Cold Winter in Bordeaux (7 page)

He would have to speak to Bracal, the judge of whose own loyalties he was unsure, and call Félix’s colleague in Vichy, Bracal’s friend, Vincent he’d called himself, though that certainly wasn’t his real name, Vincent who had assured him that Félix had been relegated to push paper in the Travaux Ruraux’ Marseille office. But how much could he reveal to Bracal?

Marguerite looked worn, tired, exhausted, might indeed have been weeping.

‘It’s not Clothilde, is it?’

No matter how he spoke with approval of Michel, and tried indeed to trust him, there were elements of their young love affair that worried him, and he feared that it would end unhappily.

‘Clothilde? No, she’s in her room, writing an essay, she said.’

‘So?’

She turned her face away, and he thought, how lined it is, has become in the last year.

She hesitated, then, ‘I lay down for an hour in the afternoon, and had a horrible dream, a frightening one. I dreamt that Alain was dead, I don’t know how, but there was his body laid out, unmarked but his face white as a sheet. And I thought how we hadn’t said goodbye and never would, and how he slipped away without telling me he was going. You knew but I didn’t and I have never been able to forgive either of you. It was as if he felt nothing for me, and now there he was dead … ’

‘That wasn’t why,’ he said, ‘it was rather because he felt too much for you, because he loves you and didn’t know how to say something to you that would cause you anxiety. You must believe this.’

But it wasn’t true, or was, at best, what they call a half-truth. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t trust her, didn’t at any rate trust her to understand why he felt he had to go. But of course this couldn’t be said.

He put his arm round her and kissed her on the cheek.

‘It was only a dream, a bad dream. Bad dreams mean nothing.’

But that wasn’t so. They speak of the dreamer’s fears and guilt.

X

Things were moving, though it wasn’t yet clear to them how or in what direction. They had been in England for six months, being trained at a Free French establishment, a manor house and camp somewhere in Oxfordshire. They were still together – the Musketeers – but this wouldn’t last. It had been intimated to them that they weren’t all suited to the same role in the movement.

Two weeks previously Jérôme had been summoned to an interview with the Colonel who went by the name of ‘Cinna’. (How they loved noms de guerre – and how necessary they were, especially for those who had wives and children in Occupied France.)

Jérôme clicked his heels and saluted, striving to appear military.  Colonel Cinna smiled.

‘You can forget that,’ he said. ‘Sit down. You’re not going to be in uniform much longer.’

Jérôme said nothing. He bit the underside of his lower lip.

‘You’re willing, I’ve seen that,’ the Colonel said, ‘but all the same,’ he rapped his fingers on the desk. ‘All the same. Why did you join us?’

‘To fight for France, sir.’

His voice was too light, he knew that, and now there was a tremble in it.

The Colonel nodded. He took a cigarette from a packet of Player’s, rolled it in his fingers, fitted it into a holder, and lit it. He pushed the packet across the desk, said ‘take one’, and rang a little hand-bell for an orderly.

‘Bring us some coffee,’ he said.

‘English coffee,’ he said to Jérôme. ‘No good, vile stuff, but better than nothing. I tell myself so anyway, though I can’t say I succeed in convincing myself. No, my boy, you’ll never be a soldier. Coming here does you credit, but you’re useless. You must know this yourself; I’ve no reason to think you a fool.’

Years later, when he wrote a memoir, Jérôme would say that he wanted to think this the worst moment of his life, but that wouldn’t be true. He was ashamed, but he was also relieved because he feared that he was a coward and knew he was afraid. As a small boy he had been bullied at school and had a painful memory of wetting himself when one of his classmates twisted his arm behind his back. Nevertheless, hearing the colonel’s judgement, he coughed and nearly choked when he drew on the cigarette, and this was because he was so close to tears.

The coffee was as bad as the colonel had said it would be.

‘You know that we broadcast to France. It’s important. Wars are won by words as well as by arms. The French people must be informed. They must be encouraged. They must be given hope, the assurance that the war will turn, the Occupation end, and France resume its rightful place as a Great Power. I’ve listened to you in our discussion groups, in the debates we stage. Much of what you have said is nonsense – that’s understandable, you’re very young – but you’ve a nice voice. It’s a light one, admittedly, but even when you are speaking nonsense your sincerity rings through. I like that. So this is how we shall use you: to address the youth of France. Do you write poetry?’

