The gusty breeze rising off the Seine was unable to dispel the summer warmth of the city. Logan had long since removed his jacket and tucked it into his knapsack, which he had slung French-style over one shoulder. As he walked down the Champs-Elysees, he could not shake a deep oppression that came not from the heat but from the sights his eyes beheld.
Along the historic avenue the German occupation forces were playing out their daily noontime ritual. The garrison of the Kommandant von Gross-Paris, with colors flying in the air and a band beating out victorious notes, marched in arrogant affirmation of their rule. It was one of those sights that would not soon fade from Logan’s memory. To him it looked as if the Nazi jackboots would literally tramp out the spirit of the mighty French capital. He remembered the grand City of Lights in the late twenties when he had been there. They had called it “Gay Paree” then, and it had certainly been just that. Of course back then the French were still cocky with their victory over the Germans. How could they know that within a score of years they would be the vanquished, or that their hated oppressors would march unopposed in the very shadow of the Arc de Triomphe?
It hardly mattered that few passers-by stopped to watch the spectacle. The grim looks he saw upon so many of the faces said all there was to say. Marshall Pétain, leader of the so-called government, now exiled to Vichy, had said shortly after the Germans marched into Paris: “Is it not enough that France is defeated? Must she be dishonored as well?” Yet it had largely been the apathy of the French people that had made for such an easy victory for Hitler. A peculiar and unpredictable nation politically, perched precariously through the centuries between England and Spain or between England and Germany, she was ill-suited temperamentally to step into the role of ally to her longtime adversary. The French were much later than the English to see the evil of the Third Reich, and on the day France fell, Frenchmen cheered and toasted Pétain’s armistice.
Yet by this time Logan could see a pervading shadow of shame on many of the faces around him. The truth was now clear; but now it was too late. They were a nation vanquished, and their pride was trampled underfoot. They could not believe with their exiled leader that it was wisdom rather than cowardice “to come to terms with yesterday’s enemy.” Yet what could they do against this foe when even their most honored military hero had capitulated?
There were Frenchmen, however, who did believe there was something they could do. Feeling that old Pétain had betrayed them, though their numbers were yet few, these would never cease to fight for the freedom of their Paris, their France. “Liberty, equality, fraternity” were no shallow words to them, but a slogan that ignited the inner fires of their nationalistic fervor. Charles de Gaulle, an obscure but patriotic general, had fled to Britain, now the home of Free France, where he slowly was being joined by those of his countrymen determined to keep up the fight. Other patriots had chosen to remain in France. Whether by choice or necessity, theirs was the task to which de Gaulle had called them in the wake of the fall of France in 1940: “Whatever happens, the flame of French resistance must not die, and will not die.”
It was a small group of such Frenchmen Logan now sought. He turned his back on the parading soldiers, and pointed his steps toward the bank of the Seine.
One twenty-four, rue de Varennes. The address had been pressed permanently into his memory during the hours of memorization in England. Behind that unassuming door lay the headquarters of a resistance operation that had sprung up nearly a year ago. Their numbers were unknown, but they had been effective enough to warrant a good portion of the money Logan now carried securely in a money belt beneath his shirt.
They had recently come on hard times. Two weeks ago their radio operator, along with a handful of others, had been captured. As far as London could tell no one had talked, but a lot of damage could be done in a short time, especially where German interrogators were concerned. If the bookstore on the rue de Varennes had been compromised, Logan could be walking into a dangerous situation. Of course, I am only a bookseller from Lyon, he reminded himself. How could I know this place has ties to the Resistance?
When he came within two blocks of the bookstore, he grew vigilant. The narrow street appeared innocent enough, with four or five casual strollers stopping now and then at the various shops—a grocer, a chemist, a cafe—all typically Parisian. A woman leaned out from her second-floor apartment window, exchanging a few words with the grocer’s wife about the new ration regulations. Some children were skipping rope in an alleyway singing a pleasant, childish ditty. For a moment Logan began to question his original impression of the occupation. But life did go on, after all. What else could people do? Children had to play, and women had to discuss the price of bread, even if the Nazis roamed the streets.
Logan could see nothing suspicious about. Slowly he approached the bookstore, nestled between the cafe and the chemist. There was no name, merely the words La Librairie printed in plain roman lettering across the door.
Logan opened the door and walked in. Immediately a bell clanged overhead. Stepping inside, he saw that no one, not even the proprietor, was present. He took a moment to appraise his surroundings—a tiny room where barely five persons could browse comfortably among the stacks and shelves of hundreds of volumes. There appeared little order to the categories of books, or at least it gave such an impression because there was so much crammed into the small available space. The musty smell of old books and dust heightened the assurance that it was, indeed, a bookstore.
Logan had no time to reflect further, for in but a second or two the proprietor himself appeared. Logan had well learned the name Henri Renouvin, though he had been given no description or history of the man. In all his attempts to visualize him in his mind, he had never come even close to this small, compact bookseller in his mid-forties who stood before him. Logan had been looking for a tough embattled soldier of the night, not a simple shopkeeper, which was exactly what this man appeared to be. His thinning blond hair, dimpled chin, and wire-rimmed glasses, which framed sensitive blue eyes, all gave the impression of an intellectual.
“Puis-je vous aider? May I help you?” he asked in a friendly, unassuming tone, as if the encounter were nothing more out of the way than a businessman greeting a potential customer.
“Oui,” answered Logan, “that is, if you are Henri Renouvin.”
“I am.”
“Then you will be pleased to hear the messages I bear,” continued Logan in perfect idiomatic French, using the recognition phrase he had learned from the file back at headquarters: “My Aunt Emily from Lyon wanted you to know she has recovered from her illness.”
