Leon Uris (32 page)

Nicole stopped her dusting. “I didn’t know.”

“I was refused. I asked to be sent to a fighting unit.”

She seized a plate from the table. The lamb on the stove began to burn. She started to hurl the plate but let it slip from her hand and it fell to the floor and broke. “How long will you be gone, André?”

“I don’t know. I’d better pack.”

The de Havilland Dove of General Pierre La Croix slipped from the Maison Blanche Airport bucking headwinds. The coast of North Africa disappeared in the morning mist. General La Croix worked on a card table, thumbing through documents, sketching his forthcoming speech. Captain Robert Proust came down the aisle, stopped by the General’s table, and spoke to him respectfully, giving the flight plan and progress. Pierre La Croix looked up for an instant and nodded without comment.

André went forward and sat in alongside Jacques Granville.

Jacques set his papers aside. “Fight with Nicole?”

“How do you know?”

“For an intelligence man you don’t keep a very straight face. Besides, it figures, knowing you, knowing Nicole. There had to be an argument last night.”

“What the hell, Jacques. She’s pregnant and in a strange place. How can she be blamed?”

“Blamed? She should kiss your feet for the privilege of seeing you a few hours each night. We’re in the middle of a war. How many millions of women have had their men taken away? She’s entirely unreasonable.”

“Somehow,” André answered, “she does not associate herself with the war. When it’s all over and we have some time to spend together, she’ll change.”

Jacques smiled and patted his friend’s shoulder. “You are a perfect La Croix officer. Strange how a man can be so wise in so many areas, then carry with him such a blind spot.”

“What blind spot?”

“The illusion that Nicole will change. And the further illusion that you yourself will change. Now all the hours you spend in your work are justified. It’s war and you’re a soldier. But you’ll always spend those same hours later on, either out of choice or an inbred sense of duty.”

An eruption of sizzling language was heard above the engines. General La Croix had obviously found something to cause him discomfort, and a half-dozen officers leaped to their feet and surrounded the General.

“Our leader calls,” Jacques said. “Look, don’t worry about Nicole for now. She’ll be in Algiers, fatter than ever, when we get back.”

“No, she won’t,” André said, getting out of his seat to answer La Croix’s summons. “She’s left for Spain to rejoin her parents till the end of the war.”

A
HIGH-PITCHED MULTITUDE
of French in exile filled every seat. Out in the street, thousands more jammed around loudspeakers. Inside the hall, red, white, and blue bunting knitted the balconies. On the rear of the stage stood an enormous Cross of Lorraine and the blazing words,
FREE FRANCE
. The gathered throng buzzed in nervous anticipation.

Now, a convoy of staff cars inched through the crowd. Inside Albert Hall they could hear the swelling roar outside and the audience came to its feet.

Pierre La Croix, who always aimed to make himself recognized, walked slowly, erect, a giant who hovered over his countrymen. He recognized the adulation by a papal-like wave of the hand. Behind him a bevy of Free French officers followed at a respectful distance.

By the time General La Croix had finished his slow, calculated trip into the hall, the crowd was hanging over the balcony rails and standing on their seats craning for a glance. He walked the center aisle slowly, allowing himself to be stopped by stretching hands, allowing the cheers to swell to a crescendo that trembled the hall.

On stage his military and political advisers and a gathering of French and foreign celebrities surrounded him as he ascended the stairs.

Silence fell.

There were speeches.

And then, the moment. In ringing oratory he was introduced and as he advanced to the rostrum they were all on their feet. The ovation went on as the great Pierre La Croix stared down on them and at last his awesome stature brought the crowd to silence.

André Devereaux watched La Croix’s performance with a mixture of admiration and fear, for grave disenchantment had already begun within him. Yes, he knew that Pierre La Croix was France now and that without him the chances for self-determination and a return to greatness would be small. But in the end, France was France. It was the end that concerned André. The food of “glory” filled every fiber of Pierre La Croix.

