Lyon
August 28, 1942
“Gentleman, I refuse. My men are not jailers, especially not of innocent women, children, and old men and women,” General Pierre Robert de Saint-Vincent answered. For emphasis, he shook his head at the intendant and the chief police of the division of Rhône.
The general had faithfully served France throughout a long military career. His division had not receded an inch in the Alps, and after the armistice he had been named the military governor of Lyon charged with one branch of the army.
“We need your men to supervise the transfer of the Jews to the northern zone. They’ve got to be at the border by tomorrow.”
“My troops will never be part of any such operation.” The general’s thin face, sunken eyes, and small military mustache were set in opposition.
“These are the president’s orders,” Lucien Marchais, the intendant, insisted.
“My conscience answers to an office higher than the president of the Republic. How can you even consider sending civilians for the Nazis to exploit and kill? Those aren’t the values of France.”
“You might have noticed that things have changed a bit,” Cussonac retorted.
“Not for me. I’m bound by the honor of my position and France, but also to God. I cannot act against my conscience. What would be left of the French if we acted with such vileness?”
The intendant rose to his feet indignantly. “You’re calling us murderers? Those Jews are foreigners, and most of them are here illegally. If the Nazis want them, they must have done something.”
The general remained seated, calm, implacable. He raised his head and met Marchais’s eyes squarely. “Most of those children were born in France. Even if the rest are foreign-born, they are human beings. Our country was the first to codify human rights. Those values still hold meaning for some of us.”
Cussonac waved his finger in the general’s face and, enraged, Marchais said, “This won’t be the end of it. You’ll be removed from your position and stripped of your honors. You’re a traitor to France.”
“I’m the traitor? I’m serving my country to the best of my abilities.”
“Don’t you realize that if we don’t comply with the Nazis’ demands, they’ll take over the unoccupied zone, and then we’ll be powerless to help the rest of our citizens?”
General de Saint-Vincent got to his feet, still a gallant figure despite his age. “Then perhaps the country will rise up against those tyrants and their accomplices. Now, please see yourselves out of my office.”
As they descended the stairs, Marchais told Cussonac, “This won’t be the end of it. We’re in a very delicate position. The Germans are weighing the merits of continuing to allow the free zone. What does a handful of Jews matter? Bah! Has the whole world gone mad? The marshal will eat that traitor alive.”
The angry words did little to calm Marchais’s fury. As soon as he got to his office, he contacted Vichy. The entire deportation affair was rotten, and lower-ranking officials tended to be the scapegoats for such debacles. “I’m not going down with this ship, no sir,” he vowed.