him good health.
Kerner led the way to the meeting. They took several Metros, waited on line at a Gestapo Kontrol, eventually reached Courbevoie, just across the Seine from Neuilly but a separate municipality. They walked to the Hotel de Ville, the town hall, a complicated maze of bureaux with long lines outside offices that handled taxes, licenses, ration coupons, marriage certificates, stamps, and attestations for nearly everything-all the bureaucratic witchcraft of French existence. At the entry to the building, Kerner told him where he was to go, and then they said good- bye.
“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” Casson said.
“You’re welcome.” Very formally, they shook hands. Casson entered the building and climbed a staircase to the second floor. The halls were crowded, people everywhere; some wandering lost, some grimly determined, some glancing from the address on an official letter up at the titles on office doors. Is this it?
Finally, Casson found the Department of Birth Registry, shuffled through the line, gave his name as Marin, and was directed to a small office at the end of the hall. He opened the door, and there at the desk, in a dark suit, was a man he had known as Captain Degrave.
In May of 1940, when Casson was reactivated as a corporal in the Section Cinematographique of the Forty- fifth Division, Degrave had commanded the unit. They’d taken newsreel footage of the French defense of the fort at Sedan, then headed for the relative quiet of the Maginot line, only to find the roads made virtually impassable by refugees from the fighting in the north. On a fine May morning, in a field near Bouvellement, a Stuka dive-bomber had destroyed both their vehicles and their equipment, and Degrave had disbanded the unit, sending Casson south to Macon to wait out the end of the war at an isolated army barracks.
Wherever he’d been since that day, and whatever he’d done, Degrave was as Casson remembered him: a heavy, dark face, thinning hair, perhaps a little old for the rank of captain, with something sorrowful and stubborn in his character. Degrave had always been distant, a man not given to idle conversation. Still, they had served together under fire, in a blockhouse defending the French side of the river Meuse, and they were glad to see each other.
“So,” Degrave said as they shook hands, “we survived.”
“We did,” Casson said. “Somehow. What about Meneval?” Meneval had been the unit cameraman. Every day he’d called his wife from phones in village cafes.
“He returned safely to Paris.” Degrave smiled. “And to married life.”
“And then, you left the army?”
“I’m with the Office of Public Works, now, in Vichy. We’re responsible for the maintenance of roads, bridges, that kind of thing.”
“In the ZNO?”
“Yes, but we have projects in the German-administered region as well.”
Such as hiding film producers in Neuilly apartments, Casson thought.
Degrave put a packet of Gitanes on the table. “Please,” he said, “help yourself.” Casson took one and lit it, so did Degrave. From the offices around them they could hear a steady murmur of conversation.
Degrave shook out the match. “In fact, I remain what I always was, a captain in the army, and an intelligence officer.”
Casson thought that over, recalling what the unit had done. “Was the work we did-an intelligence mission of some kind?”
“Yes and no. It wasn’t clandestine, but in time of war there is a great need for documentation. It was a job I, well, the truth is they stuck me with it. You know France, you know bureaucracy, you know politics, so you will understand how I got sent off to make newsreels of forts on the Meuse. In the end it didn’t matter, we lost the war. But life goes on, and some of us continue to serve.”
“With de Gaulle?”
Degrave’s no was emphatic. “The public works office is a cover organization. We have reassembled the former Service des Renseignements, the intelligence service-the operational arm of the Deuxieme Bureau.”
Degrave waited for a response, Casson nodded.
“As for de Gaulle, and the Gaullist resistance, of course we support their objectives. But they are based in London, they exist on British goodwill and British money. And they have close ties- maybe too close-with British intelligence, whereas our service acts solely in the interest of France. That may sound like a fine distinction, but it can make a difference, sometimes a crucial difference. Anyhow, the reason I’m telling you all this is that we want to offer you a job. Certainly difficult, probably dangerous. How would you feel about that?”
Casson shrugged. He had no idea how he felt. “Is it something I can do?”
“We wouldn’t ask if we didn’t think so.”
“What is it?”
“Liaison. Not the traditional form, but close enough.”
“Liaison,” Casson said.
“You would work for me.”
Casson hesitated. “I suspect you know I was involved with espionage. In the first year of the war. It was a disaster. One factory was burnt down, but British agents were arrested, and a friend of mine was killed.”
“Did the factory need to be burnt down?”
“It made war material for the Germans.”
“Then maybe it wasn’t a disaster, maybe getting the job done simply cost more than you felt it should.”
Casson had never thought of it that way. “Maybe,” he said.
“Tell me this, do you have a family? Are there people who depend on you?”
“No. I’m alone.”
“Well,” Degrave said. The word hung in the air, it meant then what do you have to lose? “You can turn us down right away, or you can think it over. Personally, I’d appreciate your doing at least that.”
“All right.”
Degrave looked down. “The sad truth is,” he said quietly, “a country can’t survive unless people fight for it.”
“I know.”
“You’ll think it over, then. Take an hour. More, if you like.”
There was no point in waiting an hour. He took the job; he didn’t have it in his heart to refuse.
Casson walked for a long time, his worldly goods in the brown-paper package under his arm. Degrave had given him a few hundred francs and the name of a hotel, and told him he would be contacted.
He crossed the Seine on the pont de Levallois. Barges moved slowly on the steel-colored water, swastika flags flapping in the autumn breeze. Leaning on the parapet, a few old men fished for barbel with bamboo poles. There was a market street at the foot of the bridge; long lines started at the doors and wound around the corners. Some of the windows had Entreprise Juive painted in white letters, two or three had been smashed, the shattered glass glittering on the floors of the empty shops. On the walls of the buildings, the Germans had posted proclamations: “All acts of violence and sabotage will be punished with the utmost severity. Acts of sabotage are held to include any damage to crops or military installations, as well as the defacing of posters belonging to the occupying powers.” An old poster, Casson saw, dated June of 1940, the heavy print faded in the sun and rain. Newer versions promised death for a long list of violations and, Casson noted with regret, they had not been “defaced”-no cartoons, no slogans.
There was a cafe across the street, he sat at the bar and ordered a glass of wine. Je m’en fous, he thought, fuck it. He didn’t want to fight. He wanted to hide, that was the truth. Find a woman, crawl up into some garret, and wait for the war to end.
He drank the wine, it burned his throat going down. “What is it?” he asked the man behind the bar.
“Sidi Larbi, fourteen percent. From Algeria. Care for another?”
“All right.”
Degrave had been a good officer, up on the Meuse. And when it was clear that the German tanks would cross the river, his friends on the general staff had pulled them out. He owed his life to Degrave.
He paid the bill and headed west, toward the 17th. It was almost dark. It had been gray all afternoon, the autumn grisaille settled down on the stone city. Now, just at dusk, the sun came out, lighting fires in the clouds on the horizon as it set.
