Wild Lavender (47 page)

The flame of French resistance must not be quenched and will not be quenched.

Tears welled in my eyes. My chin trembled. We had not been forgotten. There was a leader, someone who still believed in France. Resist? Of course I would resist, and with my last breath! But how? How would I find these people who still wanted to fight for France?

I got out of the
métro
at Solférino, so buoyant with joy that I ran up the stairs. We have not been forgotten, I told myself. Nothing is lost for France.

‘Mademoiselle Fleurier!’ a man’s voice called out. I stopped, uncertain if I had heard my name or not. The accent was German. I turned around. Standing behind me were the two officers who had been sitting near me on the train. They were holding up a camera.

‘Please,’ said the taller of the two men, ‘we would like a photograph with the famous Mademoiselle Fleurier.’

Of course, I cursed, the Germans would know who I was. I had refused to perform in Berlin after I had heard the stories about the treatment of Jewish people from Renoir and Count Kessler, but the Germans would have known me from my films and my records.

A crowd of people gathered around, keen to see what was going on. The officer repeated his request. ‘Please, Mademoiselle Fleurier. A picture with you.’

I did not want to have my picture taken with German soldiers. My personal feelings aside, what if it appeared in one of the propaganda newspapers?
Simone Fleurier welcomes Officer Berlekamp and Officer Pätz to Paris.
I used the Parisian approach and pretended that I couldn’t understand the question, although the officer spoke reasonable French. Unfortunately, a woman in the crowd decided that she would be helpful. ‘They want to have their picture taken with you,’ she said.

The officer held out his camera, teasing me with his smile. I lifted my chin.

‘You want a picture of Simone Fleurier?’ I said. ‘Then take a picture of this.’

I turned my back on him and walked through the crowd. A couple of people gasped, the rest remained silent and
moved out of my way. As I approached the corner I noticed a man leaning against a post, holding a newssheet. His eyes burned into me for a few seconds before he turned away. Did I read his message correctly? He seemed to be saying, ‘Bravo, Mademoiselle Fleurier. Bravo.’

It was a foolish act of resistance that wouldn’t change anything and, if the German authorities heard about it, would only get me into trouble. Yet it gave me satisfaction every time I thought about it. I was still buoyed by the memory of my defiance when I took the dogs for a walk a few days later. I was also pleased to have found out that Monsieur Etienne had not returned to Paris. Perhaps he and the others had gone to the farm after all. From there, I trusted that Bernard would assist them to leave the country.

Since Pétain’s capitulation on our behalf, France had been divided into two zones. The northern part, including Paris, was run by the Germans. They claimed that they needed it to launch their attack on Britain. The southern part was to be administrated by Pétain and his Vichy government. Although the south was technically ‘Unoccupied France’, it was clear that Pétain was a puppet of Hitler. Correspondence was restricted over the demarcation line. There was no way I could explain to Bernard about Monsieur Etienne and his family. From Paris you could only send a form and tick the boxes to set answers: I am well; I am okay; I am not so well. All I could do was pray that everything would be all right.

I took my route towards the Seine. My heart leapt when I saw that the poster of the German soldier with the children had been scrawled over with a painted message:

Beware, Nazi assassins! We will overcome you!

‘We will,’ I whispered to my unseen kindred spirit. ‘We will.’

I returned to the apartment building in good spirits, feeling more vigour than I had in weeks. I was about to run up the stairs with the dogs when Madame Goux darted out of her office. Her face was flushed and her pupils were black buttons in her grey eyes. At first I thought she was excited about the task I had given her of copying out General de Gaulle’s speech. I was intending to slip the notes into newssheets and other places French people would find them. But when she approached me I saw that she was pale and trembling.

‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ she whispered in a hoarse voice. ‘There are two men in your apartment. I tried to keep them downstairs but they refused to wait in the foyer. They wouldn’t tell me who they were.’

I tried to think who might come and visit me, but there seemed no reason why anyone I knew would not declare themselves to my concierge. ‘Are they French or German?’ I asked.

‘French, but sinister-looking,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t trust them.’

