Chapter 14
La Guiche
If Tyranny and Oppression come to this land,
it will be in the guise of fighting a foreign enemy.
- James Madison
Marianne’s life at La Guiche was hell. She had awakened still on the floor where the police had struck her, covered in blood. The inmates in the ward were all quite ill, many with tuberculosis. They would be treated until well enough to return to the work camps, or were sent to their deaths in Naztweiler, Dachau, or Auschwitz. There was no one to dress her wounds, so she fashioned a dressing herself and slipped into the filthy bed to try to rest. Her head ached from the blow, and the loss of AriŽle left her dazed and confused.
The following morning, she was roused out of bed by an orderly, and prodded with a long stick along with those from her ward who could walk to the morning meal. Then she was escorted to the laundry where she toiled throughout the day, under constant guard, until taken back to the ward to sleep.
Each day was the same. Each day brought her less and less hope of learning about AriŽle. Questions to anyone who could hear went unanswered, and sometimes were met with a blow across the back with the prodding stick.
The weather in late October 1942 was colder than usual. The sanitarium was a dismal place, with water seeping down the sides of the walls and dripping through the faulty roof in many places. It was cold and damp, the heating mostly nonexistent. The patients in the tuberculosis ward died at high rates. The coughing and misery was enough to drive even the hardest heart to insanity.
Marianne was confronted by one of the guards who masqueraded as an orderly at the beginning of her laundry shift.
“PP378. Commandant’s office. Immediately.”
He barked the order, and stood ready with a small wooden baton to enforce the command if need be. Marianne’s rough tunic was stenciled “PP” - a designation reserved for political prisoners held in the sanitarium as a cover for their political incarceration. The institution held about 30 such prisoners at any time before they disappeared without notice, to where only God knew.
Marianne left her station and walked slowly down the hall. She knew the way to the Commandant’s office all too well. Twice weekly since she arrived midsummer she was interrogated in the “office” by men she only could guess were French collaborators of the Gestapo. They had so far only threatened her, but the intensity of their questioning began to grow in weeks past. She expected the worst, and prepared herself mentally as she walked.
“Good morning, madame,” the Commandant addressed her as she entered. “Please, have a seat.”
Marianne was immediately suspicious. The usual chair with its restraints was not there. In its place was a simple ladder back wooden chair. She sat carefully, slowly, gauging the intent of the men in the room. Unlike each time before, the “orderly” left, closing the door behind her.
The commandant was a gaunt-looking man who spoke an odd dialect of French that was at times difficult to understand. Today he was reviewing a file of papers on his desk as she walked in.
“I have been reading in your file, madame, that your husband is suspected of smuggling, of stealing taxes and duties from the lawful administrators of France.”
She did not respond, but looked stonily ahead.
“Now, that is not such a crime. Certainly not one that cannot be rectified, with certain considerations.”
He hung for a while on that last phrase, and Marianne stiffened at the implications.
“Madame, I am offended. I would not suggest favors of ... of a sexual nature. I am sure you have heard such rumors, but I can assure you they are just the complaints of malcontents.” He refused to look at her as he continued the dialog.
“It seems, madame, that your husband has gone missing. He has been accused by a certain Captain De Rosier of stealing his boat, the St. Justine.” He carefully looked up at her after that accusation.
“My husband is no thief!” Marianne shot back, unable to control her anger and disgust.
“No. When I read the report, based on what we know about you, I thought not.”
What do you mean, what you know about me? I have been very careful not to reveal anything.
“So he is not a thief. Thank you for confirming this. One can only assume, therefore, that he is indeed, involved in other clandestine activities. Perhaps those who would seek to undermine the lawful authority?”
He looked intently at her. He has trapped me, she realized.
“Such activity would require severe consequences, madame.” He began to browse through the file some more. Marianne simply grit her teeth and resolved not to panic.
“It says here that you were separated from your daughter,” he began to take another tack.
“What have you done with AriŽle?” she spat, angry at being manipulated.
“Oh, madame. We have no interest in your innocent daughter. The child was returned to Pont-Aven some time ago, which is why we learned of your husband’s disappearance. The child was left with the local priest,” he said, not looking up, then added, as he slowly raised his head, “It would be a shame if these stories of your husband were true. Perhaps if we knew his whereabouts, we could dispel any questions about his loyalty.”
Was AriŽle really safe? Is he lying? What is he really after? The questions swirled around her mind, confusing images, confounded by lack of sleep and hunger. How can I protect my AriŽle? What is Antoine doing? She knew of the payments to Harbor Master Vercher. Was this what they were after? Were they using her, threatening AriŽle through her, to get information on the corruption of this petty official? Was Vercher involved in something else, something more dangerous?
I will not let Antoine or AriŽle suffer because of that puissant Vercher.
“So, is this about the harbor master, Vercher?” She tried to ask, to turn the conversation back to something she could manage, or manipulate.
