Chapter 13
The Sainte Marianne
Most people see what they wish to see,
or what they believe they should see;
not what is really there.
- Zo‘ Marriott
The car rattled along the dirt roads as it sped through the countryside heading east. Marianne and AriŽle were gagged, their hands tied behind their backs, and jammed into the back seat with one of the uniformed French policemen and a plainclothes security officer. One of the Vichy policemen was driving, and the other sat in the front. The second car containing the other security officers had followed them for a while, but turned south a short time before, heading for Lyon. AriŽle was crying at first, but soon just burrowed against her mother for comfort.
In less than two hours they entered the small village of La Guiche and finally stopped before an imposing looking building situated on a terraced hillside overlooking the small valley. As they entered the courtyard, Marianne could see the sign, “Le Sanatorium de La Guiche.” It sent a chill of horror down her spine, but she tried to not show her fear in front of AriŽle.
The car came to a stop beside a stone wall below the main building complex, and the passenger in the front seat got out, moved to the door, and opened it.
“Sortir maintenant! - Get out, now!” he demanded. As Marianne tried to slide over to the door she was grabbed by the arm and dragged out, stumbling as she exited the car. AriŽle was pulled out as well and told to stand still.
These men are not Germans, Marianne kept replaying over in her head, even though they spoke little on the drive from Chantelle. She had heard the stories of French collaborators, but it was all too difficult to accept that her own countrymen would be doing the bidding of the Germans so easily.
“De cette faon! - That way!” the smaller of the two policemen demanded, and shoved them in the direction of a flight of stairs to the left of the courtyard leading up to the building. The taller man led the way up the stairs, walking with a slight limp. Marianne could see he was missing a small piece of his right ear lobe. Funny, she thought to herself, that such a thing would catch her attention at a time like this. The short one prodded her in the back with a small baton as she walked, and she felt her anger rise. Keep calm, she told herself, keep calm.
At the top of the stairs they were met by a uniformed attendant who turned and spoke to the taller man in a low tone Marianne could not hear. The policeman began to speak in an angry voice, and became very animated although still she could not make out the conversation. The attendant appeared to acquiesce, and turned, walking back into the building. They were prodded by the short one to follow.
Once inside, they were led down a long hall. It was cold and damp in the building, the walls a dirty painted plaster. It smelled of alcohol, urine, and harsh cleaning chemicals. The air was rancid and foul, and AriŽle began to cough as she struggled to breath with the gag still in place. At the end of the hall, they were pushed into a small anteroom, and told to sit on the wooden bench against the wall.
No sooner had the door closed behind them, with the one-eared French policeman standing guard, then a side door opened and a tall man in a white coat and thin-rimmed glasses entered the room, agitated.
“What is this? Who are these women, and why are you here at my office?” he demanded. “If these two are infected, they should be taken through the ward entrance.”
“Docteur Gerard,” the one-eared man began, “I have orders to detain these two women until further notice at your facility.”
“Orders? Under what authority?” he snapped back.
One-Ear produced a document and handed it to the man in the white coat, what Marianne perceived was likely the medical supervisor. He examined the paper, and obviously unhappy with what he read, simply spat, “Incroyable! - Incredible!” and turned and strode back through the door, slamming it behind him.
Shortly, two small rude-looking attendants showed up with the short policeman and moved Marianne and AriŽle out of the foyer and back up the hall. They were ushered up a staircase, through a barred doorway, and finally shoved into a room that looked more like a barracks, with rude beds along the windowed side. The windows were barred. Seven inmates were housed in the barracks, bedridden. Several were obviously ill, and the acrid smell of urine and vomit permeated the room. It was hard for the two of them not to wretch from the smell.
The policeman untied the gags from their mouths and removed the handcuffs. AriŽle grabbed onto her mother for safety.
“You,” one of the attendants gave Marianne a shove in the back, “this is your bunk. You will stay here until I come back for you. You,” and he motioned to AriŽle who instinctively drew back from him even closer toward her mother, “you will come with me,” and he grabbed her by the arm and began to pull her away.
“Momma!” She cried out and grabbed for Marianne. Marianne reached out for her, and demanded, “You leave her alone. She will stay with me!” She tried to push her way between the small attendant and AriŽle. At that moment, she was struck violently in the side of the head by the one-eared policeman, and fell to the floor, unconscious.
“Momma - non, momma!” AriŽle cried out as she was grabbed and dragged out of the room, fighting as she was led away. It was a harsh blessing that Marianne, lying bleeding and unconscious on the floor, could not hear the fearful cries of her daughter.
R
Present Day
I checked into Hotel de Paris on the quay at Courseulles. I planned to make this my base of operations as I expanded my research, and made a point of talking up my project to anyone and everyone in the commune, hoping to get some sort of break in my search for Antoine Bouchard.
“Pardon, monsieur. Et vu l’Americain, M. Hewitt?” The older gentleman had entered the restaurant and spoken briefly with the owner who had pointed him in my direction. He carried a plain vanilla envelope.
“Oui, C’est moi,” I replied.
