Wild Lavender (59 page)

Some time later a soldier opened the door and called out my name. The way the other women trembled in his presence, he may as well have been calling me up for the firing squad. The soldier led me up two flights of stairs to a questioning room. I eyed the stiff-jawed lieutenant sitting at the table.

‘Take a seat,’ he said.

I did as I was told and the lieutenant read out the list of accusations against me. My skin prickled at the words ‘passing intelligence information to the enemy’ and ‘treason’. Those were serious charges, much more than mere collaboration, and were punishable by death.

‘Who denounced me?’ I asked. ‘There has been some mistake.’

He gave me a look that said he had been hearing that all day and for once he’d like to see someone admit their guilt. ‘I can’t give names, but you did perform for the Germans
and the records at the Deuxième Bureau support the charge of treason.’

Merde!
The records Mouse had ‘amended’. But who had denounced me? A jealous rival trying to settle a score?

‘I worked for a network,’ I told the lieutenant, trying to sound as calm and factual as possible, although his attitude had dampened my confidence. ‘I accompanied Allied servicemen and French soldiers across the demarcation line. I was assisted by my concierge, Madame Goux, and my neighbour, Madame Ibert.’

‘And where are they now?’ he asked, noting their names on a piece of paper. I told him that Madame Goux was at my apartment and that Madame Ibert was in the south.

‘We can’t reach the south yet but I will have Madame Goux interviewed. What was the name of your contact in the network?’

‘Roger Clifton…Roger Delpierre, I mean.’ I hated the way my voice trembled. It dawned on me that it might not be so easy to prove my innocence as I had thought. I had assumed that Roger had either contacted the Special Operations Executive or rejoined the Royal Airforce when he had returned to London. But I had not seen or heard from him for almost two years. The war was over in France, but it was not over everywhere. It might be months before Roger could reach me. And with de Gaulle and Churchill fighting from separate camps, the FFI may not know who he was.

The lieutenant looked at me appraisingly. ‘The Garrow–O’Leary line? That is quite a claim, Mademoiselle Fleurier. Besides your concierge, do you have any French persons in authority who can vouch for you?’

‘I became involved with the network after being approached by two members of the Deuxième Bureau.’

‘And what were their names?’

I was about to say Mouse and the Judge, when I realised those were not their real names. I had no idea who they really were. I tried to explain that to the lieutenant. He let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. ‘If you don’t know their names, is there anybody else?’

‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘André Blanchard.’

The lieutenant stared at me. ‘André Blanchard has been arrested on serious charges. He supplied uniforms for the German army while his brother-in-law was manufacturing weapons.’

‘André is a patriot,’ I said. ‘He gave money and clothing to the network. Without his help we would not have been able to save as many servicemen as we did.’

I sounded much more confident about André’s innocence than I did about my own. It seemed to make an impression on the lieutenant. ‘He will have a fair trial and so will you,’ he said, standing up and opening the door.

He called out for a soldier then turned to me. ‘What is most amazing,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, ‘is that all through the war there were never more than a few hundred people in Paris involved in the Resistance. But in the past two days, in this police station alone, we have interviewed over five hundred known collaborators who have insisted that they were really working for the Resistance. Now how could that be?’

I was taken to Cherche-Midi prison, the same place where the Germans had interned me. Although I wasn’t beaten this time, and was given adequate food and water, I was more terrified than I had been when I was imprisoned by the enemy. This time I was innocent and the people who were holding me were French. The new administration seemed bent on rounding up and punishing collaborators before they could escape. When I heard the crackle of bullets the following morning, I wondered how much time the police would allow for the collection of evidence supporting my case.

After a breakfast of bread and ersatz coffee, a guard led me out into the exercise yard. There were about ten other women there and the sight of them turned my stomach. They had shaven heads and swastikas tattooed over their bodies.
One shivering girl wore nothing but a chemise. She tried to cover her nakedness by crouching in a corner. I was still wearing my clothes from the previous day and gave her my scarf so she could make herself a skirt. She glanced at me and I saw she was no more than fifteen. Sleeping with the enemy was not an honourable thing to do, but I didn’t see it as the worst crime of collaboration. For many women it had been the only way to feed their children. Industrialists, like Felix and Guillemette, who had helped the German war effort were far worse. And what about the politicians who had abandoned the city in the first place?

