Citadel (7 page)
Raoul’s network had operated for nearly two years before it was betrayed, his comrades arrested and sent to the notorious camp of Le Vernet. Raoul only evaded capture because he was away from base when the police came. With everything gone, no papers and no means of support, he’d been forced to return to the anonymity of his home town of Carcassonne. To his grieving mother treading the boards of their tiny, sombre flat on the Quai Riquet, with only Bruno’s ghost for company.
Raoul hated it. He was unsuited for civilian life and missed his brother even more in Carcassonne, in the streets where they’d grown up together. So when, a few months ago, César Sanchez, one of Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade, had approached him to see if he’d join a group of patriots in Carcassonne, Raoul hadn’t hesitated.
He looked up and realised he’d already arrived in Place Carnot. He glanced at his watch again. He was still too early, so he kept walking across the square and into rue Georges Clemenceau. César worked in the print shop attached to the Café des Deux Gares. If he went there first, Raoul would at least have the chance before the meeting to tell César he’d found Antoine’s chain at the river.
‘
H
ere we are,’ said Lucie, parking at the kerb in front of Sandrine’s house.
Max got out and unstrapped the bicycle from the rack. ‘Where do you want this?’
‘There’s a gate into the garden at the back.’
He nodded and disappeared around the corner. Sandrine watched him go.
‘Max is nice,’ she said.
Lucie’s eyes lit up. ‘I know, isn’t he?’ She leaned over and opened the door. ‘There you go.’
Sandrine didn’t move.
‘You all right, kid? You need a hand getting inside?’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘The thing is, I’m thinking I should go to the police. Report what happened.’
Alarm flashed across Lucie’s face. ‘That’s not a good idea,’ she said immediately.
‘I know you don’t believe me—’
Lucie interrupted. ‘It’s not that . . .’
‘—and I don’t blame you,’ Sandrine continued. ‘But I know what I saw. The police should be told.’
Lucie was frowning. ‘I absolutely don’t think you should get the police involved. It could be difficult for Max, and,’ she hesitated, ‘in any case, you’re all right. No real harm done.’
‘But I was attacked,’ Sandrine said, taken aback by Lucie’s opposition. ‘What if he does it again? Attacks some other girl?’
‘You’ll never be able to persuade the police that’s what happened,’ Lucie said. ‘You’ve got no evidence.’
‘What about this?’ Sandrine said, touching the cut on her head.
‘That’s not evidence, they’ll simply say you took a fall. And . . . if you report it, it might come out that we were there. That Max was there. The police will have your details. You don’t want that, surely? No one wants that.’
‘A man is missing,’ Sandrine said quietly. ‘What about him? His injuries were . . .’ She stopped, picturing the rope marks on his wrists, the bruising, the agony on his face. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’
‘Wait until you’ve talked it over with Marianne. I’m sure she’ll agree with me.’
‘But his family might be looking for him. Someone might have reported him gone.’
‘At least change your clothes before you do anything,’ Lucie said, trying yet another approach. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
‘If I do that, it’s even less likely they’ll believe me,’ she said. ‘Look at me. They’ll be able to see I’m not making it up.’
‘They’ll see you came off your bike, that’s all,’ Lucie said stubbornly.
Finally accepting the girl wasn’t going to come round, whatever she said, Sandrine decided the only thing for it was to make her own way to the police station once Lucie and Max had gone. She sat for a moment longer, pretending she was reconsidering, then she sighed.
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Lucie’s relief was palpable. ‘It’s the sensible thing, kid,’ she said in a rush. ‘Best not to get the police involved.’
‘I’ll hang on for Marianne,’ Sandrine said, getting out of the car. ‘See what she says.’
Lucie hopped out too and gave her a hug. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’
‘Yes. Don’t worry.’
‘And, really, you know I wouldn’t mention it to anyone,’ Lucie added. ‘Apart from Marianne, of course, but nobody else.’
‘I won’t,’ Sandrine said, walking up the steps to the front door.
‘All right?’ Lucie said brightly to Max as he reappeared.
‘I’ve left your bike just inside the gate,’ he said, giving Sandrine a slight, formal bow. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Vidal, despite the circumstances.’
‘You too. Thank you. You’ve both been so kind.’
