Lyon
August 31, 1942
Gilbert Lesage was lying on a cot in a cell in the Gestapo basement. Every one of his bones ached, his body was covered in bruises, and he could still sense the unpleasant taste of blood on his lips. He had been given nothing to eat, but at least his captors had promised that he would soon be taken to a French police commissary. He counted on the mediation of Cardinal Gerlier to get him freed from there.
Just before midnight on the day of his capture and torture, he finally drifted off to sleep, despite the hunger and cold. It did not last long. Approaching footsteps woke him, and someone loomed in the doorway of his cell. When the door opened, the light from the hallway momentarily blinded him.
“Gilbert Lesage, you’ll come with us now.”
The voice spoke with a German accent. Gilbert trembled with renewed fear. He had never thought of himself as a hero. He was simply one of the mortals who could not tolerate injustice even though working against it brought many sleepless nights.
Gilbert put his shoes back on. They were the only thing he was wearing that was not bloodied. Then he offered his wrists to be handcuffed.
Walking down the long hallway and up the stairs required more effort than any other walk Gilbert had taken in his life. There was a Nazi on each side of him. When they finally emerged on the main floor of the building, Klaus Barbie was waiting for them.
“Mr. Lesage, you have some powerful friends, but they can’t complain when a prisoner is shot when trying to escape. It’s just part of a prison guard’s duty, no?”
“I have no intention of fleeing.”
“It’s not necessary. A bullet in the back is sufficient justification for your death. An unfortunate diplomatic event, to be sure, but one that will be forgotten within weeks.”
Gilbert was shaking again. The guards led him outside and tossed him into a van. Splayed out in the back, he thought back over his life. Though there had been times of loneliness and sadness, on the whole he had enjoyed a life of meaning and purpose. He was aware that such was more than most people could say.
The vehicle stopped a mile or two from the Gestapo headquarters. Gilbert heard boots on the asphalt and then the opening of the door.
“Out!” a loud voice barked at him.
Gilbert made the effort to get out, but with his hands tied and his body in severe pain, he was not having success.
“Damned traitor!” the guard yelled, grabbing Gilbert’s right arm and yanking him out of the van with such force that Gilbert landed hard on the street. He was forcefully made to stand. Gilbert rocked unsteadily on his feet before the men. There was no moon, and the dark, predawn streets were unlit. The only light came from some houses a few blocks away.
“Run!” the same soldier commanded.
Gilbert stood stock still, knowing full well what it meant to run.
The German shoved his cocked pistol into Gilbert’s face. “Run!” he repeated.
So Gilbert turned and started hobbling as fast as he could. It became a slow, stumbling run, as rapid a movement as the searing pain in his legs allowed.
The soldier took aim and waited for Gilbert to move far enough away. When Gilbert was about one hundred yards away, he fired. But there was no blast, only a click. The Nazi looked at his gun, cocked it again, and pulled the trigger. Yet once again it misfired.
“Son of a bitch!” he screamed and grabbed the other soldier’s gun.
By this time Gilbert was some two hundred yards away. The protective darkness began to envelop him. The German fired, but that second gun also misfired. He repeated the cocking and misfiring routine until the prisoner had disappeared into the shadows. Gilbert stayed well hidden when the Nazis ran up on foot, searching with their flashlights, and again when they drove the van up and down the streets with the headlights flashing in every direction.
When it had been quiet for a very long time, Gilbert emerged and started walking. It took him until dawn to reach the episcopal palace. It was the one place he could hope for safety.
One of the housekeepers found Gilbert slumped against the gate and recognized him right away. With the help of another servant, they carried the limp man to a room beside the kitchen. They laid him gently on an unused bed and ran to alert the cardinal.
Gerlier had woken up an hour before to begin morning prayer. When he heard the sound of hurrying footsteps, he leaned over the second-floor banister to see what was going on.
“Antoine, what’s all this noise?”
“We found Mr. Gilbert Lesage wounded at the gate. We’ve taken him to a room beside the kitchen.”
“Call a doctor immediately. I’ll dress and come down to see Mr. Lesage.”
Gerlier had an unpleasant feeling in his chest and had to pause for a few deep breaths as he put on his pants. That week had been the most difficult of his life and career to date. When his pastoral letter was made public, he knew that he would be in the sights of his enemies and of the Nazis, but what other option did he have? He had sworn to serve Christ, even if it cost his life. Yet he was loath to further compromise the already weak Vichy republic.
When Gerlier had gathered himself together, he walked down the stairs slowly, making sure to hold on carefully to the banister. He went into the room where Gilbert was. The man’s bruised, discolored face and swollen eyes made him nearly unrecognizable.
“Holy Father in heaven . . .” Gerlier sucked in his breath. “Who did this to you, my friend?”
Gilbert lifted his head. With swollen eyes and no glasses, he struggled to make out who was before him.
“Ah, Your Excellency. Thank you.”
“Rest assured, you’ll be safe and tended to here. It’s the very least we can do for a brother. But tell me, what happened to you?”
Lesage gave a brief account of his torture and how divine providence had allowed him to escape.
“Can you give me the name of the Nazi official? I’ll present a formal complaint to the German government in Berlin.”
“Klaus Barbie, though I fear his government already knows what he’s doing. But the children—how are they?”
The cardinal sat on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t worry. As far as we know, they are all well. With God’s grace, the mission has been a success. But we cannot afford to lower our guard. The gendarmes are still looking for them, as, apparently, are the Nazis.”
The prelate’s words calmed Gilbert. He had feared that his betrayal put the children in danger.
“Rest now until the doctor arrives, my friend,” Gerlier said.
Gilbert closed his eyes. He immediately fell into the deep, restorative sleep only possible when a body knows it is in a clean bed in a safe place.
The cardinal returned to his office and called Father Glasberg, requesting that he come to the episcopal palace immediately. Gilbert was not the only one who needed to be in a safe place. The cardinal was worried about his priest. The Nazis were determined to capture the children from Vénissieux and were willing to do anything it took to get them.