“Monsieur, my name is Gaston Marklin, I am the harbor master of Courseulles. I may have some information for you. May I join you?”
“Please. Asseyes vous.” He sat in the opposite chair and signaled to the waiter who promptly brought a glass of wine.
“You are researching activity here in Courseulles during the invasion. The mayor says you are looking for a specific person, a person who he says has no records here at all, yet appears to have been here during that time.”
“Yes, that is so. I am afraid I am having little luck trying to connect a certain Antoine Bouchard with Courseulles, even though a packet of letters between him and my grandfather were found here not long ago that contains quite specific references to this village, and especially the port. They indicate he operated a fishing boat.” I kept other details to myself, at least for the moment.
“Perhaps I may have a clue for you. In 1994 we celebrated the 50th anniversary of the D-Day landings. I had just taken the position of harbor master. The village was crowded with hundreds of Canadian and British soldiers and their families, many of whom fought here in 1944.”
He settled back and took a deep sip of his wine.
“I was approached by a man who as a young seaman had served aboard a British submarine. He said his submarine had routinely rendezvoused with a small fishing boat in the English Channel between November 1943 and May 1944 to collect information from the resistance on German installations and troop dispositions in the Normandy area. Once he was allowed on deck to help collect a packet, and he saw the name on the boat. It was called the ‘Marianne.’”
Marianne! That name jumped out at me from across the decades. Marianne - Antoine’s wife, who he sent away to safety with their daughter, AriŽle. Who he married in the chapel at Pont-Aven.
R
Normandy, 1942
Monsieur Le Collette noticed the vessel tied to the quay outside of the lock. Before the occupation, vessels routinely changed ports following the schools of fish from the Bay of Biscay around the peninsula to the Bay of the Seine. With tightened security checks the arrival of a new vessel in Courseulles-sur-Mer was becoming rare.
He opened the office of the harbor master late this morning. The tides were not favorable to early departures so the boats heading for the fishing grounds offshore left the harbor the night before. Courseulles-sur-Mer sits at the mouth of the Seulles River. Where the river enters the Bay of the Seine it falls over a rocky reach that is exposed at low tide. A lock had been built that holds the high water level within an estuary that extends south of the river mouth. Around this artificial harbor was the commune of Courseulles. The top of the lock forms a bridge from one side of the narrow harbor to the other. At high tide, fishing boats could simply tie up along the eastern edge of the quay and offload their catch. At low tide they could be stranded in the mud unless they traversed the lock into the basin.
However, once inside they were at the whim of the rising and falling tides and had to carefully time their arrivals and departures to maximize their time at sea. Along the Norman coast tides could often rise over 10 meters (32 feet) and piloting a vessel in these waters, with their high winds and strong currents, taxed the skill of many a sailor.
The harbor master controlled the locks. Le Collette therefore controlled the livelihood of Courseulles.
Antoine Bouchard had crossed the English Channel at night without lights and at half-throttle to avoid detection by the German E-boats that patrolled the coastline operating out of Cherbourg and Le Havre. The reduced speed made for a slow and uncomfortable crossing as the St. Marianne rolled in the heavy cross swell without the added power to push through the waves. By morning he was exhausted, and glad for the low tide that allowed him time to sleep before the harbor master came on duty.
Antoine rose, prepared coffee, and sat back to await the arrival of the harbor master. He remained on board, as was the custom when arriving in a new port.
Le Collette approached the St. Marianne just after 8:00 a.m. The authority of the harbor master extended to any vessel registered in port, or tied up within the lock. By custom, he would not approach a vessel unless the captain or crew indicated they wanted to offload cargo or catch or enter the port, or just before the locks were to open. Despite the occupation, the country was still largely administered by the French and subject to French law and customs.
“Bonjour, Capitaine,” he called out as he stepped to the edge of the quay. He remained dockside, also the custom. Despite his quasi-police powers granted by the new “enlightened administration” of France that permitted him to board and search at his discretion, this was still a small port. He knew his position, and perhaps his life, could be at risk by displaying too heavy a hand unless backed by the Gestapo in Caen. Courseulles was a mere 18 kilometers from Caen, and the Gestapo could be called upon for assistance in relatively short order if necessary. So far he had not needed them, much to his relief.
“Bonjour. Je suis Capitaine Charbonneau of the fishing vessel St. Marianne. I request permission to enter the harbor.”
The routine was somewhat formal, oddly so given the strong working class nature of the fishing fleet. The custom had survived unchanged for centuries. The difference - now a vessel’s registration papers and the crew’s identity papers were required to be available at all times. To be caught without papers could mean an immediate arrest. A boat without proper documentation could be confiscated.
This was the first time Bouchard had used his assumed name, given to him along with a forged set of identity and vessel papers by British Intelligence in Portsmouth. In exchange for Colonel Remy and the stolen map of the Atlantic Wall, SIS had purchased and repainted the St. Justine, giving the vessel the new name, St. Marianne. They gave the boat to Bouchard in exchange for “certain favors” in the coming months. To further complete the ruse, the deck gear had been completely changed. Even De Rosier would have a hard time identifying the St. Marianne as his former boat.
