CHAPTER 22

1941–47

THE FUNERAL TRAIN MOVED SOUTH ALONG THE EASTern shore of the St. Lawrence, ponderously rattling away from Kamouraska towards Quebec City. The land in that region proved exquisite for farming, flat and fertile, the air moist from the river in summer when the daylight hours were lengthy. At that moment, in November of 1941, upon the commencement of winter in a dreaded time of war, dusk fell early, and in the waning light, the flatlands were already white with snow. Ghostly sculptures of ice haunted the beaches, washed up amid tangles of driftwood.

For Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King, the day had been a sad one, although not unexpected. He welcomed the final end to the slow agony of dying inflicted upon his true friend, and most important minister, Ernest Lapointe. The man had been his Quebec lieutenant, and without a notable replacement, his own political life might soon suffer. On the journey back to Quebec City, where a second train waited to return him to Ottawa, he mulled over the issue of his friend’s replacement, and consulted his advisors for their best thoughts.

Of these, Arthur Cardin was a political master and a superb campaigner. Undoubtedly, he was Lapointe’s equal, and in many ways his superior, a likely candidate for the very job they discussed. And yet, at the funeral, he had seemed frail to the prime minister, and never had he been well known in English Canada. King had worked long and effectively with him, yet on a personal level they had never clicked. Of these three liabilities, the issue of his health was the most pressing. In a time of war, King required energetic men.

The premier of Quebec, Adélard Godbout, the hero who had defeated Duplessis, also accompanied him on the train. Along with Cardinal Villeneuve, he led the province as a loyal and fierce backer of the Allied cause. Godbout remained adamant that conscription, should it ever be enacted, would be a crime, and yet, in King’s assessment, Godbout was his man. He ought to resign as premier and join King’s wartime cabinet in Ottawa. Even Cardin agreed with the prime minister on this choice, though he added in the same breath, “Why not Louis St. Laurent? In peacetime, I doubt you could pry him loose from his law practice. So many corporations depend on him. But in wartime? Men are willing in this circumstance to perform a public service. He’s sixty, but vigorous, well known, a significant orator, respected in Quebec—I’d consider St. Laurent, Prime Minister.”

“I am not only choosing my Quebec lieutenant. In all likelihood, I am also selecting my successor. If I choose St. Laurent and he leaves public service at war’s end, the party will be left rudderless.”

The choice was worthy of consideration, although King remained certain that Godbout was his man. He found himself, however, gazing across the river that bore the name St. Lawrence—in French, St. Laurent. Could it be that the river was speaking to him, humming the tune of a separate possibility?

Returned to Ottawa, King learned that Godbout had refused him. An October by-election had been held to replace a member of the Quebec Legislative Assembly. Shockingly, Duplessis’s candidate had merged victorious in Saint Jean, a riding le Chef had never won, a riding that had voted Liberal since Confederation. “I must remain where I am,” Godbout informed King. “To leave now would be to allow Duplessis to take hold again.”

While Mackenzie King consulted his best advisors and gave weight to their opinions, he also conferred with the dead—in particular, his deceased mom. Always he was attuned to instances of the other world communicating with this one. The name St. Laurent had been suggested to him while he’d been riding alongside the Fleuve Saint-Laurent. He had had a sense that the river itself had been speaking. And so, having lost out on Godbout, and having had his mother endorse his second choice, he selected St. Laurent.

Still, what would become of St. Laurent at war’s end? King was aging, and if St. Laurent departed, no one would be prepared to succeed him. Since 1880, the party alternated between English and French leaders, and upon his death or retirement, it would be Quebec’s turn. Without St. Laurent, who was ready?

The French, for all the grief they caused him, provided King with great solace, friendship and counsel. Lapointe, whom he’d buried with full pomp and splendour, had been his closest friend. Upon his deathbed, each man kissed the other’s cheeks and spoke of their undying regard for the other, secure in the knowledge that they would meet again beyond this world. When Cardinal Villeneuve visited, the cagey prelate reminded the prime minister that their souls were linked, that they shared the same system of beliefs. King had to reserve his most intricate political stratagems for dealing with Quebec. This was frustrating and maddening at times, but for him a separate Quebec could be accomplished only by tearing his heart out. And so, he sat dismayed one day, towards the end of the war, and gruffly dismissed his advisors, both those who worked among the living and those who interceded with the dead, to contemplate a sad document that had landed upon his desk.