There was a soldier guarding the entrance to the yard. I turned to him. ‘Is this what I risked my life for?’ I snarled, pointing to the girl. ‘Is this my beloved France? If it is, then we are no better than the Nazis!’

‘Be quiet!’ he cautioned.

I was not about to be silenced. ‘Why are these women here?’ I screamed. ‘Is it because you can’t touch the real collaborators?’

I was whipping myself up into a frenzy and, despite the gun in his hand, the soldier looked alarmed. One of his comrades rushed up and twisted my arm behind my back. ‘If you can’t appreciate the fresh air, then you’re going back inside.’

He dragged me by the hair to my cell. For the first time it occurred to me that what happened to those women might happen to me. Simone Fleurier, shaved and humiliated, marched through the streets of Paris for her crime of collaboration. The soldier shouted to the guard to open my cell door and then pushed me inside. I stumbled on my knee, which had never become quite strong again. The soldier picked me up and threw me onto the straw bed. Then, his adrenaline spent, he straightened and said, ‘We didn’t do that to those women. It was the mobs. We detest their behaviour and have made it illegal. But those women have been denounced by others and we must investigate their crimes.’

‘Perhaps those who are denouncing them have much to hide themselves,’ I said.

He stared at me, sizing me up. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, before turning and slamming the cell door shut behind him.

I rested my head on my knees. I had thought the war was over. How wrong I had been.

I was still in prison a week later when I received a message from the guard that my trial would take place in a few days. I asked him if Madame Goux had been interviewed; if Monsieur Dargent’s testimony had been taken; if the doctors who had used our apartment building had been found? The guard said he knew nothing, but I could answer those questions myself. If those testimonies had been taken, then they had not been strong enough for the charge of treason to be dropped.

On the day of my trial, I did my best to clean myself up. I couldn’t do much about my dress which was crumpled and dusty. But I washed myself with a rag and some water and brushed my teeth with my finger. Perhaps if I had understood what was going on in the outside world, my plight would have been clearer. As the lieutenant had pointed out, there had been few active Resistants in Paris and yet since the liberation over 120,000 people had applied for official recognition for their work in the Resistance.

‘
Septembrisards,’
I overheard an FFI soldier call them. September Resistants, who joined when they saw that the Germans had lost the war. The true Resistants were reluctant to come forward because of the shame of it. But where did that leave me?

A few hours before I was expecting to be taken from my cell on the day of the trial, the guard arrived and pushed open my door.

‘
Vite! Vite!
’ he cried, handing me my purse, which had been confiscated when I was imprisoned. ‘Hurry! Hurry! Make yourself presentable.’

If I wasn’t so surprised by his urgent concern with my grooming, I would have questioned the difference that
powdering my face and smearing on lipstick made to my dirty clothes. But I did as he told me. I dabbed
eau de cologne
behind my ears and splashed some on my wrists. It was only when he pushed me out the door that it occurred to me what might be going on. The trial of Simone Fleurier would be an event. If I looked as if I had been mistreated, public sympathy might turn in my favour. But to my surprise, I wasn’t taken out of the prison and rushed off to court with a police escort, as I had envisioned. I was taken downstairs to the office of Cherche-Midi’s superintendent.

The guard stopped in the corridor, which was lined with FFI soldiers standing to attention.

‘I present Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said.

One of the soldiers knocked on the superintendent’s door and was told to enter. He stood aside and ushered me into the office. The superintendent was an elderly man with a bald head who was shuffling papers on his desk and wearing a worried frown. There was another man by the window. The light was streaming in behind him. He was the tallest, lankiest man I had ever seen. He stepped towards me.

‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said. ‘I apologise that your plight has only now come to my attention. You will be released immediately.’