“Permission to come aboard?” the harbor master answered back.
“Granted.” With that Bouchard braced for his first security check with the forged papers. He knew that if the harbor master saw anything unusual he had nowhere to hide. His fate rested on the quality of those forgeries.
“Everything is in order, Capitaine. Consider yourself registered,” Le Collette answered as he wrote the pertinent information in a small notebook. He did not have to ask for the St. Marianne’s port of debarkation. Under the occupation, a vessel’s owner had to be cleared at his previous anchorage by the local harbor master, his papers stamped, and his subsequent destination recorded at the port of origin. Communication between the small ports was marginal at best, and immediate verification was next to impossible. This method ensured a clear administrative path for a vessel to change ports, or put into a ‘foreign’ port while at sea for repair, rest, or to offload a catch. It also allowed the forger’s craft to bypass the security apparatus. It worked.
“I have repairs to make, and need to lay up for a few days.” This was a lie, but a realistic one that would allow Bouchard time to familiarize himself with the surrounding countryside, contact the SIS operative in Caen, and not draw any unwanted attention to himself for remaining in port.
“The lock will be open until 10:00, Capitaine. There is room alongside the quay behind the trawler Remage. I will register you there. It is close to both the chandlery and bakery.”
With that the harbor master turned and stepped back on the quay.
“Will you be of any further need for my services, Capitaine?”
“Non, c’est tout - that is all.”
“Welcome to Courseulles, Capitaine. Je suis ‡ votre service - I am at your service.”
Antoine Bouchard finished securing the St. Marianne to the quay and went below deck and poured himself a cup of very bad coffee. Marianne made the best coffee he had ever tasted, he thought to himself, and he could feel the anger within well up again. He needed to keep himself under control, he reminded himself repeatedly, if not for him, for his family. If they are still alive.
At the same time a worker from the construction regiment Todt was setting up a camera and tripod across the road in front of the bakery. His assignment was to photograph the entire Courseulles port area as a part their preliminary assessment of risk and defensive position suitability for this section of the Atlantic Wall. One of the photographs showed the lock bridge in a closed position, with a row of fish vendors in the foreground. Behind one of the vendor tents one could just make out the name on the bow of a fishing vessel - St. Marianne.
R
Present Day
The Courseulles harbor master continued with his narrative.
“The man was asking if I knew the name of the captain of the Marianne, and if he was still alive. When I asked why he thought he would be from Courseulles, he told me that they routinely met offshore, with Courseulles the closest port. He could not be certain.
“I went back through the harbor records of the period and found no mention of such a vessel. If there had been a ‘Marianne,’ it would have been recorded when first registered in harbor, when hauled for repairs, or when requesting access through the locks for any unscheduled opening. The fact that there was no such records at all, no mention whatsoever, means likely one of two things.
“The obvious one, of course, is that the young sailor heard incorrectly, or was mistaken to think the vessel was from here. The other ... well, it was war and anything can be bought for the right price, even anonymity.
“When His Honor Monsieur Pouille told me of your inquiries, I started looking through the photo archives, and, well, look here.”
He pulled an old black and white photo from the envelope and laid it on the table. It was a picture taken of one of the fish markets set up on the quay. It was labeled in white, meaning the negative had been written on by dark ink. The label read,
Todt Reconnaissance Photo, June 1942
Behind the vendor’s canopy, tied to the quay, was a fishing boat. The name was clearly visible on the bow of the boat - the St. Marianne.
“OK. Who was Saint Marianne?”
“That is just the point. There is no saint named Marianne.”
But there was a missing wife named Marianne who would have held such position, at least in the heart of Antoine Bouchard.
“I went back and checked. There is no corresponding entry in the port registry receipts.”
“Meaning what? What are the registry receipts?”
“When a vessel was first registered in the port, a docking certificate was issued and signed by the harbor master and filed by registry number. The log book of various activities then simply listed the registry number - much like a license plate. For some unknown reason there was no record of that vessel’s presence in port.”
“Perhaps the registry document was later destroyed, maybe on purpose,” I added, thinking through the possibilities.
“I thought of that. If so, there would be log entries for a vessel whose registry document was not on file. So I cross-referenced a number of registry certificates with the log, but found too great a number of irregular entries to be meaningful. My guess is that some records may have been lost or destroyed at some point.
“The intelligence submarine, by the way, operated out of the port of Portsmouth, just across the channel. Portsmouth was the location of a naval intelligence department during the war.”
We chatted for a while longer, and I briefed him on what I knew about Antoine Bouchard, and what I did not know. There was still nothing to directly connect him to Courseulles. However, the St. Marianne as the name of the boat was too close to be a coincidence. Much of the details of naval intelligence I knew were still classified, even after all these years.
As usual, I had more questions than answers.
I boarded the ferry in Caen that routinely sailed to Portsmouth on the south coast of England. On the voyage, I reflected on what I had learned, and what I still did not know. One thing that haunted me more than anything else - what happened to Marianne and AriŽle? The trail of information went cold just as the story of Antoine began to take on new life. Where would all this end?
R