A letter from the president of the United States, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, had arrived. In it, he suggested the dispersal of all French in North America—from Quebec in particular, but also from the northern United States. He proposed that these millions be scattered across both countries to dilute their political and linguistic concentration. In this way, the language and the culture of the French might swiftly vanish from the continent. An end, the president was suggesting, to King’s troubles and payback for Quebecers’ anti-war sentiment. The action at war’s end would conclude the infernal nuisance of the French presence in North America forever.

William Lyon Mackenzie King sat stunned in his chair.

He laboured under an abject duress.

And prayed for guidance.

At the end of an hour of solitary soul-searching, a scant smile indicated the revival of his spirits. Won’t Roosevelt be surprised, he concluded, to learn that he had chosen his replacement as prime minister. His successor would be none other than the man the river had endorsed, Louis St. Laurent.

A Frenchman. A Quebecer.

Try to disperse the French then, Mr. President. Just try to suggest it.

King nodded to himself, satisfied. The French would remain in Quebec. Strong and free. As well, St. Laurent would continue as a politician. If the man had any further thoughts about returning to his lucrative law practice—which he did, for he rarely stopped mentioning it—King would wave Roosevelt’s letter under his nose. That’s all he’d have to do. St. Laurent would have to stay on then. Duty called. He’d have no choice but to become prime minister.

Roosevelt’s letter had backfired on him.

King took a breath. Thank you, Mr. President. A giant load off his mind. He took another moment to thank the river for offering up its namesake, as well as to thank his dead mother for confirming the wisdom of the appointment. Then the prime minister returned to the further demands of his day, both fiscal and occult.

Duplessis took oxygen.

Great gulps of enriched pure air.

In 1942, when the world had been at war, Hitler’s move across Europe demoralized the Allies, prompting Cardinal Villeneuve to declare the advent of Armageddon. Even nationalist commentators within Quebec moderated their remarks, knowing how profoundly English-Canadians grieved over each military defeat. Nonetheless, the prodigious movement of Canada towards conscription, imposed finally through a plebiscite, for domestic defence only, fuelled the nationalist engine, and a few orators carried the rhetoric forward. Louis St. Laurent had one man tried for sedition, although he lost that battle in court, and still the aging leader Henri Bourassa had the audacity to unveil his vision for a new world based upon the cornerstones of Marshal Pétain’s fascist regime in fallen France, Franco’s Spain, Salazar’s Portugal and Mussolini’s Italy. To keep himself out of prison, he neglected to mention Hitler’s Germany, but the cluster of dictatorships left the implication obvious. Support for a new party of the right was growing, to Duplessis’s dismay, as he intended to occupy that political terrain himself. Under the grievous concerns of conscription, strange bedfellows were entangled upon the same mattress.

A youthful twenty-six, yet a sharp, impassioned speaker, a lawyer named Jean Drapeau ran for Parliament in a Montreal by-election. He began his political career by lecturing on the evils of apartment dwelling, warning mothers to lock up their daughters in such a licentious environment. His supporters included everyone from the key anti-Semites—the philosopher Abbé Lionel Groulx and the unionist Michel Chartrand—to a young and impressionable Pierre Elliott Trudeau. The new party called itself the Bloc populaire canadien, and over the protestations of Duplessis it chose to enter both federal and provincial politics simultaneously. The old monk, Groulx, advised them to do so. Many in their midst had scores to settle with Duplessis and desired that he be erased from the political canvas. Even those with no personal grievance against the man concurred. The question went forth, “Who wants a drunkard as our leader?” On that basis alone, the new right-wing alliance gained strength.

Embattled, Duplessis entered an oxygen tent. Into his lungs he breathed the name of every man opting for the Bloc. Liberals were his natural enemies—what could be expected from them if not contempt? Yet those who chose the new option committed a greater crime, for they were acting in clear defiance of him. He’d never forget their names. One of many, that of Pierre Elliott Trudeau, although he was only a sprig of a young man, was inhaled by Duplessis down into the depths, and silently, deeply, took root there.

He would never forget.

In his tent, he breathed. Outside the tent, he suffered. Consumption, diabetes and alcoholism had left him physically impoverished, often angry and depressed, yet never dispirited or willing to quit. Such an option had not crossed his mind. The contrary. Inside the oxygen tent, he marshalled his resolve and plotted his grand return. He already knew that he had been given an argument to win the next election.

This is Quebec, he’d think. Quebec is gasping for air. Quebec lives in an oxygen tent, as do I. In here, I am Quebec.