Sandrine watched as Max got into the front seat beside Lucie and they pulled off. As soon as the car had rounded the corner, she ran back down the steps and walked quickly towards the Bastide and the police station.
A few minutes later, Sandrine was standing looking up at the Commissariat of the Police Nationale. In her whole life she had never had cause to go into the elegant white building. Her father had brought her up to trust authority, but that was then. Before the war, before France was cut in two, before the occupation of the north. Given the things the police were obliged to do now – arrests, raids, the implementation of new laws – perhaps Lucie’s caution was justified?
At that moment, the door to the police station flew open and two officers appeared on the top step. They looked Sandrine up and down, then said something to one another and they both laughed. She blushed, made self-conscious by their scrutiny, but it gave her the impetus she needed to go on in.
She ran up the steps. When she got to the top, she turned. The officers were still there on the pavement, staring at her. Sandrine turned her back on them, pushed open the door and went inside.
The station smelt of disinfectant and tobacco and sweat. A woman with smudged eye make-up and a bruised face was sitting sobbing on the long bench that ran beneath the window. At the far end, an elderly man reeking of alcohol and muttering, a down-and-out. A copy of the front page of
L’Echo de Carcassonne
with a grainy photograph of Maréchal Pétain was stuck to the wall, beside a black and white public information poster advising citizens to be on the lookout for fifth columnists. There was also a noticeboard covered with mugshots of men sought by the police. Reward posters, wanted posters, they all looked villainous. Less than human.
A dark-haired officer with silver buttons, black tie and flashing on his shoulder came down the corridor and gently touched the woman on the arm.
‘We’ll keep him in until he’s slept it off,’ he said. ‘Let’s be getting you home.’
The woman nodded, then slowly got to her feet. Clasping her handbag to her, like a shield, she allowed herself to be led out. Sandrine smiled at her, but the woman’s head was bowed and she didn’t respond.
When they’d gone, Sandrine approached the counter.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
The desk clerk on duty ignored her, just continued to flick through the papers in front of him.
‘
S’il vous plaît
,’ she said, more loudly this time.
He still took no notice. Irritated, Sandrine leant forward and sharply tapped on the bell. The drunk in the corner began to laugh.
‘Jump to it,’ he shouted. ‘Girl wants you. Come to see you,’ he slurred. ‘Pining for you, she is. Your girl, is she? Bit young—’
‘Enough of that,’ the clerk shouted, ‘or I’ll have you back in that cell.’
He did at least look at her then, raising his eyebrows as he took in her dishevelled clothes.
‘Well?’
Sandrine met his gaze. ‘I’ve come to report a crime.’
R
aoul watched the side door into the Café des Deux Gares from the Jardin des Plantes, checking there was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign that the premises were being watched, no unusual activity. A few down-and-outs were sitting on the stone steps surrounding the bust of Omer Sarraut, with their rough cigarettes and dark, sharp eyes. The bronze around the fountain was long gone, melted down for metal during the war.
Once he was certain it was safe, Raoul walked quickly across the road and into the narrow alley that ran alongside the café. He knocked on the door, three sharp taps, pause; three sharp taps, pause; then another three sharp taps. He glanced uneasily down the alley, then in the opposite direction, as he waited for the sound of footsteps behind the door.
‘
Oui?
’
‘It’s me.’
The rattle of the chain and the key being turned in the lock, then César opened up.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Wanted to catch you before the meeting.’
‘Come in, I’m not quite finished,’ César said, pulling him inside and shutting the door. ‘Five minutes.’
Raoul followed César down a set of steps to the basement. César flicked on a dim red ceiling lamp, then closed the door.
The darkroom was well stocked, a legacy from the days before the war when the pressmen had developed their pictures here to wire to the Parisian papers. There were bottles of developing fluid, clearly labelled, an enlarger and a dryer for prints. Pegged to the wire above the wooden counter Raoul saw a row of black and white photographs of the camps at Argelès and Collioure. He recognised the coastline, swampland, the air black with mosquitoes. After France’s surrender in June 1940, Raoul had spent several weeks travelling between the camps in Collioure, Saint-Cyprien, Rivesaltes, Argelès, helping Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade. The photos triggered many painful, broken memories.
‘How did you get hold of these?’ he said quietly.
