31 JANUARY.
The Seine, south of Paris. A hard, bright dawn, the sun on frost-whitened trees. Factories and docks and sheds, half-sunk rowboats, workers’ garden plots—stakes pulled over by bare vines. The Michelin factory, one end of it charred, windows broken out, old glass and burnt boards piled in a yard. Bombed, and bombed again. The smell of burned rubber hung in the morning air.
The river
Kontrol
was at Alfortville, just upstream from the madhouse at Charenton. Very brisk, dozens of soldiers with machine guns, Casson could feel the tension. The Germans weren’t fooling around, but they had no interest in gravel barges that morning. A sergeant waved them through after just a glance.
The
quai
at Ivry, and far enough. Even there, in the chaos of docks and factory streets, Casson could feel the life beating in the city. The barge was tied up to a wharf, Henri went off to the porte d’Italie, among the thieves and the produce merchants, and returned late that afternoon with a truck—the smell of earth and rotting vegetables almost overpowering when they opened the rear doors. Painted on the side, the name of a wholesaler.
After dark they dug the crates out of the gravel and loaded them in the truck. Jean-Paul went to buy something for dinner and came home with a piece of bright red meat wrapped in newspaper. His wife put it in a pot with salt and wine and cooked it for a long time.
“What is it, do you suppose?” Henri said.
“I didn’t ask,” Jean-Paul said. “It’s fresh.
Filet de Longchamp,
maybe.” Longchamp was the race track.
“It was an ox,” Jean-Paul’s wife said.
After supper, Casson lay down on his mattress to rest and went out like a light. The next thing he knew, a hand was on his shoulder. “Yes?”
Henri, his coat buttoned up, leaned over and handed him a key. “For the truck,” he said.
Casson sat up.
“So,” Henri said. “From here on . . .”
“Are you going?”
“Yes.”
They shook hands. “Good luck to you,” Henri said.
Casson wanted to say something,
thank you
or
see you soon,
but Henri melted away into the darkness.
At daylight, he nursed the cold engine to life and drove around the neighborhood until he found a garage. The owner helped him back the truck into a wooden stall—the garage had been a stable only a few years earlier—then said a month’s rent would be a thousand francs.
“A thousand francs?”
“You’re paying for peace of mind,” he said. “There’s somebody here at night. And a couple of dogs, big ones.”
Casson paid. He walked for a block or two, then saw a taxi with one of the new wood-burning engines mounted on the back.
“Where to?”
“The Hotel Benoit.” He watched as the city went by. He got out at the hotel, went to his room, and slept for twenty hours.
Call Hélène.
He was barely awake, still trying to figure out where he was. He’d had powerful dreams; a woman, a boardwalk by the sea. She pulled her dress up, put her foot on a bench and fixed the strap on her sandal. He kicked his way out of bed and struggled to stand up, then he went to the window and moved the curtain aside. Gray winter Paris, nothing more.
“
Agence
Levaux, bonjour.
”
“
Bonjour.
Mademoiselle Schreiber, s’il vous plaît.
”
“
Un
petit moment, monsieur.
”
Casson waited. At the hotel desk, a fiftyish couple was checking in. He looked at his watch, 10:30 A.M.
“Hello?”
“Hello, it’s me.”
“Thank God you’re back.”
“What’s wrong?”
“
Merde.
” She switched to a professional voice. “I believe it sails the ninth, monsieur, from Copenhagen.”
Casson waited a moment. “All right now?”
“Yes.”
“Will you meet me for lunch?”
“The little bar on Marigny, just off the boulevard. One-fifteen.”
“I’ll see you then. I missed you.”
“I’m sorry, here we go again,” she said. “Certainly—I’ll have it in the mail this evening.”
“One-fifteen,” Casson said.
He stood on the corner of the rue Marigny and watched her coming down the boulevard, walking alongside a short, dark-haired girl and a blond woman with a bright red smile; shoulders braced, head held high. Victorine? Very tightly wound, he thought. A high forehead, blue veins at the temples, they would pulse when she was angry.
“See you later!” Hélène called out as she left the other two. They waved and continued down the boulevard.
When she spotted Casson her face lit up. As they embraced she said, “Did you see her?”