Remarkably, his most prominent adversary came to see him. Premier Adélard Godbout sat outside his oxygen tent and spoke cheering words of encouragement. Duplessis reminded his guest that he still intended to defeat him, that inevitably the leader of the province would become too cozy with the Liberals in Ottawa. Conscription would yet be his undoing. Godbout argued back on the merits of the war, that civilization itself remained at stake, not merely the comfort of their old colonial master.

For Godbout, to see any man turned onto his back like this, confined and debilitated, moved him to great sympathy, yet he was impressed by le Chef’s ongoing tenacity, a will not only to live again but to fight again, and to win.

At the end of a long discussion, Godbout declared to journalists that Duplessis, if ever he were freed from alcoholism, would yet make a significant contribution to Quebec public life. Godbout had turned down King’s offer to be his Quebec advisor, and by doing so had stepped away from the possibility—indeed, the probability—that he would become the next prime minister of Canada. Now Duplessis, ailing and flat on his back in an oxygen tent, had him where he wanted him—in his sights, ready to take him down in the next election. Just as he would remember those who had betrayed him by joining the new political party, so he would remember Godbout’s generosity of spirit and expression. He recognized that he was an outstanding man. All the better. What satisfaction could there be in defeating a nincompoop?

Well, some. But victory over a worthy opponent was all the more joyful.

He breathed the rich air within his tent.

When he emerged, alive, he quit his beloved drink.

From a day in 1943 forward, he would limit himself to orange juice, neat, although his health required no moderation of his continued devotion to women.

He took on a further discipline: the daily injection of insulin.

Strong again, knowing that an election approached, Duplessis surveyed the realm and called to a covert meeting a committee representing a certain secret sect of gentlemen active in the land. They derived from various occupations—business and agriculture, mining and academia, one among them was a priest. Above all, they were united in their thinking on crucial matters, supporting Pétain and Hitler. Each man had publicly decried Cardinal Villeneuve’s insistence that Catholics pray for an Allied victory.

Seven men came before him, two of whom represented the society’s youth. Each man knew why the committee had been summoned. The issue of which party their group might support remained critical to Duplessis, for they were eighteen thousand strong and, moreover, possessed the ability to penetrate every sector of the society vital to him and draw votes his way, or repel them.

“The Bloc Populaire has many voices,” he pointed out to the seven men, “but I am the master of this house. The leaders of the Bloc, that gaggle of quacking ducks, in their lifetimes have known only political defeats. I have known defeat, that’s true, but I have also demonstrated that I can win against Liberals, whereas no other man has done so before me for half a century. Mistakes took place in the last election. I should never have stepped away from radio broadcasts. Even the sound of my voice distorted by the federal censor might have soothed voters and permitted them to choose with greater wisdom. Such an error shall not occur again. With your assistance, gentlemen, I will return to power. The Bloc Populaire can make no such claim, except to the gullible, and even then, only in their dreams. The movement demands a leader for our times, and I sit before you as that man. Gentlemen, when I regain power, be advised, I shall not loosen my grip on it again until God calls me to my reward. Now,” he directed, and pulled each of his pant legs up an inch and leaned forward to ask, “what say you?”

Prior to the meeting, five of the seven were of a different mind, set to support the cause of the Bloc. Upon hearing Duplessis’s appeal, they realized that they were listening to the remarks of a man who would soon be taking his petition out on the stump. They were reminded that he could prove persuasive in that arena, as he was proving to be in this meeting.

“How will you win?” a young man asked. He was a student of medicine, Duplessis had been informed, who had the intention of entering the psychiatric sciences. Due to the secrecy of the society, no man had provided a last name, only a Christian name and general occupation. But Duplessis knew them all by their full names, where they lived, the identities of their parents, wives and children. He knew the names of their friends, also.

“Camille, the Bloc Populaire supports Pétain, but it’s confounded by its many voices, and is loathe to come out and condemn the Allies. Those who speak on its behalf would rather stay out of jail, so they make utterances out of one side of their mouths only. I suffer from no such compunction. The Allies, gentlemen, now include Russia. The Allies count among their fraternity the communist beast. When I take this message to the people, that a vote for the Liberals is a vote for the supporters of the devil himself, of communism itself—of Stalin—the election will be won. I can convince the people that the alliance is unholy, that they must mark their ballots for the integrity of Quebec, and for a government that will stand up to the federalists and their infernal conscription. I am the one to do it. Not Jean Drapeau, who worries more that a girl’s bloomers might perchance be smudged than he does about the politics of the world. Let him tell Montrealers to live in homes that do not exist rather than in apartments, if that’s what he wishes to say, but do not permit that impish young man to go against the likes of Mackenzie King or Louis St. Laurent on behalf of Quebec. He’ll be devoured like a morsel of Charlevoix cheese by a waterfront rat.”