“Sons and daughters of Mother France,” La Croix began, “we are gathered here to proclaim to the world the mission of Free France and the mission of Pierre La Croix. La Croix,” he cried, “has accepted the authority of France in the cause of national honor. He left the defeated motherland and climbed from the morass of defeat to the mountaintop. La Croix shall not come down until our beloved France is free!”

They were mesmerized by his phenomenal aura of authority. La Croix had them like a man practicing mass hypnosis. There was a scattering, like André Devereaux, who chilled at the sound of unvarnished demagoguery. What rattled from Pierre La Croix’s throat were the words of a man who would be dictator.

“France has been mortified ... debased ... schemed against ... gone unrecognized ... double-crossed by the very ones who claim to be our allies. But! So long as Pierre La Croix lives. So long as Pierre La Croix has assumed the burden of fallen France ... we shall not succumb. That is my mission.”

In the streets outside and over the clandestine radios in metropolitan France, millions more heard his words. In the name of national redemption it appeared they all stood ready to surrender to this single, fearless man.

“Who is La Croix? He is the man who struggles in the name of France tirelessly. He has unified Frenchmen outside of the defeated motherland. Now hear this clearly. No power on this earth will plot the fate of France behind her back. No power on this earth will make decisions involving the future of France without the consent of France! France will continue to be the mistress of her own destiny!”

People were coming to their feet once more.

“Long live France!”

“Long live La Croix!”

He ignored the emotional tide sweeping over the hall, accepting the adoration as normally and rightfully his. He calmly sipped from the water glass, then continued.

“I say to our most powerful ally, I deplore your ambition to rule the world after this war. I deplore your bad manners and gall and your greedy desires to impose your will on the ancient civilizations of Europe. Before this war is over the blood of Frenchmen in the forefront of battle will have established France’s sovereign rights.”

His voice dropped from its pitch to a trembling whisper.... “I weep for the men who die for France. But my heart also bursts with pride. And I shall never be silent to men who plot against my fallen motherland.”

There were tears and screaming and stomping and weeping! La Croix held out his hands for silence like a Christ demanding the waters to part.

“I open my arms to Admiral de St. Amertin! Despite the sin of Vichy, I forgive! But there is only one France! Free France! Join us!”

“To France!” he cried over the hysteria in Albert Hall. “We will free her! We will punish the traitors! And so help me God, we will resume our great and undeniable march to destiny!”

“La Croix!”

“La Croix!”

“La Croix!”

André Devereaux was dazed as a tremor of terror passed through him.

A
FTER HIS DEVASTATING
A
LBERT
Hall speech, Pierre La Croix and his staff buttoned up in their London headquarters at Carlton Garden to let the Anglo-Americans absorb and remember what he had said.

Two days later the Soviet Ambassador to England, Igor Luvetka, called for an appointment. He arrived at Carlton Garden with “Villard,” a high-ranking member of the French Communist Party who had been brought into England. In addition, “Villard” was one of the chiefs of the FFI, the underground French Forces of the Interior. The Communist wing of FFI was large and powerful and in the forefront of resistance in metropolitan France.

Pierre La Croix summoned a few of his intimate staff, which included Robert Proust and André Devereaux, as he held court for Ambassador Luvetka and “Villard.”

Niceties were exchanged. There were a few perfunctory questions about conditions in France and how the Resistance fared. Then the heart of the matter was reached.

“I have come from France,” the clever and flamboyant “Villard” said, “with certain instructions and resolutions of the Central Committee of the Communist Party. I am also authorized to speak for all branches of the FFI. The matter concerns your struggle with Admiral de St. Amertin and the Anglo-Americans.”

La Croix received the statement without expression and nodded for “Villard” to continue.

“Both the Communist Party and the FFI are prepared to declare the acceptance of your authority.”

The meaning of “Villard’s” words was electrifying. In an instant, Pierre La Croix could be given a tremendous new range of power, tipping the political scales. With the FFI preparing his way, the physical takeover of France could be planned. His staff looked to him expectantly. La Croix made no show of being touched or moved but continued to play the cool hand.

“I am certain you have terms to be considered for such recognition,” he said.