“The blonde.”
“Yes. The other one was my friend Natalie.”
They went into the bar and sat at a small table. “There’s been all kinds of trouble,” she said. Casson ordered a carafe of wine and beet soup, the only dish on the blackboard.
“What happened?”
“Well, first of all, Degrave.”
“You know?”
“They told Laurette.”
“How is she?”
Hélène shook her head.
“You’re spending time with her?”
“When I can.”
“Not much else you can do.”
“No. You can’t just sit there, so you say things, but . . .” A waiter brought the carafe, the soup, and a basket with two small pieces of bread. “The bread’s for you,” he said.
“Then, a few days ago, Victorine called me into her office—she’s the supervising agent now.”
“The job you gave up.”
“Yes, and I thought that was the end of it.” From Hélène, a rueful smile. “She was quite concerned, she said. About me. I wasn’t doing so well. Letting things go, not keeping up with my correspondence. I would simply have to try harder. Or else. She didn’t say that, but she didn’t have to.”
“And you said?”
“I crawled. Agreed with her, promised to do better.”
Casson nodded. “No choice,” he said.
“A day went by, then another. I kept out of her way and did my work—if she wanted everything perfect, that’s what she’d get. I thought, she’s just letting me know who’s boss. But then she called me in again. This time I was really scared, but she was pleasant enough. She asked me some questions about a client, I told her what she wanted to know, and then we chatted. She went on for a while, something about her mother needing medicine, how life was getting harder, everything so expensive. I was nodding and smiling, wondering when she was going to let me go out of there, and then she said, ‘Hélène, I’m afraid I must ask you to lend me a thousand francs.’ ”
About half a month’s salary, Casson guessed. “What did you do?”
Hélène shrugged. “What could I do? I gave it to her. Went to the bank at lunchtime and cleaned out my account. And then, a week later, she asked again. I said I couldn’t help her, I didn’t have it. She didn’t say anything right away, but she was angry. I’d seen it before—she doesn’t stop smiling but you can sense some kind of rage inside her. She has it under control, but not for long. After a while she looked at me and said, ‘I’m sure your people can help you, Hélène. You’ll just have to swallow your pride and ask.’ ”
“Your people?”
“That’s what she said.”
Casson thought for a moment. “She’s going to turn you in.”
“I know.”
“When I was at Degrave’s house, in Cassis, he gave me a name— a man who can help you get out of the country.”
“Degrave is gone, Jean-Claude.”
“Even so, we have to try.” He paused, then said, “How much does she want now?”
“Another thousand.”
“I’m going to give it to you. She has to have it
today,
after lunch. It will keep her from going to the police, she won’t do that until she’s sure she’s got everything you have.”
“Jean-Claude,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”
He reached under the table, took her hand and held it tight. “And when you give it to her, be casual. You know the game, you don’t mind playing it, you and she are in this together.”
They went that evening. He’d looked up the name in the telephone directory, found several de la Barres but only one in the 7th
—
André, Textes de Médecine Anciens.
A maid let them in and led them down a long hallway lined with bookcases that rose to the ceiling. In the room that served as an office it was the same. De la Barre was in his late seventies—at least that, Casson thought—bent by age into the letter
c,
so that he looked up at the world from beneath thick, white eyebrows. “How may I help you?” he said.
Casson was direct. He told de la Barre that Hélène had to leave France, and that they had come at Degrave’s suggestion. Casson wondered if he knew who they were.
Have you been told it’s a
favor for a friend?
De la Barre listened intently, but his face could not be read. When Casson was done, the room was very quiet. De la Barre looked at them for a full minute, making up his mind. Finally he said to Hélène, “Is it urgent, madame?”
“I’m afraid it is,” she said. Briefly, she explained her situation.
He opened a drawer and studied a list of some kind, then ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t promise,” he said. “We can only send a few people, and even then . . .”
“I have to try,” Hélène said.
“Of course,” de la Barre said gently.
Again, he consulted the drawer. “We will help you to cross into Vichy, that much is easy, and you can continue on to Nice. From there, you will have to sail to Algiers—still French territory, but you can find your way to neutral ports. The ship is Italian, the
San
Lorenzo,
a small freighter that carries twenty or thirty passengers—it’s up to the captain. The next sailing is
scheduled
for a week from today, the eleventh of February, but it is always delayed. The weather turns bad, or the engines break down, or the shipping authority in Nice delays all departures for military reasons. Of course, working in a travel agency, you’re familiar with the situation.”