A tingle ran down my spine. I had never seen this man before but I knew his voice. It was the voice that had called out to me four years ago, telling me never to accept defeat. General de Gaulle.

‘When I was in London, I was aware of your courageous service in helping your countrymen join the Free French,’ he said. ‘It inspired me that not all the lights of Paris had gone out; that there was one still shining brightly.’

The great de Gaulle had found inspiration in me? I forgot my dishevelled appearance and thanked him for his compliment as if we were two guests who had just been introduced in an elegant salon. For his part, he seemed so caught up in victory that he didn’t appear to register my dirty clothes or my surprise. Instead he nodded to the
superintendent, who pulled out chairs for me and the General, and scurried about serving us tea like an eager-to-please maid.

‘It is with great honour that I give you this,’ said de Gaulle, handing me a small box. I opened it to find a gold Cross of Lorraine inside—de Gaulle’s symbol of the Resistance. ‘You will have other honours,’ he said. ‘But this token must do for now.’

The saying ‘my heart swelled with pride’ suddenly made sense to me, for that was exactly what was happening inside me. My centre grew larger and wider. The world seemed to be opening up for me. It was the proudest moment of my life.

The General put down his cup then rose from his chair. ‘I hope that when things settle down, my wife and I can meet with you again, Mademoiselle Fleurier. But for now I have some urgent things which I must attend to.’

I stood and watched the superintendent rush to the door to open it for the General. Before he left, de Gaulle turned to me. ‘I too was charged with treason by the Vichy government when my goal was to serve the true France,’ he said. ‘I hope that you will wear this terrible misunderstanding as another badge of honour.’

I nodded, although if somebody other than General de Gaulle had suggested that to me, I would have bitten them.

‘
Vive la France!
’ he saluted me.

Without thinking, I jumped to attention and returned the salute. ‘
Vive la France!
’

It was unheard of for a military man to salute a civilian, and the exhausted de Gaulle must have forgotten himself. But I understood the sentiment; he was a man who respected fighters above anyone else.

Upon my release, the first thing I had to do was to find out what was happening with André. Now that I had been officially recognised by de Gaulle, my testimony would
carry weight. As it turned out, I was just in time. André’s trial was scheduled for the following day. For some reason, he had been granted access to his own lawyer, while I had not. I stopped by my apartment for a bath and change of clothes, then went straight to his lawyer’s office to give my testimony.

Monsieur Villeret was an elegant man in his mid-sixties who had known André since he was a child. ‘You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you,’ he told me, showing me to a seat. ‘André has been charged with collaboration and treason. I doubt they will even try him now.’

‘How soon can we get him released?’

‘Maybe not until the day after tomorrow. Executions are fast but releases are backlogged.’

‘I shall visit him this afternoon and tell him,’ I said. ‘So you can get to work on the release.’

‘Are you aware that Camille Casal is also being held at Fresnes prison?’ Monsieur Villeret asked me.

Something in his tone struck me as odd, but I assumed he was just letting me know the fate of someone with whom I had co-starred in a major show. Camille had been very public in her fraternisation with the Nazi high command. Although she was unlikely to be executed, she had too much weighing against her to escape prison entirely. I doubted whether any statement I could give would affect the outcome of her trial. But her connection with von Loringhoven had allowed me to sing the Africa song for the Resistance and to save Odette and Petite Simone.

‘I can make a statement in her favour,’ I said.

Monsieur Villeret looked startled. He raised his eyebrows. ‘You are aware that it was she who denounced you to the FFI?’

I was so shocked that for a moment I forgot where I was. My mind raced to come up with excuses for Camille’s conduct but I could find none. ‘She denounced me? Why would she do that?’

‘She has always been against you, Mademoiselle Fleurier.’

‘That is not true,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘That is only how we were portrayed in the press.’

‘You don’t know, do you?’ Monsieur Villeret frowned. He sat back and sighed, as if weighing up the consequences of what he was going to say next. ‘Can I rely on your discretion?’