The other younger man in the room, perhaps not meaning to sound insolent, although he did come across that way, pointed out, “He’s not running specifically against King or St. Laurent.”

The remark was naïve, for of course the federal politicians would be keenly interested in the provincial election, and in their way endeavour to affect the outcome. Rather than shame the neophyte for thinking so foolishly, Duplessis told him, “Godbout, then, who is a man possessed of greater acumen than I had previously understood. Godbout will spit him out before he’s been properly chewed—Drapeau or anyone else they put up against him. I know them all.”

“Can we win without Villeneuve? That’s the real question,” one of the older men stated, and at that moment Duplessis knew he was winning the day.

“It’s a question for you if are supporting the Bloc Populaire. It’s not a question for me. Villeneuve is incensed with the Bloc, Henri Bourassa and his new civilization, with his new friends, Pétain and Franco and Adolf Hitler. In his misguided apprehension of the world, Villeneuve calls it the devil’s alliance. So the cardinal cannot support the Bloc, and if he does not support the Bloc, you cannot win. Now, you are assuming that he will support the Liberals against me, as he did the last time. After all, he supports the Allies, as does Godbout. But your great plans to rule the world are failing to come to pass, gentlemen. The war may not be over, but the outcome is increasingly apparent. The Axis is crumbling. You must prepare for the aftermath, and so must Cardinal Villeneuve. He has seen by now that the Liberals hold enough anticlericals tight to their bosom that it may be wise for him to withdraw his support, and when I have concluded pointing out to the people the obvious links between the Liberals in Ottawa and the communists in Moscow, he will have no choice. He will look to the future. He will see that the future is Maurice Duplessis. In the next election, understand why you will not hear me discuss the Jews, although I know well your position, and you know mine. Mention of the Jews will only torment the cardinal. One must be circumspect in these affairs. You, gentlemen, you and your great fraternity, must also look to the future and see to it that I am returned as premier. For your sake, you must do this, for the sake of your Order, and most of all for the sake of the Fatherland.”

Although they were swayed, Duplessis needed to push one last button to achieve their passionate support.

“Your Order,” he stated, “the great fraternal Order of Jacques Cartier, has been disgraced in the Senate chamber by one of our own. You have been betrayed. The existence of your Order has been made public and held in disrepute, its secret nature exposed. Your good works to effect that our textbooks record the truth of our history have been stalled. Who did this to you? Not just one man. Who brought that man into the Senate to make that speech? King and the Liberals. Support the Bloc Populaire and see for yourself what will occur. The Liberals will triumph once again. Or support me, Maurice Duplessis, and defeat those who have dragged the great name of your Order through the mud.”

That did it. They were behind him now. They were willing to put aside the more extreme aspirations of their society in order to defeat their enemies. When it came to beating Liberals, Duplessis was the man for the job. He had convinced them of that, and the members of the committee from the secret Order of Jacques Cartier solemnly shook his hand, vowing to work for him through their eighteen thousand powerful members, to launch him to victory in the next election.

Duplessis required one more break. He needed Godbout to call an election before the war was won, before that victory celebration took place and became attached to him. Godbout did not fear him enough, and believed that the right wing would be divided between the Bloc and Duplessis’s Union Nationale, believing also that Villeneuve would deliver the Church into his hands. The premier dissolved his government and went before the people in a general election.

“The federal government is in league with Stalin!” Duplessis warned across the countryside.

Thousands came out to hear him rant.

Godbout fought back. “Yes, Stalin—and Churchill and Roosevelt, don’t forget about them.”

The die had been cast. The people did choose to forget about the others. Roosevelt was rumoured to be anti-French. The communists had been allowed to sit at the table, to break bread with the civilized world, and fault lay with the Liberals. Most everyone believed that France was better off under Pétain, yet the Liberals remained devoted to the mother country’s so-called liberation, and this business about Hitler being half-mad and against civilization was merely Allied propaganda—British and English-Canadian rhetoric. The Germans had suffered under the Allies, but hadn’t the French of Quebec suffered under the English? Conscription was a plot to shed French blood overseas. Quebec blood for Quebec soil only, a goodly portion of the population believed, and if ever they forgot it, the Order of Jacques Cartier kept the slogan current. Although Duplessis had never feared the communists himself, and did not believe that they could manage a significant position in Quebec, he rode the fear of communism and of conscription to a narrow upset victory.