It sounded like a serious visit. But if the Germans were upset about my treatment of their officers or my failure to register with the Propagandastaffel, wouldn’t they send their own men?

‘I’ll leave Princesse and Charlot with you,’ I told Madame Goux. ‘But I’ll keep Bruno with me.’

The door to my apartment was open and as I approached I could see the two men sitting on the sofa. One was petite and peaky-looking; the other was older with pouches under his eyes and slicked-back grey hair.

As soon as he saw me, the younger of the two men leapt up and moved in my direction. Madame Goux had been right: there was something vicious in his bony face. His eyes narrowed on Bruno.

‘You can leave the dog outside,’ he said.

My pulse raced. I wasn’t about to be ordered around my own apartment. ‘Bruno is never left outside,’ I said, surprised
at the calmness in my voice. ‘He becomes agitated if he is separated from me.’

A look of irritation flashed across the man’s face. The older man stood up. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘But keep him on the lead.’

Something about the clinical tone of his voice made me shudder. The young man closed the door behind me. I heard the lock click. The older man sat down again in an armchair, but his eyes never left me.

‘We have been sent by the Propagandastaffel to find out why you haven’t registered,’ the young man said, moving to the sofa and taking some papers out of a briefcase he had propped beside it. ‘Then your concierge explained that you have been ill. Never mind, we have all the necessary forms here for you to fill in.’

As neither man had introduced himself, I invented names for them. The younger one I called Mouse because of the way his body twitched with nervous energy. The older man I called the Judge because of the way he held his chin and kept his hands folded on his knees. He emanated authority, yet seemed content to listen while the first man talked.

Mouse thrust some forms at me. ‘We will wait here while you sign them,’ he said. ‘It will save you making the trip to the Propagandastaffel.’

I sensed that my future might depend on how I behaved with these two men. I knew that the music halls and theatres were opening up again, but I had no intention of performing for the occupation army. How could I express that in a way that wouldn’t have me thrown into prison?

‘I don’t think it is necessary in my case,’ I said.

Mouse’s face grew taut. ‘Not necessary?’ he asked. ‘All your colleagues have cooperated. Why should an exception be made for you?’

The animosity in his voice chilled me. He was seething with it.

It was a crucial moment. If I was to be useful in any way to those willing to fight for France, I knew that I had to
behave more astutely than I had a few days before. If I was going to take risks then they had to count for something.

‘I am not intending to perform any more,’ I said. ‘I have retired.’

The Judge raised his eyebrows.

‘I am exhausted,’ I explained. ‘I am too tired to perform. And I have not been well.’

‘I see,’ said Mouse, nodding politely but without warmth. ‘But that doesn’t really help us with the other problem.’

‘What other problem?’ I asked.

Mouse folded his arms across his chest. ‘We have checked your records. And what we have found is not very commendable. You refused to perform in Berlin and you have had close relationships with two anti-Nazis.’

I assumed that he was referring to Count Kessler and Jean Renoir. So the Germans had been spying on me? Bruno yawned. He was surprisingly calm in the face of Mouse’s interrogation; normally he barked if anyone raised their voice at me. Once, on one of our walks, a paper seller had shoved a newssheet at me and screamed out the headline. Bruno had nearly taken the man’s arm off.

Mouse stood up and circled the room. ‘The Deuxième Bureau kept tabs on anyone who was crossing borders frequently. Unfortunately, when they fled the city they left some sensitive files behind. One of them was yours.’

I stared at him in disbelief. The Deuxième Bureau was the French secret service. I had been watched by my own country! Furthermore, they had been stupid enough to leave my file behind while they fled to save their own hides.

Mouse completed his circle of the room and came to a stop before me. I sensed that he was enjoying every moment of the tension.

‘You see, Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said, bringing his face close to mine, ‘you are not really in a position to be antagonising anyone. You are Paris’s most famous performer. The French need your light more than ever. The Germans need you too, to rally the people to collaborate.’

On the radio, the word ‘collaborate’ had a positive ring. But to me it sounded worse than the filthiest curse. I would rather die than collaborate. But Mouse had done his job: he had thrown me off balance.

‘I will not rally to the Nazi cause,’ I said. ‘Nor will I encourage anyone else to. I will not align myself with murderers.’

