Lyon
August 27, 1942
Marchais went by his office before returning home. He picked up the phone and called the Ministry of the Interior. A few moments later, the minister angrily asked what he wanted.
“I’m calling about the foreigners being held at Vénissieux. Several networks are pressuring us, and more and more people are speaking out against deportation.”
“What the hell is going on in Lyon? I thought you were the spiritual reserve of France. Are you all just a bunch of Communists now?”
“Cardinal Gerlier has threatened to write an open letter to all French Catholics.”
“Oh, the damned crows think they’re something else. They’ve swallowed the hogwash about God, family, and country. The orders are clear: you’ve got to hand over at least eight hundred prisoners. We’ve got quotas to fulfill at the request of our allies, the Nazis. Those prisoners have nothing to do with France. They’re just disgusting Jews. Tell your goddamned priests that the Jews were the ones who murdered their precious Jesus. Don’t bother me again with this unless you want to end up on that train to Germany, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Marchais said, squaring his shoulders.
He was sweating profusely when he hung up the receiver. He was not going to risk his career, his life, and his family for a few foreigners. All he was doing was allowing them to leave France. Whatever befell them after that was not his business. Marchais smacked his hat down over his brow and headed for home. He did not know how he was going to look his children in the eye, but it was for their sakes that he was doing all of this.