Lyon
August 28, 1942
Klaus Barbie looked at his files and then took another drag of his cigar. Things at Vénissieux seemed to be going swimmingly well. His superiors would be pleased that the deportation quotas were being met. His job officially consisted of tracking down members of the Resistance, but a friend in Berlin had asked him to personally oversee the deportations. The French authorities could not be trusted to do the job well. To the Germans, the French were like all Latins—too sensitive, not trustworthy, susceptible to whatever their bishops thought and said. That was especially true of their patron saint Marshal Pétain.
The SS-Hauptsturmführer sipped on his cognac and felt the alcohol burn his throat. Then he called his secretary and asked for his car to be brought around. Klaus was ready to visit the camp. It was under French jurisdiction and in the free zone, but the SS and the Gestapo could do pretty much whatever they wanted. In fact, several high-ranking French officials had asked the German services to help them fight the growing Resistance movement. France had always been a complex territory. The Germans could not afford to send hundreds of thousands of soldiers, and their soft-line policy had been met with rebellion. The Resistance had even infiltrated the Vichy government.
When the car was ready, Klaus polished off his cognac, settled his hat on his head, and descended the stairs two by two. He was humming a little melody until he reached the door and saw the rain. His good mood soured. He dashed into the car and took a seat on the warm leather. Through the window, the city seemed to be drugged to sleep under the summer storm. Many of Lyon’s inhabitants had relocated to their country homes or to the Mediterranean beaches. The war did not seem to have curbed French decadence, Klaus mused as they left the city behind.
The Vénissieux camp was on the outskirts of Lyon, near an industrial area, in the abandoned military barracks of the French army. When Klaus’s car came to a stop at the checkpoint on the muddy street, the SS official regretted having left his rooms that afternoon. Two sorrowful excuses for policemen raised the barrier as soon as they saw Klaus’s uniform, and the vehicle parked in front of the administration building. Klaus loved showing up unannounced and taking the French government workers by surprise. Their shocked faces displayed the cowardice of a people who had submitted to the superior race with hardly a fight.
Klaus waited while his assistant opened the door, spread a cloak over the muddy ground to keep the official’s boots from touching the dirt, and covered him with a black umbrella. Under the porch roof, the SS officer stomped his boots on the wooden floorboards and entered without knocking.
René Cussonac was already on his feet when Klaus crossed the office with his powerful stride.
“Captain, a pleasure to see you here,” the camp director said.
The man’s lie pleased Klaus, who knew that his presence was far from welcome, though he also knew that Cussonac was a committed anti-Semite.
“At ease. I’m only here to check up on how the deportations are coming along.”
“Everything is proceeding according to plan,” Cussonac said. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, finding himself suddenly covered in sweat.
“How many tomorrow?” Klaus asked.
“Would you like a drink, Captain? I have a magnificent Calvados, the best spirits Normandy has to offer.”
Klaus never refused a drink, no matter how strong it was.
Cussonac poured the tinkling liquor into a small glass and then poured another for himself. Both men downed it in one gulp. Then the Frenchman began to explain the plan.
“Many of the men have already been shipped off, and tonight the rest of the refugees will head out in buses. Altogether it’s thirteen hundred people, though we’ve had to allow a few exemptions required by our laws.”
Klaus frowned, and Cussonac filled his glass again. “How many of these rats will get away?”
Cussonac began to stammer. “Oh, j-just a few old and sickly folks, and a few dozen unaccompanied minors.”
“I want exact numbers, Officer!” Klaus roared.
“Two hundred and eighty.”
The eyes bulged out of the SS officer’s face. “What the hell? If you don’t meet your quotas, you’ll all pay for it.”
“We’ve rounded up more. We’ll make the quotas, don’t worry,” the gendarme promised.
“I am worried. Unlike you, I am fulfilling a sacred mission. The Führer wants all Jews in Europe to disappear. He warned everyone that if Germany had to go to war because of the Jews and the Communists, all the Jews on the continent would be exterminated.”
“You’re aware of my feelings toward the Jews. The damned race has corroded the eternal values of France and reduced us to a mixed-race, immoral, decadent country. We share the same objective, Captain; I assure you.”
Klaus slammed his fist down on the table, and Cussonac watched him fearfully. “I want each and every one of the Jews here in Vénissieux on a train to Germany by dawn. If everyone’s out by dawn, no one will halt the operation.”
“But my superiors . . .”
“I’ll take full responsibility. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want to have to come back to this pigsty that reeks of swine and cow shit. If Berlin’s orders are not carried out, you and your family will be next in line for deportation. Meet the quotas, whatever it takes.”
Klaus drank down the last of the liquor, put on his hat, and slammed the door on his way out. A smile crossed his face as he went down the wooden steps and ducked into the car.
The chauffeur closed the door after him and then got behind the wheel. “Back to headquarters?” he asked.
“No. I feel like having a good time. Work gets me riled up. Head for Madame Boyer’s brothel.”
Klaus Barbie’s unrestrained appetite for luxury prostitutes had already resulted in syphilis, but he could not deny himself. The only time his mind was off work and relaxed was when he was mounting a good-looking whore in a conquered country. Then he knew himself to be one of the lords of war like Adolf Hitler promised to those who served him faithfully.
Heading back to Lyon and crossing the wide river, Klaus leaned back in the seat and determined to return to the camp that night to see if his orders had been carried out. A good German never trusted the French to follow through.