The closing months of 1941 were turbulent ones in Paris. If the German occupation had turned France upside-down, these months turned it inside-out.
Hitler’s invasion of Russia had stirred new fervor among French Communists. A demonstration protesting the German breach of faith with Russia, a former ally, turned into a riot in August. Two Communists were executed for their part in the protest. Then followed what, in a world fraught with perfidy, seemed to be the height of betrayal to French patriots, whether they were Communist or Gaullist—hundreds of Frenchmen enlisted, forming a military division to join the German army in the fighting on the Russian front.
When a German soldier was gunned down in a back alley, apparently by a communist, the Nazi’s reacted by taking a number of hostages. But when still another soldier was murdered, the S.S. retaliated with savage recriminations, including the execution of a dozen of these innocent French hostages. Paris became a powder keg, ready to explode on many fronts at once. The hit-and-run tactics of the French resistance fighters only angered the Germans all the more. For every French prisoner they took or hostage they executed, however, it seemed two were miraculously set free. Each time the scenario was different, but the Resistance agents seemed able to penetrate the most secure of their installations. Always there was a disguise, always a diversion. Yet the diversity made it impossible to detect ahead of time what was about to happen. Eventually talk began to circulate among S.S. and Gestapo headquarters that the escapes were all the work of a single man. A dedication began to grow to discover his identity and put a stop to his sabotage of the Third Reich’s attempt to consolidate its stranglehold on Paris.
Attacks on both sides continued sporadically through the fall and winter. Controversy and discord were everywhere. The indifference of the general public was one of the most disheartening factors for those involved in the Resistance. While a handful of patriots were sacrificing their lives toward the hope of liberation, a much greater majority of Frenchmen were going on with their lives under the German occupation as if nothing had happened. And an alarming number actually fell in with the Nazis. The patriots did not know whom to hate more—the Nazis or their collaborators. How, they asked themselves, can watching the deaths of their innocent countrymen not turn the hearts of such vile traitors—if such opportunists even have hearts?
Arnaud Soustelle was among the worst of this ignoble breed.
Prior to the war he had already begun to acquire a reputation as an inspector of police with a total lack of moral scruples. For even a small bribe he would turn in a trusting friend, he could beat information out of the most stubborn of suspects, and he took special delight in devising ever more inhumane ways to torment Jews.
When the Germans came in 1940, Soustelle lost no time in hitching his loyalties to the Nazi wagon. Hitler’s racism suited him well, and armed with his particular talents and a loyal retinue of informants and connections who would do anything for a price, Soustelle found himself openly welcomed by the German occupiers. He was soon serving in the Sicherheitsdienst, or simply the S.D. This security agency for the Nazi party operated in the same ignominious capacity as the Gestapo, though the S.D. more willingly welcomed civilian nationals within its ranks. Arnaud had thus far proved an extremely valuable agent for his native knowledge of the city, and his policeman’s savvy served him well.
Today, however, walking down the avenue Foch with a light snowfall dusting the shoulders of his new overcoat, Soustelle felt a slight twinge of a very uncharacteristic emotion: trepidation. It was not a feeling the tough forty-five-year-old Frenchman was used to, or liked. At six feet tall, broad of chest with icy gray eyes and hawk-like nose, it was ordinarily he who instilled fear in others.
But it was no small matter to be summoned to S.S. headquarters, especially when he was well aware of recent failures having to do with leads he had given them. These Nazis were an unforgiving lot. Forgetting all his successes, they would probably boot him out (no doubt to some labor camp in Germany) if he wasn’t careful. But, he reminded himself, as he would his superiors, he had not yet exactly failed. He had merely not yet completely succeeded. But he would. Of that they could be certain.
Thoughtful, he slipped his hand into his pocket, took out a chunk of black licorice, and popped it into his mouth. It was a habit he had acquired many years earlier, and now almost continually he had a thick wad of the stuff churning about inside his mouth. Where most men smelled of tobacco, Soustelle perennially reeked of the bitter-sweet odor of licorice.
Chewing on the candy, he continued to wonder what was in store for him as he walked. He passed the main gate unimpeded, crossed the courtyard, and entered the building. This particular part of the compound had once been a fine townhouse occupied by a wealthy Parisian. He proceeded directly up a wide stairway, paying no attention to the intricate balustrade or the expensive flocked wallpaper. In another few moments he paused before a large oak door, and, before knocking, tossed another licorice drop into his mouth. He would have argued vehemently that it was not a nervous habit, but however coincidental it was, he seemed to devour many more during times of stress.
“Herein!” came a feminine voice from inside.
“I have an appointment with the general,” said Soustelle upon entering.
“Yes, Herr Soustelle,” said the secretary. “General von Graff is expecting you. Go right in.”
Soustelle neither paused nor hesitated. He opened the door to the inner office and stepped smartly inside the spacious room, clicking his heels sharply together while stiffly raising his right hand in the air.
“Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” replied von Graff in the more casual tone of one who does not have to try so hard to prove his loyalty.
