Etienne remembered Jacques Renouvin very well. After all, how could one forget someone who garnered attention by publicly slapping former Foreign Minister Pierre-Étienne Flandin? Flandin apparently decided that it was a good idea to send Adolf Hitler a congratulatory telegram following the signing of the Munich agreement back in 1938; Renouvin not-so-respectfully disagreed.
Renouvin was more of a street brawler than a Parisian lawyer – a fact that attracted Frenay more than anything in the man. “I need fighters, not strategists;” he was heard to say on quite a few occasions. Well, in Renouvin he got that in spades. It was Renouvin who started organizing “Groupes Francs” – French hit squads, which acted in the name of Frenay’s Combat. They began with leaving small notes on the doors of businesses which collaborated with the Nazis and the Vichy regime, kindly suggesting they stop such unpatriotic practices. If the owner didn’t pay much heed to the note, a second note followed, warning them of consequences. And if the owner chose to ignore even that, he would simply lose his hard-earned right to be called an owner of a business, for that very business of his would be burned down or blown up to all hell. Both Etienne and Moulin found such tactics rather crude, but that stopped neither Renouvin nor his boss Frenay from implementing the strategy with envious regularity.
“Sounds like double-crossing to me,” Etienne murmured, lighting a cigarette.
“It’s them who double-crossed the Brits first, not me. I only need money for my men, that’s all. Besides, it’s not like I’m giving information to the Germans. We’re allies, so what’s the difference which ally feeds my small army?”
“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”
“Do you have any other ideas of how to get a few million and fast?”
Etienne stood in front of him, silent. Frenay smirked and subtly nodded.
“Good then. Are you staying out of trouble with the Gestapo?” asked Frenay.
“Better. I have someone who works in their new headquarters and reports to me all the comings and goings. If you need any disinformation to feed them prior to any sabotage operation, I have just the right man for you.” No need to tell him it’s a woman. Better safe than sorry should be everyone’s motto now.
Frenay gave him an approving once-over. “You have everything covered judging by the look of it!”
“I’m trying.” Etienne conceded a modest smile.
“Your father would be very proud of you,” Frenay said after a pause, getting up to leave.
“I hope so.”
They shook hands.
“You know how to contact me in case you need anything.”
“I do.”
Paris, December 1942
Marcel watched as Philippe carefully crushed the top of the pencil detonator on top of the last charge. Now, it would only take ten minutes for the copper chloride, released into the tube, to silently eat through the wire holding back the firing pin from the percussion cap. Arthur, their British instructor from the SOE, who lived in Paris under disguise, made both men practice setting similar detonators in his apartment until they learned how to do it with their eyes closed. Yet, those were real detonators on top of ordinary dough; setting real things inside the highly sensitive plastic explosives was a completely different thing.
Marcel wiped his sweaty palms on top of his grease-stained overalls. “I felt much more confident when it was Arthur himself who was installing those bombs.”
Philippe chuckled under his breath. “The good old days in the South, eh?”
“The bombs looked smaller.”
“Well, back then we were blowing up railway tracks, not the factory conveyors.” He carefully moved his hands away from the bomb, heaving a sigh of relief that it didn’t explode in their faces. “All right, that was the last one. Time to get out of here.”
The two dark shadows moved through the labyrinth of the factory workshops, illuminating the way with the dim yellow light of a single flashlight. Yes, they certainly needed to get out of there, and not only the factory which was about to suffer from a series of earth-shuddering explosions in about ten minutes, but out of Paris altogether. Despite all the promises and words given, at the beginning of their shift that day, nearly two hundred workers from their factory alone were summoned to report for labor service in Germany; their train was set to leave the following day. They were ordered to take only necessary personal belongings for everything else
would be taken care of by their new German bosses.
“Fuck those bosses,” one man had muttered, already discussing in which direction to bolt right after their shift. “I’m out of here.”
The operation was initially set for December 31 when the security would be lax – that much Marcel and Philippe were sure about. However, the slight change of plans demanded immediate action, and once more Philippe praised the God of all cowards who made Jean come through with his promises to let through their truck with explosives, hidden in the false bottom, unsearched.
As they neared the entrance, Marcel wisely switched the flashlight off, and the two men stood rooted to their spot for some time, allowing their eyes to get used to the darkness. Having checked their surroundings, they moved along the outside wall and crouched by it as the sentry passed by, making his quarterly-hour unhurried rounds smoking and bored out of his mind, no doubt; he wasn’t guarding a warehouse with anything worth stealing, after all. Who in their right mind would think of robbing an armaments factory?
Good thing he’s a French fellow, Philippe thought. The German guards seemed to pay more attention to their guns than to their valuables.
They quickly found the rope ladder they had left thrown over the darkest part of the outside wall and climbed it as quietly as they could, before disappearing into the night; a few more minutes and the streets surrounding the factory would turn into a veritable madhouse.
A comrade opened the door to them after a wave of explosions made the glass shudder in the windows, causing a mighty satisfied grin to appear on his scruffy, lined face. “He’s a good comrade, from the Brigades,” Philippe had told Marcel when they were still working out the details of their plan earlier that day. “I saved his life in Spain in ’37. He owes me one.”
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