his gaze. ‘I’ve come to report a crime.’
Chapter 10
R aoul watched the side door into the Café des Deux Gares from the Jardin des Plantes, checking there was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign that the premises were being watched, no unusual activity. A few down-and-outs were sitting on the stone steps surrounding the bust of Omer Sarraut, with their rough cigarettes and dark, sharp eyes. The bronze around the fountain was long gone, melted down for metal during the war.
Once he was certain it was safe, Raoul walked quickly across the road and into the narrow alley that ran alongside the café. He knocked on the door, three sharp taps, pause; three sharp taps, pause; then another three sharp taps. He glanced uneasily down the alley, then in the opposite direction, as he waited for the sound of footsteps behind the door.
‘ Oui? ’
‘It’s me.’
The rattle of the chain and the key being turned in the lock, then César opened up.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Wanted to catch you before the meeting.’
‘Come in, I’m not quite finished,’ César said, pulling him inside and shutting the door. ‘Five minutes.’
Raoul followed César down a set of steps to the basement. César flicked on a dim red ceiling lamp, then closed the door.
The darkroom was well stocked, a legacy from the days before the war when the pressmen had developed their pictures here to wire to the Parisian papers. There were bottles of developing fluid, clearly labelled, an enlarger and a dryer for prints. Pegged to the wire above the wooden counter Raoul saw a row of black and white photographs of the camps at Argelès and Collioure. He recognised the coastline, swampland, the air black with mosquitoes. After France’s surrender in June 1940, Raoul had spent several weeks travelling between the camps in Collioure, Saint-Cyprien, Rivesaltes, Argelès, helping Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade. The photos triggered many painful, broken memories.
‘How did you get hold of these?’ he said quietly.
‘Smuggled out by the Croix-Rouge women,’ César replied.
‘Brave of them.’
César nodded. ‘Yes.’
The photographs had obviously been taken illegally – the angles were odd, the definition blurred and out of focus – but the story they told was clear. Emaciated women and men, children, standing behind barbed-wire fences, staring out at the camera. Raoul looked along the line of prints, his eye drawn by a smaller photograph showing the sign that hung at the entrance to the camp at Argelès: CAMP DE CONCENTRATION D’ARGELÈS .
His eyes hardened. ‘You know the worst of it? That it’s French soldiers policing these camps. Doing Hitler’s work for him. That’s the truth of Vichy’s “ voie de collaboration ”.’
César nodded as he tidied the bench. ‘I’ll print the tracts tonight,’ he said. ‘Machines are too noisy now, too many people around.’
‘These are excellent, César.’
He shrugged. ‘Best I could do. Make people realise what’s going on, not that most of them care.’
‘Some do,’ said Raoul.
‘You’ve heard the latest? For every Nazi killed by the Resistance in Paris, they’re executing ten Frenchmen.’
‘I heard a hundred.’
César shook his head. ‘And yet everyone walks around with their eyes shut, grateful to be in the so-called “free” zone. People still think things could be worse.’
Raoul put his hand on César’s shoulder. ‘That’s why we’re trying to change their minds. Make them understand. Your tracts, the papers we put out, these photographs, all of it makes a difference.’
César gave a long, deep sigh. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘Attitudes are changing,’ Raoul said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘People are starting to realise. More people are starting to support us.’
For a moment they were silent. Then César flicked off the light. ‘You go first,’ he said. ‘I’ll come out the front. See you in the rue de
Chapter 10
R aoul watched the side door into the Café des Deux Gares from the Jardin des Plantes, checking there was nothing out of the ordinary. No sign that the premises were being watched, no unusual activity. A few down-and-outs were sitting on the stone steps surrounding the bust of Omer Sarraut, with their rough cigarettes and dark, sharp eyes. The bronze around the fountain was long gone, melted down for metal during the war.
Once he was certain it was safe, Raoul walked quickly across the road and into the narrow alley that ran alongside the café. He knocked on the door, three sharp taps, pause; three sharp taps, pause; then another three sharp taps. He glanced uneasily down the alley, then in the opposite direction, as he waited for the sound of footsteps behind the door.
‘ Oui? ’
‘It’s me.’
The rattle of the chain and the key being turned in the lock, then César opened up.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Wanted to catch you before the meeting.’
‘Come in, I’m not quite finished,’ César said, pulling him inside and shutting the door. ‘Five minutes.’
Raoul followed César down a set of steps to the basement. César flicked on a dim red ceiling lamp, then closed the door.
The darkroom was well stocked, a legacy from the days before the war when the pressmen had developed their pictures here to wire to the Parisian papers. There were bottles of developing fluid, clearly labelled, an enlarger and a dryer for prints. Pegged to the wire above the wooden counter Raoul saw a row of black and white photographs of the camps at Argelès and Collioure. He recognised the coastline, swampland, the air black with mosquitoes. After France’s surrender in June 1940, Raoul had spent several weeks travelling between the camps in Collioure, Saint-Cyprien, Rivesaltes, Argelès, helping Bruno’s former comrades in the International Brigade. The photos triggered many painful, broken memories.
‘How did you get hold of these?’ he said quietly.
‘Smuggled out by the Croix-Rouge women,’ César replied.
‘Brave of them.’
César nodded. ‘Yes.’
The photographs had obviously been taken illegally – the angles were odd, the definition blurred and out of focus – but the story they told was clear. Emaciated women and men, children, standing behind barbed-wire fences, staring out at the camera. Raoul looked along the line of prints, his eye drawn by a smaller photograph showing the sign that hung at the entrance to the camp at Argelès: CAMP DE CONCENTRATION D’ARGELÈS .
His eyes hardened. ‘You know the worst of it? That it’s French soldiers policing these camps. Doing Hitler’s work for him. That’s the truth of Vichy’s “ voie de collaboration ”.’
César nodded as he tidied the bench. ‘I’ll print the tracts tonight,’ he said. ‘Machines are too noisy now, too many people around.’
‘These are excellent, César.’
He shrugged. ‘Best I could do. Make people realise what’s going on, not that most of them care.’
‘Some do,’ said Raoul.
‘You’ve heard the latest? For every Nazi killed by the Resistance in Paris, they’re executing ten Frenchmen.’
‘I heard a hundred.’
César shook his head. ‘And yet everyone walks around with their eyes shut, grateful to be in the so-called “free” zone. People still think things could be worse.’
Raoul put his hand on César’s shoulder. ‘That’s why we’re trying to change their minds. Make them understand. Your tracts, the papers we put out, these photographs, all of it makes a difference.’
César gave a long, deep sigh. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘Attitudes are changing,’ Raoul said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘People are starting to realise. More people are starting to support us.’
For a moment they were silent. Then César flicked off the light. ‘You go first,’ he said. ‘I’ll come out the front. See you in the rue de
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