‘Smuggled out by the Croix-Rouge women,’ César replied.
‘Brave of them.’
César nodded. ‘Yes.’
The photographs had obviously been taken illegally – the angles were odd, the definition blurred and out of focus – but the story they told was clear. Emaciated women and men, children, standing behind barbed-wire fences, staring out at the camera. Raoul looked along the line of prints, his eye drawn by a smaller photograph showing the sign that hung at the entrance to the camp at Argelès:
CAMP DE CONCENTRATION D’ARGELÈS
.
His eyes hardened. ‘You know the worst of it? That it’s French soldiers policing these camps. Doing Hitler’s work for him. That’s the truth of Vichy’s “
voie de collaboration
”.’
César nodded as he tidied the bench. ‘I’ll print the tracts tonight,’ he said. ‘Machines are too noisy now, too many people around.’
‘These are excellent, César.’
He shrugged. ‘Best I could do. Make people realise what’s going on, not that most of them care.’
‘Some do,’ said Raoul.
‘You’ve heard the latest? For every Nazi killed by the Resistance in Paris, they’re executing ten Frenchmen.’
‘I heard a hundred.’
César shook his head. ‘And yet everyone walks around with their eyes shut, grateful to be in the so-called “free” zone. People still think things could be worse.’
Raoul put his hand on César’s shoulder. ‘That’s why we’re trying to change their minds. Make them understand. Your tracts, the papers we put out, these photographs, all of it makes a difference.’
César gave a long, deep sigh. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘Attitudes are changing,’ Raoul said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘People are starting to realise. More people are starting to support us.’
For a moment they were silent. Then César flicked off the light. ‘You go first,’ he said. ‘I’ll come out the front. See you in the rue de l’Aigle d’Or.’
It was only as Raoul crossed boulevard Antoine Marty that he remembered he hadn’t told César about Antoine’s necklace. He kicked himself. The sight of the photographs had sent everything else out of his mind, brought back the familiar tightness in his chest when he thought about Bruno and how he’d died. In any case, César was in an odd mood – uncommunicative, morose.
With any luck, Antoine would be at the meeting and he could give the chain back and it would turn out he’d been making something out of nothing. Raoul doubled back and crossed the rue de Verdun. He didn’t want to think about the alternative.
R
aoul watched César enter the building next to the Café Lagarde in the rue de l’Aigle d’Or. He waited a couple of seconds, then followed and gave the password.
‘
Per lo Miègjorn
.’ For the Midi.
He was admitted into a dark hallway, where César was waiting for him.
‘Any trouble?’
Raoul shook his head. ‘Nothing. You?’
‘All quiet.’
They went up the narrow stairs in single file, towards an apartment on the first floor. Voices were muffled, just audible. César knocked – four slow raps – then opened the door.
Raoul followed him in and found himself in a dingy kitchen. The air was thick with tobacco smoke, stale food and blocked drains.
‘Sanchez,’ said the man leaning over a map on the table. ‘We were about to give up on you.’
César shrugged. ‘You were the one who wanted photographs on the flyers, Coursan.’
Raoul glanced at César, surprised by his tone, but his face gave nothing away.
‘You must be Pelletier,’ Coursan said, offering his hand. ‘And this is Robert Bonnet, and his brother Gaston.’
Raoul nodded at the two men sitting at the square table in the middle of the room. Robert was large and amiable-looking, with a handlebar moustache. Gaston was short, with mean, small eyes. The glass ashtray between them was filled with spent matches and cigarette papers. An empty jug of water and a half-full bottle of Pastis stood on the counter behind them.
Raoul looked at Coursan, trying to get the measure of the man. He was quite short, no more than five foot seven or eight, but with a commanding physical presence all the same. Clear eyes, balanced features, with five or six days’ stubble and a moustache. He wore the same ordinary, nondescript blue trousers and open-necked shirt as the rest of them, though there was something of the bureaucrat about him.
Raoul didn’t know where Coursan had served during the war, or what he’d done since the defeat. All he knew was that he’d set up this particular unit of
résistants
. One of the newest of the local groups, according to César, formed partly in reaction to the collaborationist organisations that were operating openly in Carcassonne: the PPF, the SOL, Collaboration, the Jeunes Doriotistes and the LVF were the biggest, but there were others.
