Young, Brave and Beautiful Page 5
13 Adjutant-chef (13e DBLE) Étienne Szabó was awarded many honours, some posthumously, including the military Légion d’Honneur, Médaille Militaire, Croix de Guerre with Star and Palm, plus his Colonial Medal. He was killed at El Alamein on 24 October 1942 below the plateau of Qaret El Himeimat. In their hall of fame, Étienne is one of the Legion’s heroes.
14 Peter Harratt, DSO, MC, the DF’s sea landings organiser and a leading expert at Arisaig, had been a hussar officer; his cavalry training was no hindrance to his maritime ability. DF or D/F was SOE’s escape section, ‘most DF operators lived in hourly peril of their lives. Their task: to provide communications to and from western Europe by sea & land; mainly to run escape lines across France into the Iberian and Breton peninsulas’, M.R.D. Foot, SOE in France, new edition p.21.
15 The word ‘interrogation’ during the war in the forces was used innocently as a by-word for ‘debriefing’. It is only after the war when it was realised the extent of the Nazi atrocities committed during their interrogations that the word itself often became synonymous with terror and torture.
3
Train Journey to Paris
6 April 1944 – Maundy Thursday
It was a cold clear morning, and the wind coming from the south made progress a little easier.
‘Glad I brought that jumper,’ shouted Violette to Philippe as they cycled. ‘Mind you, we’ll be warm enough in a short while, with the miles we’ve got to cover and those damned hills.’
‘Bon, ben!’ puffed Philippe, not enjoying the trip. First had been the parachute drop – which simply petrified him, but it had to be done – and now this, a long hike on gearless, rickety old bikes. ‘Eh, mademoiselle, not another word in English, or no share of the jolly lolly when you get back to Paris! Piges? Pas de pognon!’16
‘Oh, monsieur, pardonnez-moi, je vous prie!’ retorted Violette, grinning from ear to ear in mock apology, loving each moment of this journey. She was used to cycling for miles with cousins and brothers. A real athlete, she could outlast and overtake them all, but she was careful not to outstrip her boss by too much or too often. Philippe huffed and puffed, grumbling away in la langue verte – ‘green’ French.17 Violette noted Philippe used this gentle swearing almost as an indication of equality. She found it easy to chat away in a friendly unaffected fashion; Philippe did not overwhelm her. They had worked and relaxed together in the UK and had formed a solid friendship. Violette respected Philippe as an extremely careful planner committed to any task passed to him.
The long stretches of Roman roads in this part of unoccupied France were peaceful. At eleven, they decided to turn off into a sheltered wooded area for rest and refreshments. As they chatted, Violette’s attention instantly sharpened when Philippe moved onto the business of their mission, plans and messages, the task ahead for Violette in the forbidden zone, her lone journey into the unknown and the dangers she would surely have to face. But right now the trip felt a bit like a springtime randonnée à vélo – a relaxed and informal bicycle ride.
However, at no time did their watchfulness diminish. From time to time, German soldiers in military trucks, weapons visible, flew past, followed more slowly by lorryloads of provisions and a noisy tank or two. A solitary armoured German jeep sped along in the opposite direction, the driver, an overcoated general and another high-ranking German soldier staring impassively ahead. A number of armed motorbike messengers roared by, as did motorbikes carrying a senior German soldier in the sidecar. Each time they heard motorised traffic approaching, Violette and Philippe slipped hurriedly into the roadside fields or thickets. When such traffic came upon them too unexpectedly they slowed their speed and kept to the edge of the road, heads down – just another French couple going about their business. At such moments, a tremor of fear would send blood thumping into Violette’s head, until she mastered it and calmed her thoughts.
They had to cycle about sixty kilometres to Valençay, up and down hill, occasionally taking circuitous routes to avoid military vehicles and personnel. From there, they would take a train to Paris, which would be slow and liable to hold-ups. There was a real danger that they would be asked to show their false identity papers, perhaps be searched and certainly questioned on where they were going and why. If the German officer, guard, Vichy police or Milicien did not like the response, being taken to Gestapo or Vichy police headquarters was the most likely outcome.
