Topaz - Leon Uris [94]
He spread a map on the rough-hewn table and squinted, leading his finger to the French-Spanish border.
“Here it is, Cambo. You will be able to make contact with a guide to take you over to Spain.”
“From there?”
Duval shrugged. “I can only give you one name, that of a Miss Florence Smith in the British Embassy in Madrid. We believe she is MI-5, British Intelligence. She’s helped a number of our people get to French North Africa.”
Duval gave them money. “I’m sorry we have no papers. You’ll have to get those in Bordeaux. It’s going to be a hard journey. You’ll have to walk by night and live off the land. And remember, the bastards in Vichy are just as bad as in Occupied France.”
“We’ll make it,” Jacques said, with much doubt in his voice.
“Tonight I will come back and show you the way. And, boys, I want to thank you for what you have done. I am a Jew. You’ve taken my whole family over the Cher. God knows what would have happened if they had had to stay.”
Two months later, André Devereaux, Robert Proust, and Jacques Granville arrived in the town of Cambo near the French-Spanish frontier. They were shabby, half-starved, and nearly penniless.
Before them loomed the monstrous barrier of the mountains known as the Pyrenees.
3
ANDRÉ DEVEREAUX SPENT HIS twenty-first birthday in Cambo. He had grown a beard, a rather handsome one, that belied his age.
On the journey Robert Proust had proved the weakest of the three, tiring, becoming dejected, complaining of hunger constantly.
Jacques Granville, the eldest, kept up their spirits. He was a born bon vivant, even in their miserable circumstances always seeking out a bed partner where they hid, in the haylofts, the open fields, or the cellars of peasants’ homes. It seemed that if there was a woman to be found, Jacques would find her.
Beyond the Pyrenees was Spain and perhaps a path to the French Vichy forces of Admiral de St. Amertin based in Casablanca. They were certain that someday these French forces would quit Vichy and turn and fight the Germans.
There was another group now based in London. General Pierre La Croix, whom they had heard on the clandestine radio, had denounced Vichy and the Pétain regime and had actually rallied a number of the French possessions to his Committee for the Defense of the French Empire. They called themselves the Free French or Fighting France.
Certainly Pierre La Croix had more appeal to the three comrades, but it seemed impossible to reach him, so their goal became Casablanca and Admiral de St. Amertin.
Cambo was filled with tuberculars from all over Europe. Although the three of them carried false medical certificates stating that they had TB, too many escapees had passed the same route with the same story. It was certain they would be found out.
For a week they were unable to make a contact. Their money was depleted and it was impossible to cross the mountains without a guide.
In desperation André went to the church and in the secrecy of the confessional booth spoke to the priest.
“Father,” he said, “I am in Cambo with two comrades trying to escape to Spain.”
“For what purpose?”
“To fight for France.”
“Why are you fleeing? The truth.”
“We are wanted by the Germans for helping Jews escape to Vichy France.”
“Yes. News of you is known. It will only be a matter of a day or two and the police will come for you. You must get out of Cambo.”
“Please help us. We are out of funds.”
“That is your problem.”
“But, Father ...” André said harshly in disbelief.
“I’m fed up with the flood of escaped criminals descending on Cambo.”
“Father! We are not criminals.”
“If the law wants you, you are criminals. Either be out of Cambo by morning or I will turn you in to the police.”
“Father! We are Frenchmen!”
“Get out.”
André reeled from the church, running back to their pension. He tore up the stairs panting, flung the door open.
“The priest threatens to give us up to the police!”
Robert Proust trembled, then sat and wept.