It was the Russian, Luvetka, who spoke now. “Comrade Thorez and a number of French Communists were forced to flee to the Soviet Union because of political persecution before the war. We want them fully pardoned and returned to France with honor.”

“For this backing,” “Villard” continued, “we also expect Communist representation on any national committees and that all French Communists in the Free French Forces will be treated with equality.”

“Is that all, gentlemen?”

“Those are the general conditions. The details, numbers, and cooperation with the FFI can be worked out later.”

“I’ll give the matter full consideration. You will be contacted in due course before your return to France.”

And with that, Ambassador Luvetka and “Villard” were dismissed. The half-dozen officers present came to their feet wordlessly. André looked to Robert Proust, who obviously did not like what he had heard but equally obviously was going to say nothing about it. The other men present also avoided André’s eyes.

“I am afraid I am going to have to have words on this matter,” André said, daring the General’s wrath. Everyone froze.

“Speak up,” La Croix commanded.

“Recognition by the Communists may buy an immediate objective, but to invite them as partners would be sowing the seeds of future grief.”

“You are my intelligence adviser, Devereaux, not my political adviser.”

“Then speaking from the intelligence standpoint,” he persisted, “the General knows of Communist attempts to infiltrate our fighting forces solely for their own gains. As for the FFI, the Communists in it are so powerful that if we do not disarm them immediately after France is liberated I believe they will attempt a takeover. Sir, it is one thing to cooperate with the FFI as long as we fight a common enemy. But to allow Communists in our councils with access to our secrets is dangerous. They are not strong enough to do it alone so they are using Free France.”

“Then we will use each other,” La Croix answered.

The room now was ready for an explosion, but André still did not budge. “ ‘Villard’ did not come to us as a Frenchman but in the company of and under the instructions of the Soviet Union.”

“That’s enough! The Russians have recognized La Croix!”

The next day Pierre La Croix sealed the bargain with “Villard,” who then returned to France.

La Croix took to his London radio and gave a long heartwarming speech in praise of the Soviet ally, its historical associations with France, and he reaffirmed the alliance of the present and spoke of future alliances.

Within twenty-four hours, over the clandestine FFI radio came the broadcast that the French Communist Party and the FFI had accepted the authority of Fighting France.

For André this came as a terrible blow. To him it meant that La Croix could confuse his own ambitions with legitimate national goals.

After the political and military union had been achieved with the former Vichy garrisons, La Croix and de St. Amertin were placed as equals on the national committee. But Pierre La Croix chewed the Admiral up alive and finally forced him to resign.

With Admiral de St. Amertin out of the way, La Croix set up an office of Commissioners of the Republic. Thirty-five men were named who were to seize civil power in all the provinces after the liberation. Six of these commissioners were Communists. Communists were to take over the public health authority and the social security.

Pierre La Croix had succeeded in outmaneuvering all who stood against him.

As the Allied armies moved on Paris, he badgered the high command to order a Free French division to enter first despite the possibility of baiting a battle which could destroy the city.

Moving in behind his troops, Pierre La Croix captured lightning in a bottle by playing one of the most emotion-filled moments in human history to his own ends.

The liberation of Paris was to become a stage for Pierre La Croix. Using his unlimited arrogance and flushed with a holy sense of calling, La Croix masterfully applied the
coup de grâce
on the divergent political forces of the underground.

By disdaining to meet the resistance leaders and officials first, he let it be known he did not accept their authority.

Instead, Pierre La Croix marched at the head of swarms of hysterical countrymen up the Champs Elysees to the Arc de Triomphe.

The “Marseillaise” was sung between choking tears of a million Parisians and La Croix was unmistakably proclaimed by the people. With “their mandate” and flanked by the arms of his forces, he then declared himself the President of France.

N
ICOLE’S PARENTS WERE KILLED
in an automobile accident in Spain before the war ended. When the estate of Victor Thibaud went into probate, it was revealed that most of his holdings were speculative, and his wealth on paper. When it was all liquidated, there was but a small inheritance for Nicole.