Jérôme felt himself blush.

‘It’s not very good, I’m afraid.’

‘Just as I thought. Still: a young poet speaks to his generation. That sounds all right.’

* * *

Alain had an appointment in London. Alerted by a comrade he had volunteered for missions in France and been summoned to the BCRA (Bureau Central de Renseignements et d’Action).

And for Léon? Nothing, though he had volunteered for the same service.

‘It’s because I am a Jew,’ he thought. ‘Even here this pursues me, though there are many Jews in the Free French. Where else should we be?’

* * *

First, however, they had three days’ leave in London. They stayed at a YMCA, within sight of the Palace of Westminster and the sound of Big Ben. They went to the theatre, the Old Vic where they found Shakespeare’s language incomprehensible, even though all three had read, even in Jérôme’s case studied, Hamlet. Then they crossed the river and walked up Charing Cross Road through Leicester Square and on to the Café Royal for supper.

‘Oscar Wilde used to drink here,’ Jérôme said. ‘Just think of that.’

* * *

Alain presented himself at the office in Duke Street. The sentry checked his name, told him he was early and showed him into a waiting room. There were pre-war French magazines on the table. He chose the
NRF
(
Nouvelle Revue Française
), but found himself unable to concentrate on the text, and turned to the English humorous paper, Punch. A couple of the cartoons made him smile, but the articles he skimmed seemed feeble. If I was English they might make me laugh, he thought; what a strange people they are.

‘Colonel Passy will see you now,’ the sentry said, and introduced him.

Alain saluted with brio. The colonel, who seemed middle-aged but nevertheless had something boyish, even mischievous, in his expression, did not rise from his desk, but waved a hand indicating that Alain should sit down.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you’ve volunteered for missions in France. Very well, there are some things I must tell you, and you must consider them carefully. You are wearing a uniform, an honourable uniform, but the secret war isn’t the one you’ve been training for. And first, I must tell you that the lives of others will depend on your conduct; you don’t have the right to put them at risk. You’ll be alone and without the protection of the uniform you are wearing now. If a soldier in uniform is captured, he’s sent to a prisoner-of-war camp. That wouldn’t be your fate. You would be questioned and tortured. We’ll supply you with a cyanide pill, which you can bite on if you think you can’t endure the torture. Do you understand? You’ll work alone, no contact with comrades except when the service demands it. And it goes without saying that you must not look up old friends or your family. Absolutely not your family. No contact, no communication, that’s the rule. I repeat: you’ll be alone, live alone, take your meals alone. No days off, no Sundays, no Saturdays, no leave. You’ll be in the front line, twenty-four hours a day, because the Vichy police and the Gestapo work round the clock, and you will always be in danger of arrest. As for that, if you withstand torture and don’t take the poison, you’ll either be shot or sent to a labour camp in Germany where you’ll probably die in any case. Do you understand what you are letting yourself in for?’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘So think about it, reflect on it. If you don’t think you’re up to it, you can withdraw your application. There would be no shame in doing that. It would show you are clear-thinking and intellectually honest. We can’t afford to have people who are not up to it. Right?’

‘Right, sir. I shall reflect, as you advise, but I don’t think I shall change my mind.’

‘Very well. Reflect, and meanwhile au revoir.’

Alain said: ‘I have a comrade, a friend who has also volunteered.’

The colonel opened a file and consulted it.

‘Léon Fagot? Jewish, yes?’

‘On his mother’s side, I believe, sir, but a French patriot.’

‘No doubt, no doubt, and we can make use of Jews. But it would be even more dangerous for your friend, you understand? As it happens, I have a report on him, an interesting one.’

Afterwards, Alain said, ‘I can’t say anything, but I think you’ll hear from him. Indeed I’m almost sure you will, Léon.’

XI

Bracal leant back in his chair, his eyes closed. The silence prolonged itself. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and the light outside was already fading. Lannes lit a cigarette. The headache which had begun just after lunch was worse. A bluebottle buzzed round the electrolier that hung over the desk. Bracal sighed.

