Paris: The Novel

operatives, she had taken a code name. “Let them call me Corinne,” she had said. But in the early months, the sort of material she had been able to give him, though useful, was not sensitive. He knew all the officers who came to her establishment, their duties, and sometimes more. It was all excellent background for the future, and he passed it on to Colonel Rémy’s network. Occasionally she had come up with something which could be used locally—for attacks on Germans, or the sabotage of a goods train here and there. This information he passed on to Max Le Sourd and his boys. He did not think any of this information could have been traced to her.
    In hiding a Jewish child, however, Louise had crossed a line. Had she been discovered, she would have been arrested. And what would have happened to little Esmé then? Would he have been able to claim him? Perhaps. But doing so, at such a moment, would have invited suspicion. Sooner or later, Louise might place herself in danger again. Despite her earlier insistence on keeping Esmé all to herself, Charlie felt he had to challenge her.
    “Don’t you think it’s time we told my father he has a grandson, and sent Esmé down to the château where he would be safe?” he suggested. But she still wouldn’t hear of it.
    “I’m not giving away my child,” she told him. “Never.” And no arguments, however reasonable, would sway her.
    Meanwhile, very gradually, news came through that brought hope. Soon after the rescue of little Laïla, a brave Canadian and British force attacked the coastal town of Dieppe in northern France. The attack was a disaster, yet Charlie took comfort from it for two reasons.
    “In the first place,” he remarked to his father, “it proves that the Allies can strike back and rescue France. And secondly, the fact that the hidden German gun emplacements caught them unawares at Dieppe proves to Churchill and de Gaulle that the French Resistance, not just the Free French Forces outside the country, but the fellows here on the ground will be critical to their success.”
    In the east, as the weeks went by, word came that the Germans were held at Stalingrad. Then in November, from North Africa, came the wonderful news that Montgomery had smashed the German Afrika Korps at El Alamein, and chased them all the way back to Tunisia. In the Pacific, the Americans had already decisively defeated the Japanese fleet at Midway back in June. By the end of 1942, therefore, on every major front, there seemed to be signs that the tide of war could be turning.
    In Paris, Charlie had plenty to occupy his mind. The Resistance movement was growing. In the southern Vichy zone, people were referring to the Resistance as the Maquis—since that was the wild bush terrain in the mountains where the guerrilla groups were forming—and soon Resistance fighters all over France were being called
maquisards
. But what really mattered now, Charlie thought, was that they were being properly organized.
    In the spring of 1943, soon after the joyful news that the Germanshad finally surrendered at Stalingrad, another important development occurred.
    “There’s been a big meeting in Paris,” Charlie told his father. “De Gaulle’s right-hand man, Jean Moulin, was there. People came from all over France. They’ve coordinated all the Resistance networks, and they’ve pledged allegiance to de Gaulle.” He smiled. “When, eventually, the Allies come to rescue France, we shall have an entire Resistance army ready to help them.” He grinned. “You will be glad to know that the network set up by Colonel Rémy took the name the Confrérie Notre-Dame. As good Catholics, we place ourselves under the protection of the Virgin.”
    His father smiled.
    “I shall pray to the Blessed Virgin to keep watch over you when you are out with our communist friends as well,” he remarked.
    “Please do, Father.”

    Charlie was always grateful that Max Le Sourd let him take part in his operations. He hated to be doing nothing, and the communist Resistance didn’t mind accepting help from any political quarter.
    “I’ve made you an honorary communist,” Max had told him wryly.
    Max’s men were a loose-knit group, drawn from several parts of the city. Charlie never knew exactly how many men there were. There were the Dalou boys from up on Montmartre. Sometimes old Thomas Gascon came out with them, especially if there was any work that required dismantling bridges or railway couplings.