“I’m back,” he told his sister on election night. “Too bad I can’t have a drink to celebrate.”

“Have a glass of orange juice instead.”

“In the morning, I will content myself with a call from the prime minister of Canada to congratulate me on my victory. I suppose he’s stewing over it now.”

“King will call,” she assured him, although King had delayed matters, for the election was a tight finish. Duplessis’s claim to victory had still to await close results before being verified. Le Chef was pleased with the work of the Order of Jacques Cartier. As an opposition leader not expected to win, he had more restrictions placed on his funding, and hiring goon squads to oversee certain polling irregularities had proven too expensive. But the Order had taken care of that aspect, seeing to it that ballots were stolen and the appropriate ballot boxes stuffed, intimidating scrutineers so they’d be afraid to show up for work, and generally making sure that close ridings fell his way. They even escorted the nuns to get out to vote for Duplessis, and had themselves voted under the names of men long dead, or still fighting on the fields of France, to make certain that sufficient loyal votes were cast.

Duplessis took a deep breath, inhaling good, clean, northern air, and nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “King will call.”

Outside the window, the people were cheering, cheering.

Le Chef was back.

Houde took the train.

He had made the best of his confinement. He became the camp’s Chinese checkers champion, and taken an inmate’s idea of escaping by skating to freedom and turned it into a winter sport. He won the long-distance skating championship, after bribing Roger Clément not to participate, and had been elected mayor of his hut. Yet the years had been difficult as well. He had had to make it through sixteen months before he was allowed a first visit with his wife and eldest daughter. Even then, he was permitted no more than thirty minutes in their company, while a guard stood close by. A single postcard constituted his monthly ration of outgoing mail, which was censored, although when he realized that Roger Clément was using a guard as a courier to send letters more often, he took advantage of that outlet as well. The guard worried about posting letters from a politician, not wanting to be caught, but out of his sense of Catholic decency—for he was an Irish lad—he eventually agreed to mail letters addressed to Houde’s wife.

By the summer of 1944, no one could imagine that he might sabotage a war that was going well, and the demands upon King to release him increased. The prime minister finally acceded, not wishing to further damage his own reputation in the city, and the papers announced that Camillien Houde was coming home.

He told Roger, “When you get out, come see me. We’ll work together again.”

“Go see my wife. Make sure she’s all right.”

“I shall. Be of good cheer, Roger. You’ll be free soon. The war goes well for your side.”

He said goodbye to the inmates, and understood as he was doing so that he had enjoyed the company of the communists far more than that of the fascists. And now that the fascists were confronting defeat abroad, they made for even less of a convivial band.

In Sherbrooke, a few hours east of Montreal, Houde got off the train. He spent the night there before proceeding on. After all, the citizens of his home city had not had ample time to arrange a celebration for his arrival, and he owed it to them to give them that. As well, he much needed to improve the state of his haberdashery, for the finer clothes he’d brought to the camp were now worn and bedraggled.

He decked himself out well. He returned to Montreal wearing a morning coat over an elegant grey vest. Broad suspenders held up his striped trousers, the creases sharp and accentuated. He bought new shoes. Even though they sparkled, he had them buffed until he could peer over his belly and see himself wink in their mirror finish, then protected the shine with grey spats. To complete the effect of his attire, he found in Sherbrooke a Malacca walking stick—a real find, a cane he could twirl as he whistled down any boulevard.

His life had not been easy, despite his successes and the station to which he’d arisen. The first of ten children, each of his siblings had died in childhood, and when he was nine his father had passed away as well. His first election victory, to the Quebec legislature, had saved him from penury. Indeed, he had run for office back then to make a salary, and had won by threatening to flatten the top hat of the premier of the province, the old-money Liberal Taschereau. He then lost the next election. Impoverished again, he ran for mayor, winning despite being destitute and living in a grimy, cold, poor man’s flat.

The role of the politician had reminded him of a time in his schooldays when he played Cyrano. He hadn’t required a fake nose, as his own had served the purpose. He could drive an audience to a fever pitch, fill them with rage and conviction, then, with his next words, cause them to laugh and dab tears of pleasure from their eyes. His critics called him a clown, yet in considering the insult, an astute writer observed that clowns were the most intelligent characters in Shakespeare’s plays, and in that tradition, Houde could play the role of the clown very well. The office of the mayor had been emasculated by the provincial government after Houde escorted the city into bankruptcy. He’d be obliged to serve as a figurehead only, but Houde had set his sights on that prize, and when he stepped off the train in Montreal, he was greeted by more than ten thousand citizens, all come to welcome him home and praise his name.