Violette, they had agreed, should remain as quiet as possible, letting Philippe handle any such eventuality. He was much better acclimatised to wartime France than she could possibly hope to be on this, her first visit since the drôle de guerre – that seven-month period of phoney war from September 1939 to 9 April 1940. At that time, it had been incumbent upon her to stop work and return home to England, leaving her beloved Tante Marguerite. She had been informally active with her aunt in the Nord and over the border into Belgium in their nascent resistance movement, helping in some small measure to hide downed Allied pilots and agents on the run, moving them along newly established escape routes. Belgian escape routes extended as far as Spain and often through to neutral Portugal, finally to a plane or boat back to England. Sometimes the route was along the coast into Brittany and Normandy, where small fishing boats or submarines picked up such fugitives in the choppy Channel waters. Doing this, Violette and her aunt gathered significant information to report to the Belgian Section in London.
Her return to England as the phoney war ended turned out to be on the last boat. All the vessels were full to overflowing – no more passengers allowed – but Tante Marguerite had raised her voice: ‘Alors, vous ne voyez pas ce petit enfant de quatre ans? Sa sœur doit le rendre à ses parents. Qu’est-ce que vous allez faire – laissez-le aux Boches?’18
So determined was she that Violette accompany her four-year-old brother back to his parents in England, the douaniers and French police finally let Violette and Dickie through. The siblings adored each other and Violette knew that, no matter how much she wanted to stay and help her aunt, she was duty bound to get Dickie back home to their mother in London, who would be anxiously waiting for them at 18 Burnley Road.
‡
The two cyclists finally arrived in Valençay, a pretty town between Issoudun and Blois, notable for its beautiful château. There were two direct rail links from here to Paris: one from Toulouse and one from Lyon. As they had plenty of time before the train left for Gare d’Austerlitz in Paris, Philippe suggested they walk their bikes around the château. Over this Easter period, it would not hurt to act like happy holidaymakers awed by fine architecture. It was just a few minutes from the station and dominated the tiny town.
‘The station looks just like a mini château!’ exclaimed Violette.
‘Sûrement,’ replied Philippe. ‘It wouldn’t do to have a dump of a station serving this astounding Renaissance château, now, would it, ma chère? It was Talleyrand’s!’
‘You really know your stuff, don’t you, cher maître?’ mocked his willing listener.
It felt good to be with this thirty-two-year-old Frenchman – Violette soaked up his French view of the world, the war, his educated French accent and their common heritage as he made comments while they ambled along.
She was feeling safe, enjoying every smell and sight. German soldiers strolled past, courteous to the population, absorbing the experience of French Lent and Easter, occasionally politely checking papers of passers-by. There was no sign of Gestapo or Milice on duty. Shops were preparing for Easter; even though they were impoverished and no longer really free, they continued their preparations for the festivities, especially for the children. It would provide some relief from the tedium of restricted movement, ration cards and shortages. There had often not been enough fuel for fires or heating during the winter; electricity was intermittent, petrol commandeered by the Vichy French for the Germans.
‘You realise’, said Philippe, ‘this whole region is just one extended, very flat plain, rich in agricultural produce and ideal for
landing clandestine planes by the light of the moon. Like that superb goat’s cheese we ate.’
Violette’s face was a picture of suppressed laughter.
‘Non! I don’t mean goat’s cheese flies! I mean agricultural produce.’
This produced further gales of laughter. ‘So now agricultural produce flies, does it?’
‘Oh, en effet, Vee, be serious! I am trying to give you important details of French life that one day just might get you out of a jam! Parisians who have family here don’t go so hungry under the damn Germans.’
‘Is that why so many réseaux are concentrated around here?’ Violette asked.
