Paris: The Novel (136 page)

Since the German occupation, Marc had retreated into private life. He still turned up for cultural events from time to time, but mostly lived in dignified isolation. She doubted whether the Germans thought that a liberal intellectual like Marc was a supporter of the authoritarian government; but he was getting too old, and was too self-centered to give them any trouble.

In fact, it was the Germans who tried to coax him into more activity. Marie became aware of it one evening in February.

It had been months since Marc had invited them to a social gathering at his apartment, so she and Roland both went, and took Charlie with them. There was a crowd of people there, mostly from the world of the arts, but she was surprised to see a couple of German officers in uniform. A moment later, all was explained, as Marc signaled them to join him.

“Allow me to present my sister and her husband, Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Cygne, and her stepson, Charles—the German ambassador.”

Whatever one might think of Hitler and his inner circle, they could be clever when they wanted. The appointment of an ambassador to France at all was a well-calculated gesture to preserve the fiction that France was still a sovereign state ruling herself—with a little help from her German friends. But their choice of ambassador was inspired. Otto Abetz was urbane and cultivated, and he had a French wife. His job was to reassure the French and help them accept German rule.

Abetz was quite young, only in his late thirties. He was immaculately tailored, and might have stepped straight from a Parisian salon. With his appreciative bow and greeting to Roland and his son, he conveyed in an instant that he was well aware of who they were, and that they were considered as aristocratic friends of the regime who shared its values and, still more important where trust is concerned, its prejudices. To Marie, he then turned with practiced charm.

“Madame, I hope you will help me persuade your brother to take a more active role in Paris life again. We all need him. He was good enough to accept an invitation to the embassy”—as if he could refuse, she thought—“and I begged him to let me come to see his wonderful collection
of pictures. My wife has already read two of his monographs, which she says are as elegant as they are scholarly, and I have them by my bedside to read myself.”

Marie could tell that even Marc, who had seen more winters than most in the art world, was not entirely immune to this flattery.

“It has not been easy to persuade him from his retirement for a number of years,” she offered, “but I always tell him that if he does not take exercise, he will grow old.”

“Voilà!” The German turned to Marc with a broad smile. “I do not ask you to listen to me, my friend, but you should listen to your sister, who is wiser than either of us.”

The following month, Marc was seen again at a reception Abetz gave for the cultural and academic elite of the city. He still didn’t go out much, but no doubt Abetz was content that he served the German purpose well enough.

Despite the ambassador’s charm, there were still plenty of reminders that an iron fist lay behind the velvet glove. German street signs directed one to all the new German buildings. Even the Hôtel de Crillon on Place de la Concorde was now the huge and threatening offices of the security services. Cars with loudspeakers circulated to remind everyone that troublemakers would not be tolerated. There was a strict curfew at night. Food rationing began in earnest.

“It’s all right for us,” Charlie remarked. “We only have to go to the château and there is food. I can always go out into the woods and shoot a pigeon. But the poor people of Paris are not so lucky.”

And what was Charlie up to himself? Marie had been able to do one great thing for him, in the autumn of 1940. But once that was done, she had been careful not to interfere. Sometimes he would disappear for days at a time. She never asked him where he had been or what he was doing. She was fairly sure he had a woman somewhere, and it would have been strange if he had not. But as to his other, perhaps more dangerous, activities, she could only guess.

If there were resistance groups forming, it was still hard to see at present what they could usefully do, since the German control of northwestern Europe appeared to be complete.

But as the summer of 1941 began, two events gave a hint that the German supremacy might begin to falter. For in May, Germany’s mighty battleship the
Bismarck
was sunk. And then, at the end of June, came
the astonishing news that Hitler had suddenly turned on his new friend Stalin, and invaded Russia.

“He must be mad,” Roland remarked. “Doesn’t he know what happened to Napoléon when he invaded Russia back in 1812?” He shook his head. “Perhaps Hitler thinks he’s a better general.”

“And what do you think?” Marie asked Charlie.

“I think,” said Charlie, “that this changes everything.”

For Max Le Sourd, it brought relief. The last year had been especially difficult for him.

With the French Communist Party joined in lockstep with Moscow, the journalists at
L’Humanité
had been obliged to follow the party line.

“We have to advocate collaboration with the Germans,” he told his father. By the end of 1940, he was adding: “I’m not sure how much longer I can do it, and nor are many of my communist friends.”

But his father had never made any comment at all.

Since Max’s return from the Spanish Civil War, the relationship between them had been perfectly friendly. Both regretted equally that Franco and his right-wing army had prevailed, and that Spain, for all its Catholic trappings, was really a fascist regime. His father accepted that Max had fought bravely and that his heart was in the right place.