Hélène said she was.
“And speaking of that,” de la Barre said, “I wonder if you could do me a small favor? The agency must use a great variety of forms, is that right?”
“All sorts—for steamships and railroads and hotels. Of course they’re not valid until they’re stamped by the Germans.”
“No,” de la Barre said. “Of course not.” The edge of irony in his voice was so finely cut that Casson wondered if he’d actually heard it. “Even so, I would greatly appreciate it if you’d select a few of each, whatever you have, and make a small package for us. And while you’re at it you might include some stationery.”
“With pleasure,” Hélène said.
“On your train ride down to the Unoccupied Zone, someone will open the door of your compartment and say, ‘Any room in here?’ They’ll look directly at you when they ask, but you don’t have to answer. Later, go out into the corridor and give the package to that person. Don’t be furtive, simply hand it over.”
Hélène agreed.
“Now what you’ll need to do at work is ask for some time off— we don’t want you to disappear suddenly. Do you have some vacation days you can take? Good. Explain the request as a family emergency. Is there any reason why travel documents into the Unoccupied Zone shouldn’t have your name on them?”
“Not that I know about.”
“Good. Before you go, give me your identity card and I’ll copy off the information. You’ll need to travel south on the Monday night train, stop by here at seven or so and we’ll give you the permit.”
Hélène handed over her identity card. While de la Barre was writing, Casson walked around the room.
Phrénologie. Physick.
La Théorie de l’Alchimie de Jehan le Breton,
in wood boards. “I should mention,” de la Barre said, “that you’ll need enough money for an extra week in Nice—not for a hotel, you’ll stay in an apartment. But sailings are at ten-day intervals, and if we can’t get you on the first one, we can try for the next.”
Afterward they went to a café. Hélène was flushed, excited. Casson ordered Ricon.
“My God,” she said. “
Monday.
”
“I know,” Casson said. “We have the weekend.”
On Thursday morning he took a train to Melun and left a message for Kovar. Late that afternoon, a response was dropped off at the hotel desk—a meeting at 9:30, same place.
He went out to the Gare du Nord quarter and found the office building. On the second floor, behind a set of double doors, was the Madame Tauron School of Ballet and Modern Dance. He could just make out the measured notes of a piano as he climbed the stairs. What
was
that? He paused for a moment and listened. Erik Satie,
Gymnopédies.
He could hear the shuffling of feet and a voice that echoed in a vast room. “Yes, and yes, and three.”
The third floor was dark, and deserted. Except for Alexander Kovar, behind somebody else’s cluttered desk. “Welcome,” Kovar said. Casson was pleased to see him.
“Still at it?” Kovar said.
“Yes,” Casson said. He could hear the piano on the floor below.
Kovar took a slightly bent cigarette from his shirt pocket, carefully tore it in two, and gave Casson half. “Maybe you have a match?” he said.
Casson lit their cigarettes. “The guns are in Paris,” he said. “So I need to contact the FTP.”
“A success,” Kovar said.
“So far.”
“I’ll talk to my friend.”
“And you—you’re surviving?”
“As usual. I think, the last time I saw you, I’d just quit my job at Samaritaine. Now I’m back to my old tricks, writing for the risqué weeklies.”
“Vie Parisienne?”
“Oh yes, and
Le Rire.
Under several pseudonyms—each one has his specialty. For example, the story of Mimi, the dance-hall girl. Adrift in the backstreets of Pigalle, innocent as a lamb, and headed full speed for debauchery.”
“But, somehow, never quite gets there.”
“No. Something always comes up. One week the
frites
catch fire. Next installment, a surprise visit from Uncle Ferrand.”
“Wicked Uncle Ferrand.”
“So it turns out—poor Mimi. When I get bored with that, I write ‘The Inquiring Reporter.’ I ask men with beards, ‘do you sleep with it over or under the sheet?’ Then I did one on ‘my favorite recipe for
Lapin du Balcon.
’ ”