Paris: The Novel

sank.

    History gives no precise date for when the French Resistance began. In his three broadcasts of June 1940—on the eighteenth and nineteenth, anda longer broadcast, heard by many more people, on the twenty-second—de Gaulle called all military forces to the aid of their country, but made no mention of any internal resistance movement. Little of significance seems to have happened before 1941.
    But there was one man in France who believed he could say precisely when, and where, the Resistance began. And that was Thomas Gascon.
    Because he started it.
    Thomas Gascon’s defiance of Hitler and his regime began on the morning of Saturday, the twenty-second day of June, 1940. Hitler himself was hardly thirty miles to the north of Paris that day, at Compiègne, signing the new armistice in the very same railway carriage that had been used to sign the old armistice of 1918, so humiliating to Germany, that ended the Great War.
    “He will come to Paris,” Thomas remarked to Luc as they sat at a table outside the little bar near the Moulin Rouge.
    “We don’t know that.”
    “Of course we do. He’s just won the war. Paris is at his feet. Obviously he’ll come.”
    “Perhaps. But when?”
    “Tomorrow.” Thomas looked at Luc as if his brother was foolish. “He’s a busy man. He’s here. He’ll come tomorrow.”
    “And what of it?”
    “He’ll want to go up the Eiffel Tower.”
    “Probably.” Luc took out a Gauloise and lit it. “Most people do.”
    “Well, he’s not going up. He may have kicked our asses, but he’s not going to look down on Paris as if he owns it from the top of Monsieur Eiffel’s tower. I won’t allow it.”
    “You won’t?” Luc chuckled. “And how are you going to stop him?”
    “I’ve been thinking. It can be done. But I’ll need your help. Maybe a few other men too.”
    “You want me to attack Hitler?”
    “No. But if we can cut the elevator cables, then he can’t go up. Unless he wants to walk up, which would be humiliating, so he won’t do it.”
    “You’re nuts.”
    “I’m telling you, it can be done.”
    “Well, I won’t help you.”
    “I helped you once,” said Thomas, quietly.
    There was a moment of silence. In almost thirty years, Thomas had never made any reference to that terrible night when they had carried the girl’s body into the hill of Montmartre. Luc gazed at his brother, surprised, a little hurt, but cautious.
    “You saved my life, brother,” he answered softly. “It’s true. But why should I repay it by getting you killed?” He reached out and took his brother’s arm. “You’re not young anymore, Thomas. You’re over seventy-five, for God’s sake. If you don’t fall and break your neck, you’ll probably get arrested. And then the Germans will shoot you.”
    Thomas shrugged.
    “At my age,” remarked Thomas with a shrug, “what does it matter?”
    “Think of Édith.”
    It was amazing really, Luc thought, how little Thomas and Édith had changed. They both had gray hair, of course—not that Thomas had much hair left, just a few crinkles—and many lines on their faces, and some stiffness in the joints now and then, but his sturdy brother still took a two- or three-mile walk every day and insisted on managing the little bar, which he still did so well. Édith had given up running the restaurant some years ago, but with ten grandchildren to keep her busy, she was always on the go. She relied on Thomas though, in every way.
    Luc could imagine Thomas climbing the tower. He’d probably get some way up before he tired, or something went wrong. And he was quite sure his brother was entirely serious about his harebrained scheme. But he certainly wasn’t going to encourage him.
    “Even if there were time to organize such a thing, I’d say forget it,” he told him. “The answer’s no.”
    He went indoors for a few minutes. When he came back, Thomas had gone.

    It was quite a while since Thomas had walked into the Maquis. The whole of Montmartre had become more and more built up. Many of the old establishments were still there, even little bars like au Lapin Agile. But more and more they were turning into curiosities for visiting tourists. A little while ago, some enterprising fellows had taken a vacant lot on the backside of the hill and turned it into a vineyard, to commemorate the ancient vines and winemaking that had graced Montmartre in the centuriesbefore. The wine they made, so far at least, was quite undrinkable. But