Citadel by Kate Mosse Page B

at his watch. He’d got time for a drink. He needed a drink. Raoul headed for the Place des Armes. There was nowhere to sit at the Café Lapasset – he needed somewhere where he could see what was going on around him – but he found a table at the Grand Café des Négociants with a good view of the square and the Portail des Jacobins on the opposite side of the road. He ordered a glass of red wine and took a cigarette from a crumpled packet, knowing he’d get through his ration before the end of the week if he wasn’t careful. A trail of white smoke twisted up into the chattering, jackdaw air.
    Raoul borrowed a copy of La Dépêche from a man on the next table. A Vichyist publication these days, it was the same stale mix of international and domestic politics, propaganda most of it. Arrests in Narbonne – ten partisans printing and distributing anti-Vichy tracts, of whom four had been shot dead by French police officers. Flash floods in Tarascon, preparations for the Fête de l’Âne at the end of the month in Quillan, taking place for the first time since 1939. A few shreds of loose paper in the middle where ration coupons had been torn out. Weather reports for the beaches at Gruissan and La Nouvelle.
    The man got up to leave. Raoul went to give the newspaper back, but he shook his head.
    ‘Keep it. Not worth the paper it’s printed on.’
    ‘You’re right about that,’ Raoul said.
    His eye was caught by an article about Maréchal Pétain. The hero of the battle of Verdun – and for two years head of the French government in exile in Vichy – Pétain was still a popular figure in the zone non-occupée . To traditionalists, he was a symbol of fortitude and honour, the embodiment of old-fashioned, Catholic French values. They’d even renamed the boulevard Jean-Jaurès after him, though the signs kept being defaced. Supporters of Vichy claimed the ‘ voie de la collaboration ’, as Pétain christened his relationship with the Nazis, was part of a longer-term strategy: that the Maréchal had a plan to save France, if only they were patient. Those like Raoul, who would not accept the status quo and supported Général de Gaulle and his Free French forces, were considered troublemakers.
    The article was about how although Jews in the occupied zone were now being forced to wear yellow stars, as in all other conquered territories, Vichy had stepped back from implementing the policy in the zone libre . ‘Proof’ of the government’s principled behaviour, the editorial claimed.
    Raoul tossed the paper down in disgust, his fingers stained black by the ink. The naïvety of it turned his stomach. Each new edict, each new compromise made him ashamed to be French. Like many men of the South, he was sickened by the wholesale arrests of communists, many of whom he’d fought alongside in 1940, of the internment of those who opposed Vichy and of Jews no longer considered French. Little by little, France was being absorbed into the Greater Reich. Raoul despised what was happening and despised those who, by design or by neglect, were letting it happen. Sins of omission, sins of commission; the same result in the end.
    He stood up, tossed a couple of coins on the table, then crossed the boulevard Barbès, unable to stop himself wondering – as he so often did – what his brother would have made of it all. Bruno had been murdered by Franco’s fascists in Spain in December 1938, but at least he hadn’t lived to see France on her knees. Raoul hoped that he himself had grown into a man his brother would have been proud to know. His heart hardened by his loss, he had fought bravely and honourably against the Nazis. He had killed and seen men die, but had always done his best to protect those he fought alongside. After the defeat and surrender in June 1940, Raoul joined a mountain Resistance network, helping to smuggle refugees and Allied airmen over the border to Spain. Obtaining false papers and travel documents, providing