“Ah, oui!” answered Renouvin, his quiet features suddenly animating into life. “It is good news. She is a fine woman like her daughter Marie!”
“Marie, too, sends her greetings and is sorry she was unable to write.”
Renouvin stepped up to Logan and gave him a firm welcoming pat on the shoulder as they exchanged handshakes.
“We were not even certain our message got through,” Renouvin went on. “The radio has been nearly useless since we lost Jacques, though we must try to communicate. You cannot imagine how welcome you are! But come into the back—it is not good to talk out here.”
“Is it safe for me to remain?”
“Oui, oui, most certainly,” replied Renouvin, leading Logan as he spoke through a curtained doorway into a dimly lit room that was as dominated with rows and piles of books as was the store itself. In addition to the books were stacks of crates and cardboard boxes, a roll-top desk nestled between more books against one wall, and a small table that had three of the wooden crates situated around it, apparently to be used in lieu of chairs.
Renouvin motioned Logan to one of these crates, and while he seated himself, the bookseller took two heavy pottery cups from a shelf nailed haphazardly on the wall over the table. “Would you like a bowl of coffee?” he asked. “It is actually only ersatz, that horrible brew they expect us to drink these days, while no doubt the real coffee goes to Berlin. But it is freshly brewed at least.”
“Merci,” replied Logan. “You seem pretty certain there is no danger here.”
Renouvin sat on a crate opposite Logan’s. “There is always danger in Paris these days, my friend. But we are very careful, and it helps that the Boche* are not too smart. That must sound ridiculous from a man who has just lost four valuable workers.”
Renouvin sighed heavily. “But it was not carelessness or stupidity that brought about their demise.”
“They were betrayed?”
“It is a strong possibility. But fortunately, only Jacques knew about La Librairie and other incriminating locations where we conduct our business. He died before the Boche got anything out of him.” Renouvin paused reflectively. “But,” he began again in a lighter tone, “tell me about yourself.”
“I am Michel Tanant,” said Logan, “bookseller from Lyon.”
“Clever touch! Do you know anything of the book trade?”
“Very little.”
“No matter, as long as your skills in, shall we say, other areas are adequate.”
“I hope they are,” said Logan. But his inner confidence was still struggling to match the apparent importance this man was placing in him.
“You are British?”
“My accent is that bad?”
“Non, non!” said Renouvin apologetically. “It is quite good, in fact. It will fool the Germans easily, and many Frenchmen will not give you a second look. Whoever placed you from Lyon knew his business. Your accent resembles that usually found in the Alpine region of the south.”
Logan drained off the last of his ersatz coffee, grimacing in spite of himself.
“Please forgive me, Michel, mon ami, for serving you such a dreadful brew,” said Renouvin. “When the war is over and we are free again, you will come to my house and I will offer you the best French coffee you have ever had.”
Logan smiled. It was going to be easy to like this man who spoke with the good-natured congeniality of one without a care in the world. How could anyone guess that he was daily but a breath away from death, and that he held in his brain enough information to bring down hundreds of others also? Yet perhaps it was the very aura of angelic innocence surrounding him that had kept him alive these many months. Logan knew he would long for the time he could visit this man without guile and enjoy pleasant, even trivial conversation. But now, such notions were out of the question. This cup of coffee was not a luxury at all. There was much to be done, and much danger hanging over them despite the innocent look of things.
The urgency of their business must also have been pressing itself upon Renouvin, for he leaned intently forward and began to give Logan a brief synopsis of the operation at La Librairie.
“Now that poor Jacques is gone,” he began, “there are only five of us who know of the bookstore. Each of us has a circuit of agents that operate blind, for the most part. If any is captured, he knows only one or two names at most, and the identities of the five of us are known only among ourselves. My network, for example, knows me as L’Oiselet, little bird, and can contact me only through a post office box. None of them know anything about the bookstore or that I am involved with others like myself. The five of us who operate our little networks out of La Librairie are something like the hub of a wheel, from which many, many spokes go out. If the Nazis have any knowledge of L’Oiselet, which they do not, there is no way they can connect him to Henri Renouvin, bookseller. All the pieces are separate. That is why Jacques’s capture and death did not compromise La Librairie. As for myself, I act mostly as a collector and disseminator of information. My four associates do more of the footwork of the organization, and are thus more exposed than I. You will meet each of them in due time. But for now, mon ami, we must get you settled. You are tired and hungry, non?”
Logan was certainly that, and more, though it was only then, with the concerned words of this kindly gentleman, that he realized just how taxing his two-day journey to Paris had been. He had eaten but scantily since his drop. Though he had a pocketful of perfectly good, however forged, ration coupons, he had not mastered the local idiosyncrasies well enough to use them with confidence, despite his training in current regulations. He had nearly blown his cover in his fumbling novice attempt last night at dinner, and had ended up with nothing more than bread and coffee. Since then he had managed only a few turnips plucked from the fields this morning on his way into the city. Sleep had posed an additional problem; even for a city lad like himself, Paris was an intimidating place, and it was hardly worth the effort to try to locate a hole to curl up in for a while.
Renouvin set Logan up in a hotel a few blocks from the bookstore, with effusive regrets that he could not open up his own small flat to him. Such a plan would have been to court danger needlessly, however, and they both realized it. He then saw to it that Logan had a nourishing meal, while filling him in on more details of his organization. And while Renouvin had been genuinely concerned about Logan’s rest, he talked with him far into the evening.
When Logan at last finally did lie down on his cheap hotel bed, he hardly noticed how hard and coarse it was. He fell soundly asleep within minutes, and it is doubtful even a Gestapo raid could have wakened him.
*Boche—French slang for Germans.