“But he doesn’t trust me,” Max said sadly to his mother.

“You mustn’t take it personally,” his mother told him. “But with the communists on the Germans’ side … he can’t.”

Was his father in a resistance movement of some kind? As the months went by, Max often wondered. His father was well into his seventies, but with his tall, lean frame he seemed hardly changed. He’d still walk from Belleville to the Bois de Boulogne without seeming tired.

It was no use asking him. Once, in the spring of 1941, Max told him frankly that he was ready to start working against the Germans. But his father made no comment at all, and never referred to the subject again. Max understood, though he still found it hurtful.

Only at the end of June, when Hitler invaded Russia, did the situation change.

“We’re organizing a communist resistance movement,” Max told the older Le Sourd. “I don’t know details yet, but I shall join it, of course.” He gave his father a careful look. “Unless you have any other suggestions.”

And this time, though his father didn’t say anything, he put his arm around Max’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. A few days later, on a warm day in July, he suggested: “As it’s a beautiful day, let’s go for a picnic, you and I.”

“As you like. Where do you want to go?”

“The Bois de Vincennes,” said his father. “We can bicycle out there, together.”

Max hadn’t been there for years. Not that it was so far away. He’d forgotten how delightful the old forest was.

For if Parisians could enjoy the open spaces of the Bois de Boulogne on the western side of the city, on the eastern side the Bois de Vincennes was just as fine. The old royal forest still contained an ancient château that kings had used until the days of Louis XIV, but people mostly came to walk in the woods.

They found a pleasant, deserted spot and set out their little meal of bread, pâté and cheese. Max had provided a bottle of
vin ordinaire
, and as he looked at his father stretched out so comfortably on the grass, he felt a great wave of affection. They ate and drank for a little while before his father broached the subject that was on his mind.

“You were serious about working in the Resistance?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to tell you something about it?”

“I do.”

His father nodded thoughtfully.

“You know that, as a socialist, I’ve always believed it’s of paramount importance to be organized. Random acts of violence are useless. The thing is to have an organization well prepared so that, when the time comes, one is ready to seize the initiative. It’s the same with any resistance movement. Especially when you are dealing with a ruthless enemy like Hitler.”

“That makes sense.”

“Now that there’s an eastern front, we could make enough trouble to tie up troops here. That might cause Hitler some difficulties. One day, perhaps, if America comes into the war, it may even be possible to liberate France. A big Resistance network could be crucial in providing information and sabotage prior to an invasion.”

“You’ll need good links with de Gaulle in London, then.”

“Up to a point, yes. But don’t forget the bigger picture. In the event that French and Allied troops can liberate France, we need to be completely organized so that the France they liberate belongs to us. By the time they get to Paris, it will be a Commune.”

“The old dream.”

“It’s a hundred and fifty years since the French Revolution and we still haven’t made good its ideals. But maybe this time it can be done.”

“That’s what you’re fighting for?”

“Yes. I want the Nazis out, of course. But my ultimate goal is to complete the Revolution, for France to reach her true destiny. And I hope it may be your goal as well.”

For the next ten minutes he gave Max some details of the networks as they were emerging. It was evident to Max that his father was telling him far less than he knew, but it was clear that, both in Vichy France and in the occupied north, they were extensive.

“The cells are linked, but also separate. Only a few key individuals know much outside their own cell. That’s for security.”

“What will your role be?”

“Propaganda. I’m getting a little old to run around blowing things up. But we need a newspaper. We may revive
Le Populaire
, which was suppressed. Underground of course. I’ll be helping with that.”

“I want to do something more active. My time in the Spanish Civil War taught me a good deal.”

“I know. And that’s the point. I’ve gathered together a bunch of boys, and I think I should turn them over to you and your friends. They all want action.” He grinned. “Do you know, I even found the fellow who cut the elevator cables in the Eiffel Tower? He’s about the same age as me, but he’s still going strong. And we have some villains from the Maquis. In fact, I have all sorts of fellows. Are you interested?”

“Absolutely,” said Max.

His father drank a little more wine and stared through the trees. He seemed to see something that caused him to nod, but when Max glanced around, he saw nothing.

A couple of minutes later, a tall, handsome man suddenly came into the little clearing where they were, hesitated, and apologized for disturbing them. To Max’s surprise, his father turned to the stranger and remarked: “You are not disturbing us at all, my friend. This is my son, Max.”

The stranger, who was in his late twenties and had a decidedly aristocratic air, bowed and said that he was delighted to meet him.