The men exchanged glances. I was courting disaster but my feelings were out in the open now. If I was going to be thrown into gaol, then I was determined to go down kicking and screaming. If the French people were to receive any message from me about collaboration, it would be to fight to the death against it.

‘That is not a very cooperative attitude,’ said the Judge, brushing a speck of dust off his trousers.

‘And you,’ I said, pointing at him, ‘you are a failure of a man! A Frenchman! You should be fighting for your country. Not kissing the feet of the Germans.’

Mouse moved towards me but Bruno growled and bared his teeth. Mouse leapt back.

‘Get out of my apartment now!’ I shouted. ‘The both of you!’

To my disconcertment, neither man moved. Now what should I do? Call Madame Goux to get her gun? Then a strange thing happened: Mouse and the Judge seemed to transform before my eyes. Mouse’s face relaxed and his focus softened. He began to look less like a mouse and more like a rabbit. The Judge seemed to grow taller and sprightlier. The two men exchanged a smile, a good-humoured smile—something I would have thought was beyond them.

The Judge shook his head. ‘She is too fiery and bigmouthed,’ he said to Mouse. ‘I warned you that entertainers are overly emotional. What if she starts talking like that to the Germans?’

Mouse shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can teach her to be more discreet. What is most important is that we can have no doubt whose side she is on.’

The Judge lifted his palms in resignation. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We don’t have much time and much choice.’

Mouse turned to me. So quickly had his expression changed that I wondered if I was suffering from a hallucination. I sank down onto the sofa.

‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ Mouse said, sitting down next to me, ‘we can’t give you our real names but we are from the Deuxième Bureau not the Propagandastaffel
.
It is true that your file was left behind, but I can assure you that I have amended most of it and destroyed the rest, though possibly not with the same level of imagination you used to get rid of your Propagandastaffel notice.’

So he knew about that too? Had he gone so far as to rifle through my rubbish bins? When they said that they weren’t from the Propagandastaffel, I could believe them. But wasn’t the Deuxième Bureau now part of the Vichy government?

‘Well, let us say that we have defected,’ explained Mouse. ‘And that we need your help. We need to get out of France to join General de Gaulle in England.’

My skin tingled with the sound of the general’s name. I had wondered how I was ever going to find the people who were willing to fight against the Germans. As it turned out, they had come to me.

‘If that is your mission then I am at your service,’ I told them. ‘I pledge myself to General de Gaulle.’

Mouse turned to the Judge, who nodded, then looked back to me. ‘We need to get to the south so we can leave France either by boat or via the Pyrenees. We can get forged papers for ourselves and change identities, but it will still be difficult to get across the demarcation line, especially with our “parcels”. But if we could travel in the employment of someone who might have a good reason to be going to the south of France, say to perform there, it would be easier.’

He gave the word ‘parcels’ a particular kind of emphasis but my mind was racing too far ahead to focus on it. ‘You mean I could employ you both as my manager and my artistic director, for instance?’ I suggested.

Mouse grinned. ‘Exactly.’

After some discussion it was agreed that I should arrange to travel to Marseilles with a view to seeking out venues to stage a performance there. It would involve registering with the Propagandastaffel and seeming to cooperate with the Germans in other ways. But now that I was working in the interests of saving France, those things didn’t matter as much. The Judge told me that he would make the arrangements for the following Wednesday. All I needed to do was to seek permission to travel, which he expected would be granted now that he had replaced my file with a more acceptable one.

Before they left, the Judge turned to me. ‘Mademoiselle Fleurier,’ he said, ‘I have to warn you that the Germans will shoot anyone who aids the Resistance. But the Vichy government has an even more gruesome deterrent. They behead anyone involved in subversive activities.
With an axe
.’

He was testing my resolve, trying to gauge my level of fear. Later, when I got to know him better, I would understand that he was also making sure that I understood the ultimate price of what I was committing myself to. But I was not frightened; my mind was clear and calm. I thought of all the great moments in my life—my first appearance on stage, my leading role at the Adriana, the success of my first movie. None of them compared to this. This was not a performance. This was something much more important.