‘Yes, partly,’ Philippe replied, ‘and not because of the cheese! It’s because the terrain’s high and flat. There’s a veritable tapestry of networks scattered all over this Berry region – like a huge series of spiders’ webs where each one only knows his neighbours and friends.’
‘It must be a very fragile web.’
‘Yes, it is. In fact, it’s constantly being attacked and dislocated, even infiltrated, by Vichy police and their informers. The Germans aren’t so stupid, either. They know how to set up their own networks and infiltrate ours. Quite frequently arrogance gets the better of them and they’re spotted and dealt with, but they’re dangerous. When circuits are brûlés they are just rewoven by new arrivals from SOE and even by agents leaving.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Violette thoughtfully. She could not quite grasp how those leaving could reweave blown networks, but presumed he meant they went on to other circuits, or even created new ones within the same area. She could not resist saying, ‘Flying cheeses and spidery agents weaving endless webs as they flee.’
They both collapsed into giggles as passers-by turned to stare. Some smiled.
‡
The train arrived on time. The carriages were crowded with people travelling to see relatives and friends in other parts of the country and to take part in restricted religious services to celebrate Easter.
Violette and Philippe had bought first-class one-way tickets to Paris and quietly sought out a first-class carriage. Once on the train, they settled into the stylish compartment. Appearing quite well to do in good-quality but worn clothes, they smiled briefly at other passengers looking their way and chatted inconsequentially to one another. The journey to Paris took nearly five hours instead of the usual two.
At one point a Wehrmacht soldier came to inspect tickets and identities, making a random search of shopping and luggage. Philippe said to Violette: ‘Watch this: I’ve used this manoeuvre a few times now and, so far, it has always had the desired result.’
‘Monsieur, vos tickets et cartes d’identité, s’il vous plaît,’ asked the soldier firmly but politely in Teutonic French.
‘Here you are, but I don’t understand why we should be searched when we’re doing all we can to help the Germans. It’s very frustrating and rather insulting, don’t you think, chérie?’ grumbled Philippe, turning to Violette.
‘C’est affreux,’ replied Violette, looking quite furious at the poor soldier, who hurriedly handed back their tickets and identity cards and refrained from any further search. He apologised as he uncomfortably made his way further down the carriage.
‘You see,’ Philippe said, turning to Violette with a look warning her not to laugh.
‘I’ll certainly remember that ploy,’ grinned Violette.
About an hour later, after a scheduled stop, Violette had the opportunity to practise the charade. There was the usual inspection, spot-check, an eviction of two people from the train. Keeping his head down, Philippe was amazed to hear Violette angrily grumble about ‘terroristes’ disrupting everyone’s lives, ensuring that the inspector hardly looked twice at two such obviously confirmed Vichyists!
Apart from those two incidents, which could have been fatal had one of the inspectors searched and found the huge amount of money they each carried; the journey to Paris was easy and enjoyable. There were two further checks but not in their carriage, and one unscheduled stop. Two men and one woman were dragged away at gunpoint. Despite this harsh interruption, the chugging of the locomotive had a calming effect on everyone. The weather remained bright and sunny and Violette was happy to watch the French countryside drift by.
‡
* * *
16 Piges? = Get it? Do you understand? Pas de pognon! = No dosh!
17 La langue verte, or ‘green language’, is known as ‘blue language’ in English. It can be compared to film vert, or blue film. The French are much more down to earth!
18 ‘So, can’t you see this little four-year old child? His sister must get him back to his parents. What are you going to do – leave him to the Krauts?’
Part II
4
Arrival in Paris
Evening of Thursday 6 April to Sunday 9 April 1944
‘La barbarie allemande en effet ne se révéla pas …’
‘German barbarity in fact did not reveal itself …’
The train drew into the Gare d’Austerlitz at seven in the evening on that Thursday, billowing steam and smoke over the platform, passengers and luggage. Violette and Philippe quietly mingled with the bustling crowds busy seeking train times, transit platforms, friends and families. German soldiers gathered in small groups – arriving for, or departing after, their special leave in Paris. Worn leather suitcases and the farm’s bags of supplies in their hands, Violette and Philippe walked out of the station and saw eager women selling bons-bons – with pure sugar!