Working his way through the crowds in Windsor Station was a difficult task. He was glad that he had his cane with him. On the street, a speaker’s stand had been erected, with microphones, and from that raised podium he spoke to the enchanted crowd. “I was lonesome for you in the concentration camp,” he called out to them.

They cheered, and so many women wept.

“And it looks as though you were lonesome for me, too.”

Their shouts became more feverish.

“I am ready to accept my mandate from the people who are crying for me. Your spontaneous ovation should be a warning to all political leaders.”

As one, the crowd took up the fight with him.

A reporter asked, upon his announcement that he would again seek the mayor’s chair, “Do you not fear that your support for Pétain and Mussolini will be held against you?”

Houde shrugged. “I don’t recall speaking of support for Pétain. I was in a concentration camp when he came to power, so that opportunity was denied me. As for Mussolini, the people will say that the war is over, or almost over, and do you know what?

They’ll be right.”

When reminded that he had left the city bankrupt, he repeated his constant theme on the subject. “The banks wanted me to starve the poor. I declined to do so. I know how the bankers have judged me, and I know how the prime minister of Canada has judged me. Now let us see what the people think, and let them be the final judge.”

Houde won. He wrote to Roger Clément,

Roger,

I need you here to take care of the rough boys, to be their boss. Things have heated up, gotten out of hand. Seventeen men were shot on election day. Can you believe it? Do you remember the good old days of baseball bats and fists? Of course you do. When you return, you’ll find that it’s all about guns and knives now, brass knuckles and lead pipes. Oh, you’ll love it, Roger! It’s all so exciting. I shall use my new influence as mayor to do what I can to secure your release. In the meantime, I have looked in on your beloved Carole. She has managed to sustain herself, but misses you terribly, as you miss her. I’m afraid that she finds me a bit of a fascist, to use her word, and so I am limited in what I might do for her. Rest assured that I shall watch over her from a safe distance (safe for me from her, you understand), and I have already seen to it that her house tax has been reduced. She’ll never know why unless you tell her. Don’t tell her, Roger. She might pay a higher tax if only to spite me. Be brave, Roger. See you soon.

Yours truly,

Camillien

P.S. Roger! I’m back. I told you I’d be back.

The war was over, and the old gang was back.

Duplessis was premier and Houde the mayor. Roger Clément returned also, with a few boys from the internment camp who had won jobs with Houde. He kissed his wife and held her for a full twenty minutes before he managed to release her and introduce her to his friends. Then they all went home to his house to party.

Late in the evening, a knock was heard at the front door and Roger answered. The mayor stood before him, grinning as widely as the mouth of the St. Lawrence and holding up a bottle. “Champagne!” he enthused. “Good for what ails you.” The mayor, too, joined the party, which lasted until dawn, long after Roger had walked off to bed with Carole, where they kissed one another and loved one another to sleep. When he briefly awoke to shift his weight, to take in the room that was his own, to pinch himself with the knowledge that he was free and Carole again lay beside him, Roger heard the mayor’s voice, boisterous and laughing in the front room—”Did I ever tell you the story of the man it took six years to bury?”—and Roger smiled, for all was well, and he returned to the arms of his wife, and to sleep.

Across town, in his sister’s tiny apartment, where he had gone after his return to civilian life and where he slept under her bed, Armand Touton tried on his new uniform. He was a policeman now. He thought he looked mighty sharp in blue.

He did strike a handsome figure.

Before the bathroom mirror, the young veteran smacked his powerful right fist into the opposite palm, and smiled. Hard and fast—that’s the kind of cop he would be. Commando style. He vowed that no man would ever be braver.

In New York City, a traveller by the name of Count Jacques Dugé de Bernonville tried on a priest’s cassock. He was hoping that the disguise would allow him to cross the border into Quebec, for what would be more familiar in Quebec than a priest’s black robes? He had spent the war hunting down Jews in France to hand over to the Nazis, and torturing and shooting resistance fighters. He was now living the opposite life, on the run. A war criminal, they said. He did not know how there could be such a thing. A war was a war—how could any action be considered a crime? And yet, the war was obviously not finished for him. He had found no peace.

He was looking for a home.

Dressed as a priest, de Bernonville entered Quebec, where, he heard, many remained sympathetic, even loyal, to the true cause.