at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. Je m’en fous, he thought, fuck it. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to hide, that was the truth. Find a woman, crawl up into some garret, and wait for the war to end.
He drank the wine, it burned his throat going down. “What is it?” he asked the man behind the bar.
“Sidi Larbi, fourteen percent. From Algeria. Care for another?”
“All right.”
Degrave had been a good officer, up on the Meuse. And when it was clear that the German tanks would cross the river, his friends on the general staff had pulled them out. He owed his life to Degrave.
He paid the bill and headed west, toward the 17th. It was almost dark. It had been gray all afternoon, the autumn grisaille settled down on the stone city. Now, just at dusk, the sun came out, lighting fires in the clouds on the horizon as it set.
PARIS. 26 OCTOBER.
The Hotel Benoit. It was a place, as it happened, that he’d visited more than once, though he’d never actually slept there. The hotel was a monument to the midday love affair. The proprietors were discreet, and had an ancient well-seasoned arrangement with the police, so identity cards were never too carefully scrutinized and generations of “Duvals” and “Durands” had found comforting anonymity at the Benoit. “Society must have laws,” his lawyer friend Arnaud used to say, “and society must have convenient means to evade them.”
Casson’s room looked out over the street and a small park—the sound of dead leaves rattling in the wind put him to sleep at night. The secret life of the hotel sometimes reminded him too much of his past—couples with averted eyes, the scent of perfume in the air, and now and then, in the afternoon, a lover’s cry.
Degrave left a message at the desk for him and on the night of the 26th they met in a nearby hotel.
“You’re comfortable?” Degrave said.
Casson said he was.
Degrave took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair. Casson sat on the edge of the bed. “What we are trying to do right now,” Degrave said, “is get in touch with the various resistance groups and establish lines of communication with them. Eventually, we will all have to work together. It’s now clear that Germany will not invade Great Britain, so Great Britain will have to find a way to invade occupied Europe. And they can’t win without aggressive resistance and intelligence networks on the Continent.
“At this moment, the most active resistance group is the FTP, the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, named for the guerrilla fighters in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. The FTP is the clandestine action group of the French Communist Party. We want you to make contact with them, on behalf of the intelligence network we’re operating in Vichy.”
Degrave paused, waiting for Casson to respond. “How would I do that?” Casson said.
“You’ll find a way. We’ll help you, but in the end you will do it by yourself.”
That’s madness, Casson thought. It would never happen. “You want me to pretend to join them?” he said.
“No, that won’t work. They’re organized in cells, units completely separated from each other, to make penetration agents virtually useless. You will have to approach them as Jean Casson, a former film producer, acting on behalf of the network in Vichy. Honesty is the only way in.”
Casson nodded—that much at least made sense. “Why me?” he said.
“It must be somebody neutral, apolitical, not a socialist, not a conservative. Somebody who has not fought in the political wars. You have certainly had contact with party members in the film industry—incidental, without problems. They will know who you are, they will know you haven’t worked against them.”
That was true. His screenwriter, Louis Fischfang, had been a Marxist—in fact a Stalinist. He wasn’t the only one. There was Fougère, from the electricians’ union; the actor René Morgan, who’d fought in Spain; many others. He’d
He drank the wine, it burned his throat going down. “What is it?” he asked the man behind the bar.
“Sidi Larbi, fourteen percent. From Algeria. Care for another?”
“All right.”
Degrave had been a good officer, up on the Meuse. And when it was clear that the German tanks would cross the river, his friends on the general staff had pulled them out. He owed his life to Degrave.
He paid the bill and headed west, toward the 17th. It was almost dark. It had been gray all afternoon, the autumn grisaille settled down on the stone city. Now, just at dusk, the sun came out, lighting fires in the clouds on the horizon as it set.
PARIS. 26 OCTOBER.
The Hotel Benoit. It was a place, as it happened, that he’d visited more than once, though he’d never actually slept there. The hotel was a monument to the midday love affair. The proprietors were discreet, and had an ancient well-seasoned arrangement with the police, so identity cards were never too carefully scrutinized and generations of “Duvals” and “Durands” had found comforting anonymity at the Benoit. “Society must have laws,” his lawyer friend Arnaud used to say, “and society must have convenient means to evade them.”
Casson’s room looked out over the street and a small park—the sound of dead leaves rattling in the wind put him to sleep at night. The secret life of the hotel sometimes reminded him too much of his past—couples with averted eyes, the scent of perfume in the air, and now and then, in the afternoon, a lover’s cry.
Degrave left a message at the desk for him and on the night of the 26th they met in a nearby hotel.
“You’re comfortable?” Degrave said.
Casson said he was.
Degrave took his jacket off and hung it on the back of the chair. Casson sat on the edge of the bed. “What we are trying to do right now,” Degrave said, “is get in touch with the various resistance groups and establish lines of communication with them. Eventually, we will all have to work together. It’s now clear that Germany will not invade Great Britain, so Great Britain will have to find a way to invade occupied Europe. And they can’t win without aggressive resistance and intelligence networks on the Continent.
“At this moment, the most active resistance group is the FTP, the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, named for the guerrilla fighters in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. The FTP is the clandestine action group of the French Communist Party. We want you to make contact with them, on behalf of the intelligence network we’re operating in Vichy.”
Degrave paused, waiting for Casson to respond. “How would I do that?” Casson said.
“You’ll find a way. We’ll help you, but in the end you will do it by yourself.”
That’s madness, Casson thought. It would never happen. “You want me to pretend to join them?” he said.
“No, that won’t work. They’re organized in cells, units completely separated from each other, to make penetration agents virtually useless. You will have to approach them as Jean Casson, a former film producer, acting on behalf of the network in Vichy. Honesty is the only way in.”
Casson nodded—that much at least made sense. “Why me?” he said.
“It must be somebody neutral, apolitical, not a socialist, not a conservative. Somebody who has not fought in the political wars. You have certainly had contact with party members in the film industry—incidental, without problems. They will know who you are, they will know you haven’t worked against them.”
That was true. His screenwriter, Louis Fischfang, had been a Marxist—in fact a Stalinist. He wasn’t the only one. There was Fougère, from the electricians’ union; the actor René Morgan, who’d fought in Spain; many others. He’d
Similar Books