The seller said that these were officially reserved for the Wehrmacht soldiers’ rations in France and the J3.19
Angry and astounded, Violette replied that it was always the zazous, and the damned Jerries, surprising the seller with her vehemence. Violette had suddenly thought of Tania, her young daughter, and a burst of irritability was the best defence to cover her confusion.
To buy ration books they needed points. Philippe politely asked the seller how to get these when they had no coupons left and none for children. The seller, looking daggers at Violette, explained that it was easy. They just needed to go to one of the métro exits even during the day and they were bound to find as many cartes de rationnement that they could need. Violette was amused and not a little surprised to find black-market ration cards at the station, especially when SOE had gone to such great pains to forge perfectly the ones they carried. Certainly buying ration cards at the metro station meant they did not immediately need to use theirs, thus lessening the risk while increasing the possibility of purchasing further daily provisions.
Violette and Philippe headed for rue Saints-Pères, Paris 6, where Tante Evelyn lived. It was about a two-mile walk from Austerlitz, but it was a mild evening with a light breeze sashaying down the left bank streets. Turning to Philippe, she remarked pleasantly, using his present identity: ‘You know, Charles, I love travelling by train. Going first class, too, that’s quite something. But now I’m a posh Parisian, aren’t I?’
‘Well, I’m not too sure, the way you spoke to that seller just now! Poor woman.’
Their luggage was not overly cumbersome and the walk would give Violette an opportunity to observe the Parisians and the enemy. From Gare d’Austerlitz they followed the river Seine on the left bank north on quai Saint-Bernard and turned into Saint-Germain-des-Prés.20 As Octave, the farmer, had pointed out, there were many people on the streets, carrying all manner of bags because of Easter, so again they blended in easily. It felt very strange, and eerie, too, with grey-uniformed soldiers mingling with the grey crowds in the grey twilight.
Violette was struck by the sadness, anxiety and nervousness in the Parisians’ faces. The pinched look of hunger showed too frequently in the working-class people they passed in the streets. In trains, streets and pavement cafés the unfortunate French, once the darlings of the world, would avoid one another’s gaze, or stare with distrust.
‘You know, Charles, I’m certainly increasing my vocabulary of good French ins
ults. For example, how about “Va donc, eh! vitaminé!”21 or I heard a woman shout: “Espèce de sans-carte!”22 How awful it must be for them, worse even than for us in London – at least at home we’re free from occupation!’
There were also still smart areas in Paris, as is always the case in occupied cities; places where wealth mingles with occupier, where people shop in glittering boutiques and dine in sparkling, haute cuisine restaurants.
‡
The time was approaching when Violette would travel to the zone interdite where Philippe had, over eight months from the previous April, set up the highly successful réseau, Salesman. He and Bob Maloubier23 had trained the men who had carried out sabotage at Déville-lès-Rouen on 10 October 1943, at the factory of the Société Française ès Métaux (the French Metal Company) and, on the 31st, the destruction of Dieppedalle’s electric substation. Reprisals became more frequent and harsher.
In Le Havre, besides the activities of the different movements represented at the Comité de Libération,24 the two local groups – Heure H and Vagabond Bien-Aimé – continued their activities. Philippe had close connections with these through his Hamlet sub-circuit. Raymont Guenot, one of his best men, was arrested in July as one of the main leaders of Heure H, a mainly communist group, and shot in Rouen during the first days of November 1943. Philippe, with some anguish, recounted to Violette how Guenot had died without knowing that his ‘deux vœux’, his ‘two wishes’, had come to fruition. First, they had set up efficient contact with the Résistance outside the country, notably with London; contact had been made shortly after his arrest, by his friend Paul Desjardins. Then, in September 1943, under Roger Mayer’s leadership, Heure H had received its first parachute supply drop.