‘He hasn’t been to see me,’ he said. ‘I rang Vincent as you asked.’ He opened his eyes. ‘As far as he knows the man is still in Marseille. This doesn’t mean anything of course; I don’t need to tell you that. Vincent’s all right, old friend of mine as I told you, trustworthy, reliable, but these spooks don’t let their right hand know what their left one is up to. Still, I don’t like it, any of it, and these photographs … ’

‘They’re intended to compromise me.’

‘Undoubtedly. But the boy, you tell me, is no longer in Bordeaux.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I won’t ask you where he is. I don’t want to know.’

‘I couldn’t tell you even if you did.’

‘Good.’

Bracal pushed his chair back and got to his feet. He took a bottle of cognac and two glasses from the cupboard, and poured them each a drink. He splashed soda into his own one.

‘The Resistance,’ he said. ‘Do you believe the dead woman was working for them?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Or did they kill her?’

‘That’s possible too.’

‘We’re public servants,’ Bracal said. ‘We take our orders from Vichy. No question about that. But what is Vichy? Is everyone there of the same mind? This chap you call Félix, for example. Is he working for the Resistance on the sly, or is he trying to compromise it and undermine it? These spooks love playing for both sides. Half of them are as twisted as a corkscrew. What do you think?’

Lannes tilted his glass, watched the brandy swirl round, took a sip; good brandy, not the sort of stuff you should put soda in. But Bracal might be one of those who preferred to make his drinks last, and indeed he was even now topping his up with more soda. A careful man. Likeable too. Trustworthy – the word he had applied to his friend Vincent. Lannes had no reason to think he wasn’t, and yet, these days, who could be sure of anything?

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, ‘but these entertainments.’

‘Yes?’

‘The story’s credible, no matter which side he’s playing for.’

‘But then, why kill her?’

‘Perhaps she’d been turned.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I was told not to pursue the investigation. That was the message. From Félix, as it appears.’

‘From Félix?’

‘So it would seem. But … ’

‘But what?’

‘I don’t know. It’s complicated and I admit that I’m confused. At a loss, really. On the other hand, if I hadn’t got that message, I’d have pursued a quite different line, nothing to do with the war, the Occupation, the Resistance.’

Bracal’s fingers began a little dance on the desk.

‘The question,’ Lannes said, ‘is: do I obey? Do I drop the case?’

‘I can’t advise you to do that. If, as it may be, it’s the Resistance – let’s call it the Resistance – that killed the woman, abandoning the case would look suspicious. Suppose you’re right, and the dead woman had been turned, then either the Boches or someone in the administration must be curious. At the very least they would want to know why the investigation wasn’t being pursued. You and I, we’d both come under scrutiny. I don’t have to remind you that your own sheet isn’t completely clean – in their eyes. You have to give at least the appearance of activity. But it would be a good thing if this Félix was to disappear. He’s evidently an awkward customer. That’s the impression you’ve given me. An awkward fellow, but I have the feeling that he’s worse than that; that he’s a fool. I’ll have another word with Vincent. Meanwhile it might be a good idea if you were to arrest someone. This chap Peniel, who claims to be the dead woman’s father, perhaps. Haul him in for questioning, bang him up in a cell for a few days, and see what you get from him. You can manage that, can’t you? Have a word with Vice too. Perhaps charge him with living on immoral earnings, procuring minors for purposes of prostitution. That might be best, don’t you think?’

XII

‘It’s quite simple,’ Lannes said. ‘I want to know who her clients were.’

Peniel shifted in his chair.

‘I don’t know why you’ve brought me here. You were told to lay off.’

Moncerre, standing by the window, filling his pipe, laughed.

‘You’ve got a nerve,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you that. But I’ve had a word with a couple of my friends in Vice. They’ve had their eye on you for some time. They’d like us to give you to them. What do you say to that?’

‘It’s absurd.’

‘Absurd, is it?’ Moncerre said. ‘Then why are you sweating?’

Peniel looked at Lannes.

‘I just passed the message to you,’ he said, ‘that’s all I know.’

Lannes pushed a couple of the nude photographs of Gabrielle Peniel across the desk.