The fortunes of Martin von Graff had altered dramatically in the last several months. He had never been completely content in the Abwehr. For one thing, he could never tolerate Admiral Canaris, that perpetual intriguer who ruled military intelligence, regardless of the fact that they were both Navy men. One never knew where one stood with the old man and, moreover, one never quite knew where the old man stood. However, lately the vacillating Canaris was leaning too dangerously toward anti-Nazism to suit von Graff. Not that he was a fanatic himself, but he was not about to risk being in the wrong camp when the Führer’s designs reached their victorious climax—as they certainly must. Thus, taking masterful advantage of the constant in-fighting between the Abwehr and the Gestapo, von Graff had secured his present position in the S.S. hierarchy, upon recommendation of Heinrich Himmler himself.
Landing the Paris assignment had been a coup far beyond his hopes as a relatively new S.S. recruit. Here in the cultural hub of the world, he felt as if there might be life beyond the war, after all. Hitler was adamant that the reputation of Paris should not decline during his wartime regime—hoping, no doubt, to make it a showcase of Third Reich “culture” later. Thus the arts continued to flourish. Von Graff attended the theater or opera nearly every night, and considered himself treated to fine performances each time.
Yes, things were going well for him. He was not about to let recent setbacks destroy everything.
He leaned back in his chair and focused his cold, unrelenting gaze upon the unscrupulous French collaborator before him.
“Well, Herr Soustelle,” said von Graff, “I hope it is good news you have for me today.”
“These things take time, mon General,” hedged Soustelle.
“Time, Soustelle . . . ?” Von Graff let his words trail off with an ominous impression. “In the time since we borrowed you from the S.D., we have lost three more major prisoners, which does not include last night’s loss of that Jew Poletski and his family. That makes six in two months, Herr Soustelle. I need not tell you how bad that looks.”
He was thinking as much about his own reputation as Soustelle’s. To have these escapes coincide so inconveniently with his own arrival in Paris was most unfortunate.
“So you see,” he went on, “your talk of time does not put me at ease. Time is going by and you seem to be getting nowhere.”
“I assure you, mon General, I have my best people on it,” replied Soustelle. “I have one reliable informer in the Resistance who is almost certain these particular escapes are originating with one network, masterminded by one certain crafty man.”
“Exactly as we have suspected!” von Graff burst out—whether in pleasure or frustration, it was hard to tell.
“Yes, mon General.”
“And who is this one crafty individual?”
“If I knew that, you and I would not be standing here sweating today, now would we?”
“You have a great deal of nerve for a Frenchman,” said von Graff caustically—he did not like how close to the mark Soustelle’s jibe had been.
“My nerve is what makes me good at what I do,” said Soustelle, his boldness rising once more. He had been foolish to fear this man. “And why I seldom fail.”
“So you say! Thus far I have witnessed none of your reputed ingenuity.”
Von Graff rose from his chair and walked to the window behind his desk. Snow had begun to pile up in the gutters; the busy late afternoon traffic, mostly bicycles and pedestrians, hurried along to homes or cafes where they might find some warmth.
“You know nothing about this man?” asked the general at length. It galled him that anyone, even one of the crowd below, could be the culprit, perhaps spying on him at this very moment, and yet he was no closer to finding him than if he were on another planet.
“Very little,” answered Soustelle. “But there are already whisperings of him circulating in the streets. It seems your six are only the most famous of his escapees. Many others have benefited from his aid—especially Jews, escaped prisoners of war, foreigners who could not get out when the city was first occupied.”
“He is mocking us!” shouted von Graff, slamming his hand down upon the desk.
“He will be ours in time, I assure you.”
“Time! Time! Meanwhile, he sets people free, and we look like fools!”
“We are already laying a trap for this traitor the people consider a folk hero. His own cleverness will be his downfall.”
“I have heard the code name L’Escroc used.”
“L’Escroc . . . ?” repeated von Graff thoughtfully. “The swindler.”
“Oui. They say it is the Germans he is swindling—out of their prize prisoners.”
Von Graff glanced out the window at the people below once more, then spun around and flashed his piercing glint upon the Frenchman. “I want him, Soustelle; do you understand?”
“I understand perfectly. And you shall have him. I want him, too.”
“I am glad we agree on that,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. “I understand there is great need for S.D. units on the Eastern Front—they may soon have to draw them from Paris itself, or so I understand.”
“So I have heard,” replied Soustelle, returning the general’s piercing gaze. He would play the man’s subtle little war of nerves. He was not afraid.
“It is very cold in Russia this time of year.”
“So my Russian acquaintances have said,” replied Soustelle, still calmly. As he spoke a tremendous urge came upon him to dig into his pocket. But another piece of licorice would have to wait. He comforted himself with the knowledge that this new S.S. general might just have the Russian front looming in his future as well.
Once he was again outside, Soustelle strode down the avenue doggedly, with large determined strides, arms swinging widely. His cheeks bulged with licorice.
He would find this L’Escroc! He would ferret him out of whatever resistance hole he was hiding in. He would find him, or . . .
There was no or! He would find him! This fool had gone too far when he threatened the comfort and advancement of Arnaud Soustelle.