The Children of Freedom. Marc Levy

rises, loud and strong. All the accents mingle and are proclaiming the same words. It is the ‘Marseillaise’ that echoes within the cell walls of the Saint-Michel prison.

      Arnal enters the cell; Marcel wakes up, looks at the pink sky through the skylight and instantly realises. Arnal takes him in his arms. Over his shoulder, Marcel looks at the sky again and smiles. He whispers in the old lawyer’s ear: ‘I loved life so much.’

      Then it’s the barber’s turn to enter; he has to bare the condemned man’s neck. The scissors click and the locks of hair slip to the beaten-earth floor. The procession moves forward; in the corridor the ‘Song of the Partisans’ replaces the ‘Marseillaise’. Marcel stops at the top of the stairs, turns around, slowly raises his fist and shouts: ‘Farewell, comrades.’ The entire prison falls silent for one short moment. ‘Farewell, comrade, and long live France,’ the prisoners answer in unison. And the ‘Marseillaise’ fills the space once more, but Marcel’s silhouette has already disappeared.

      

      Shoulder to shoulder, Arnal in a cape, Marcel in a white shirt, they walk towards the inevitable. Looking at them from behind, you can’t work out which one is supporting the other. The chief warder takes a packet of Gauloises from his pocket. Marcel takes the cigarette he offers, a match crackles and its flame lights up the lower part of his face. A few curls of smoke escape from his mouth, and they continue walking. On the threshold of the door that leads to the courtyard, the prison governor asks him if he wants a glass of rum. Marcel glances at Lespinasse and nods.

      ‘Give it to that man instead,’ he says. ‘He needs it more than I do.’

      The cigarette falls to the ground and rolls away. Marcel signals that he is ready.

      The rabbi approaches, but Marcel smiles, indicating to him that he has no need of him.

      ‘Thank you, rabbi, but my only belief is in a better world for men, and perhaps one day men alone will decide to invent that world. For themselves and their children.’

      The rabbi knows very well that Marcel does not want his help, but he has a mission to fulfil and time is pressing. So, without further ado, the man of God jostles Lespinasse aside and hands Marcel the book he is holding. He mutters to him in Yiddish: ‘There is something for you inside.’

      Marcel hesitates, attempts to open it and flicks through it. Between the pages, he finds the note hastily written by Jan. Marcel skims the lines, from right to left; he closes his eyes and hands it back to the rabbi.

      ‘Tell them that I thank them and above all, that I have confidence in their victory.’

      It is a quarter past five. The door opens on one of the small, dark courtyards of Saint-Michel prison. The guillotine stands to the right. Out of consideration, the executioners put it up here, so that the condemned man would see it only at the final moment. From the tops of the watchtowers, the German sentries are entertained by the unusual spectacle that is playing out before their eyes. ‘Funny people, the French. In principle we’re the enemy, aren’t we?’ one says with irony. His compatriot is content to shrug his shoulders and leans forward to get a better view. Marcel climbs the steps of the scaffold, and turns one last time towards Lespinasse: ‘My blood will fall on your head,’ he smiles, and adds: ‘I am dying for France and for a better humanity.’

      Without any help, Marcel lies down on the plank and the blade swishes down. Arnal has held his breath, his gaze is fixed on the sky woven with light clouds, for all the world like silk. At his feet, the paving stones of the courtyard are reddened with blood. And while Marcel’s remains are placed in a coffin, the executioners are already setting about cleaning their machine. A little sawdust is thrown on the ground.

      Arnal will accompany his friend to his last resting place. He climbs up to ride at the front of the hearse, the prison gates open and the team of horses sets off. At the corner of the street, he passes the silhouette of Catherine but doesn’t even recognise her.

      Hidden in a doorway, Catherine and Marianne were waiting for the cortège. The echo of the horses’ hooves is lost in the distance. On the door of the prison, a warder sticks up the notice confirming the execution. There is nothing more to do. White-faced, they leave their hiding place and walk back up the street. Marianne is holding a handkerchief in front of her mouth, a paltry remedy against nausea and pain. It is scarcely seven o’clock when they join us at Charles’s house. Jacques says nothing, just clenches his fists. Boris draws a circle on the wooden table with his fingertip. Claude is sitting with his back to a wall; he’s looking at me.

      ‘We must kill an enemy today,’ says Jan.

      ‘Without any preparation?’ Catherine asks.

      ‘I’m in agreement,’ says Boris.

      

      At eight o’clock on a summer evening, it’s still full daylight. People are walking about, taking advantage of the opportunity now that the temperature has dropped. The café terraces are bustling with people, a few lovers are kissing on street corners. In the midst of this crowd, Boris seems to be a young man like all the others, inoffensive. But in his pocket he is gripping the butt of his pistol. For the last hour he’s been searching for prey. Not any prey though: he wants an officer to avenge Marcel, some gold braid, a uniform jacket with stars on it. But so far he’s only encountered two German ship’s boys out for a good time, young guys who aren’t malicious enough to deserve to die. Boris crosses Lafayette Square, walks up rue d’Alsace, paces up and down the pavements of Place Esquirol. In the distance he can hear the brass section of an orchestra. So Boris allows the music to guide him.

      On a bandstand a German orchestra is playing. Boris finds a chair and sits down. He closes his eyes and tries to calm his racing heart. No question of returning empty-handed, no question of letting down the friends. Of course, it isn’t this kind of vengeance that Marcel deserves, but the decision has been taken. He opens his eyes again, and Providence smiles at him. A handsome officer has sat down in the front row. Boris looks at the cap the soldier is using to fan himself. On the sleeve of the jacket, he sees the red ribbon of the Russian campaign. This officer must have killed men, to have the right to rest in Toulouse. He must have led soldiers to their deaths, to take such a peaceful advantage of a gentle summer’s evening in the south-west of France.

      The concert ends, the officer stands up, and Boris follows him. A few steps away from there, right in the middle of the street, five shots ring out, and flames shoot from the barrel of our friend’s weapon. The crowd rushes forward. Boris leaves.

      In a Toulouse street, the blood of a German officer flows towards the gutter. A few kilometres away, beneath the earth of a Toulouse cemetery, Marcel’s blood is already dry.

      

      La Dépêche reports Boris’s operation; in the same edition, it announces Marcel’s execution. The townsfolk will quickly make the link between the two matters. Those who are compromised will learn that the blood of a partisan does not flow with impunity, while the others will know that, very close to them, some people are fighting.

      The regional Prefect made haste to issue a communiqué to reassure the occupiers of the goodwill felt towards them by his departments. ‘As soon as I learned of the killing,’ he announced, ‘I made myself the mouthpiece of the population’s indignation to the general chief of staff and the German Head of Security.’ The regional police chief also added his hand to the collaborationist prose: ‘A very substantial cash reward will be paid by the authorities to any person making it possible to identify the author or authors of the odious murder committed by firearm on the evening of 23 July against a German soldier in rue Bayard, Toulouse.’ Unquote! It has to be said that he had only just been appointed to his post, had Police Chief Barthenet. A few years of zeal with the Vichy departments had hewn his reputation as a man who was as efficient as he was formidable and had offered him this promotion that he had dreamed of. The chronicler of La Dépêche had greeted his appointment by welcoming him on the front page of the daily. We too, in our own way, had just given him ‘our’ welcome. And so as to welcome him even better, we distributed a tract all over town. In a few lines, we announced that we had killed a German officer as a