done. “Was the work we did—an intelligence mission of some kind?”
“Yes and no. It wasn’t clandestine, but in time of war there is a great need for documentation. It was a job I, well, the truth is they stuck me with it. You know France, you know bureaucracy, you know politics, so you will understand how I got sent off to make newsreels of forts on the Meuse. In the end it didn’t matter, we lost the war. But life goes on, and some of us continue to serve.”
“With de Gaulle?”
Degrave’s no was emphatic. “The public works office is a cover organization. We have reassembled the former Service des Renseignements, the intelligence service—the operational arm of the Deuxième Bureau. ”
Degrave waited for a response, Casson nodded.
“As for de Gaulle, and the Gaullist resistance, of course we support their objectives. But they are based in London, they exist on British goodwill and British money. And they have close ties— maybe too close—with British intelligence, whereas our service acts solely in the interest of France. That may sound like a fine distinction, but it can make a difference, sometimes a crucial difference. Anyhow, the reason I’m telling you all this is that we want to offer you a job. Certainly difficult, probably dangerous. How would you feel about that?”
Casson shrugged. He had no idea how he felt. “Is it something I can do?”
“We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think so.”
“What is it?”
“Liaison. Not the traditional form, but close enough.”
“Liaison,” Casson said.
“You would work for me.”
Casson hesitated. “I suspect you know I was involved with espionage. In the first year of the war. It was a disaster. One factory was burnt down, but British agents were arrested, and a friend of mine was killed.”
“Did the factory need to be burnt down?”
“It made war material for the Germans.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t a disaster, maybe getting the job done simply cost more than you felt it should.”
Casson had never thought of it that way. “Maybe,” he said.
“Tell me this, do you have a family? Are there people who depend on you?”
“No. I’m alone.”
“Well,” Degrave said. The word hung in the air, it meant then what do you have to lose? “You can turn us down right away, or you can think it over. Personally, I’d appreciate your doing at least that.”
“All right.”
Degrave looked down. “The sad truth is,” he said quietly, “a country can’t survive unless people fight for it.”
“I know.”
“You’ll think it over, then. Take an hour. More, if you like.”
There was no point in waiting an hour. He took the job; he didn’t have it in his heart to refuse.
Casson walked for a long time, his worldly goods in the brown-paper package under his arm. Degrave had given him a few hundred francs and the name of a hotel, and told him he would be contacted.
He crossed the Seine on the pont de Levallois. Barges moved slowly on the steel-colored water, swastika flags flapping in the autumn breeze. Leaning on the parapet, a few old men fished for barbel with bamboo poles. There was a market street at the foot of the bridge; long lines started at the doors and wound around the corners. Some of the windows had Entreprise Juive painted in white letters, two or three had been smashed, the shattered glass glittering on the floors of the empty shops. On the walls of the buildings, the Germans had posted proclamations: “All acts of violence and sabotage will be punished with the utmost severity. Acts of sabotage are held to include any damage to crops or military installations, as well as the defacing of posters belonging to the occupying powers.” An old poster, Casson saw, dated June of 1940, the heavy print faded in the sun and rain. Newer versions promised death for a long list of violations and, Casson noted with regret, they had not been “defaced”—no cartoons, no slogans.
There was a café across the street, he sat
“Yes and no. It wasn’t clandestine, but in time of war there is a great need for documentation. It was a job I, well, the truth is they stuck me with it. You know France, you know bureaucracy, you know politics, so you will understand how I got sent off to make newsreels of forts on the Meuse. In the end it didn’t matter, we lost the war. But life goes on, and some of us continue to serve.”
“With de Gaulle?”
Degrave’s no was emphatic. “The public works office is a cover organization. We have reassembled the former Service des Renseignements, the intelligence service—the operational arm of the Deuxième Bureau. ”
Degrave waited for a response, Casson nodded.
“As for de Gaulle, and the Gaullist resistance, of course we support their objectives. But they are based in London, they exist on British goodwill and British money. And they have close ties— maybe too close—with British intelligence, whereas our service acts solely in the interest of France. That may sound like a fine distinction, but it can make a difference, sometimes a crucial difference. Anyhow, the reason I’m telling you all this is that we want to offer you a job. Certainly difficult, probably dangerous. How would you feel about that?”
Casson shrugged. He had no idea how he felt. “Is it something I can do?”
“We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think so.”
“What is it?”
“Liaison. Not the traditional form, but close enough.”
“Liaison,” Casson said.
“You would work for me.”
Casson hesitated. “I suspect you know I was involved with espionage. In the first year of the war. It was a disaster. One factory was burnt down, but British agents were arrested, and a friend of mine was killed.”
“Did the factory need to be burnt down?”
“It made war material for the Germans.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t a disaster, maybe getting the job done simply cost more than you felt it should.”
Casson had never thought of it that way. “Maybe,” he said.
“Tell me this, do you have a family? Are there people who depend on you?”
“No. I’m alone.”
“Well,” Degrave said. The word hung in the air, it meant then what do you have to lose? “You can turn us down right away, or you can think it over. Personally, I’d appreciate your doing at least that.”
“All right.”
Degrave looked down. “The sad truth is,” he said quietly, “a country can’t survive unless people fight for it.”
“I know.”
“You’ll think it over, then. Take an hour. More, if you like.”
There was no point in waiting an hour. He took the job; he didn’t have it in his heart to refuse.
Casson walked for a long time, his worldly goods in the brown-paper package under his arm. Degrave had given him a few hundred francs and the name of a hotel, and told him he would be contacted.
He crossed the Seine on the pont de Levallois. Barges moved slowly on the steel-colored water, swastika flags flapping in the autumn breeze. Leaning on the parapet, a few old men fished for barbel with bamboo poles. There was a market street at the foot of the bridge; long lines started at the doors and wound around the corners. Some of the windows had Entreprise Juive painted in white letters, two or three had been smashed, the shattered glass glittering on the floors of the empty shops. On the walls of the buildings, the Germans had posted proclamations: “All acts of violence and sabotage will be punished with the utmost severity. Acts of sabotage are held to include any damage to crops or military installations, as well as the defacing of posters belonging to the occupying powers.” An old poster, Casson saw, dated June of 1940, the heavy print faded in the sun and rain. Newer versions promised death for a long list of violations and, Casson noted with regret, they had not been “defaced”—no cartoons, no slogans.
There was a café across the street, he sat
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