“Why would you ask that, madame?” He looked up slowly.
He is trying to trap me, she thought. Should I give him something to use as leverage?
“That man, Vercher, he has been accepting bribes for some time. Long before the current situation.”
“And what situation is that, madame?”
“Since the German occupation,” she stated slowly, carefully.
“You mean the cooperative administration,” he corrected.
“Yes, the cooperative administration,” she echoed, with a hint of sarcasm.
“And your husband, he has paid these bribes?”
“My husband is the mate on his boat, not the captain.”
“Then how would you know of these illegal payments, madame?”
“Everyone in the commune knows of this. It is something not spoken of, but well known.”
“Why have you not reported this to the police?”
“You think the police do not know? That they do not profit from this?” Marianne let her anger spill out, and immediately realized she had said too much. Her interrogator simply looked back down at his papers and made some notes.
“Are you accusing the prefect of the district of accepting bribes, madame?” She knew she stumbled, letting her anger get the better of her.
“No, monsieur. I have no such knowledge. I am simply angry about being away from my family.” Her attempt to recover from this mistake sounded feeble, she knew.
“Yes, well I am sure with your cooperation that matter can be resolved quickly. Now, again. The whereabouts of your husband?”
“He is a fisherman. He goes out for extended periods of time. It is what fishermen do.”
“Ah, so it is. But it has been several months since he cleared the harbor, madame,” and he again slowly raised his head and stared intently at her. “The ship’s owner has reported the vessel as stolen.”
What? He is lying again, he must be, she thought. Antoine would never steal De Rosier’s boat, no matter what the circumstances.
“The authorities have been searching for him, as have his fellow fishermen. There has been no sighting of the St. Justine or Monsieur Bouchard. We are all quite concerned.”
She tried to not let her panic show, and replied in as composed a voice as she could.
“He often travels to the Channel Islands, or the Cherbourg peninsula ... wherever the fish are being caught. He would not steal the St. Justine.”
“Apparently, the ship’s owner does not share your opinion, madame.”
He pulled two files out from his stack of documents and opened them for Marianne to see.
“Do you know either of these men?”
There were dossiers of two men on official stationary. She did not know either of these men, but quickly realized that the police believed she did. Perhaps, she thought, I can play this fish.
“Yes, I have seen them. I do not know their names, but they came to our home one night.”
“And for what purpose, madame?” She knew she had caught his attention, although now it was the interrogator who tried to appear calmly disinterested.
“I do not know. My husband did not know them. I was asked to leave the room, but listened as best I could from the bedroom. They spoke quietly, but I heard my husband tell them to leave and not return. He came to bed angry, and said they were looking for a charter, but he told them he was only the mate, and to leave him alone.”
“And when was this, madame?”
“Several months ago. Perhaps February, or early March.”
“And your husband has not seen them again?”
She guessed correctly this was the trap. She would not be caught again.
“Yes, they came to the boat, but he again told them to leave us alone.” She remembered a night in March when Antoine returned from the harbor upset, and could not sleep. She would play out her suspicions. “This was late March. He had not seen them since.”
“I see. And did he speak to Harbor Master Vercher about these men?”
“I do not know, monsieur.”
He paused for a moment, then closed the files, rearranging them neatly on the desk. He called out for the orderly who immediately reentered the room.
“That will be all, madame. The government thanks you for your cooperation in this matter. I am certain we can resolve the rest of this unpleasantness soon.”
With that, Marianne was led back to her barracks. A glimmer of hope filled her thoughts, of seeing Antoine and AriŽle soon. It made the cold and damp night more bearable.
R
The commandant placed a phone call.
“She knows nothing that can help us. But she knows of Vercher and Captain Foucault ... Too much ... I agree.”
He hung up the phone, and reached for a stamp from his desk. On top of the cover report on Marianne Bouchard he stamped, “Stateless Person of Jewish Descent.”
R
The following morning Marianne was roused early and told to shower. She would be leaving, and would be returned to Pont-Aven. She could scarcely believe what she heard. She quickly showered, dressed, and eagerly followed the orderly down the hall out into the courtyard of the sanitarium, eager to leave this dreadful place behind.
A black police vehicle was waiting. She was ushered into the back seat, and this time there was no guard, no reason to fear. The driver was handed a paper that gave him his instructions, and he drove off.
At the road junction in the commune of La Guiche Marianne saw that the sign pointed left towards Lorient. The car turned right.
“This is the wrong way!” She called to the driver. There was a grate between her and the driver, common in police cars. She banged on the grate to get the driver’s attention. “The wrong way! You are going the wrong way!”
She reached for the door handle as the car slowed to make the turn. The handle would not work, the door would not open. She pounded her fists on the window in desperation. She was wearing only the soft slippers of her captivity, so had no hard shoes she could use to break the windows. So she turned on her back and tried to kick out the window. It was no use. She was trapped, and realized she was destined to not see her Antoine or AriŽle, perhaps never.
R