I also believe that, to strike the imagination of people who, decades after the events recounted, are steeped in the outlook of the changed world, with other problems of its own, it behoves us to emphasize certain facts.

We must, however, be careful to avoid wild exaggerations, especially of the wrong kind!

J’ai été attristé par ce qu’a écrit et dit devant les caméras de la télévision Bernard-Henri Lévy. On continue à ne parler que de ce qu’on appelle la partie visible de l’iceberg.

When Bernard-Henri Lévy Bernard-Henry Lévy has written and said in front of the television cameras. met en cause la position du Parti Communiste Français à une certaine époque, quand on ergote sur l’attitude des diverses couches de la population française au même moment, on n’est pas, on ne peut pas être objectif.
. As a holder of no more than a certificate of primary schooling, I make no claim to be able to enter into dispute with an eminent philosopher, and I know that my recollections interest none but myself. However, to refute assertions which I believe to be false and unjust I have only my own memories to rely on.

Après la guerre 39-45, j’ai fait une demande de Carte de Combattant de la Resistance Fighterwhich was refused. The reason given was: “he provides no evidence of having belonged to a certified combat unit”.
J’ai fait partie du bataillon L’Indomptable», unité unit M.O.I. (1) of the Department Tarn-et-Garonne; it was disbanded prior to the complete liberation of the country as a whole.

Had I been chasing after certificates or had I been no more than a cook in some approved unit, I should have had my card and perhaps even a decoration along with it!

But I am not thinking of myself when I speak of those former Resistance Fighters who were no officially recognized.

As soon as I got my bearings and found work, I thought contacts to get something done.

First of there were high school students of good families who spoke of De Gaulle. Good. We used to go to the municipal theatre on the evenings of Petainist meetings. From the ‘gods’ we would let go tracts and stink-bombs.

But no, we needed something a bit more serious.

Arthur K. arranged a meeting for me with a girl underneath the clock on E. square at 12h35. She was Françoise A. of the Communist Youth movement.

We met three times walking for an hour each time.

She put questions to me. What I thought I might do! She explained what her movement was, what it was aiming at.
– dois-je adhérer ?
– pas du tout ; tu veux travailler avec nous, on te prend !
– d’accord !

She introduced me to Petit-Marcel, who in turn introduced me to Pierre G. The three of us formed a group, not a cell, just a group of three. Cells were for party members.

I was not to know anyone else. I was not to possess any address book or keep any correspondence, no photos of friends or acquaintances. In case of arrest, I was to deny, to deny, DENY even the obvious.

Orders stopped there. I repeat that I was never asked to join the party.

I just wanted to work, and was completely on their side.
Tous les trois, mon groupe, on se retrouvait dans un square, sur les berges du fleuve. Jamais dans un café. Interdit ! On sortait notre jeu d’échecs. Pierre et moi, on s’y absorbait profondément tandis que Petit-Marcel commentait la partie, c’est-à-dire faisait son exposé politique. Il était le responsable de notre groupe. Examen de la situation internationale, militaire, française, consignes de lutte du Parti contre l’occupant.

Je n’ai jamais entendu parler d’une demande de reparution légale de l’Humanité en zone occupée, ni d’un discours de François Billoux au procès de Léon Blum.

Des cadres du Parti, je n’ai connu que les noms de ceux qui cassaient des pierres pour le Transsaharien, au Sahara où le gouvernement de Vichy les avait déportés.

De temps en temps, chacun de nous, en se privant, apportait un saucisson, du pain d’épice, du chocolat… On ficelait un paquet qu’on envoyait au Transsaharien.

From that time and at every meeting the armed struggle against the occupier was brought up.

After the political summary, Petit-Marcel gave instructions for the week’s work: dropping of tracts in letter-boxes. Sometimes we were only given a single copy and we had somehow to come up with a few hundred copies. Then there were stickers and mural inscriptions.

There were also some amusing moments. Vichy, in order to add to their repression, had recruited some young inexperience police officers, who patrolled in pairs and in plain clothes. But they had been favoured with heavy hob-nailed army boots and, in the silence of the night, you could hear them coming from 500 meters away!

One evening, a woman who had seen me sleep a tract into her letterbox started shouting from her window:
– Au voleur ! Au voleur !
Jamais sur un stade, en petite tenue, je n’ai couru aussi vite un cent mètres !

Un autre travail nécessitait des vélos. Chacun le sien. Le premier fonçait devant, pour voir si la voie était libre. Le second suivait derrière, un pavé dans sa musette. Il le lançait, en passant, dans la vitrine de la permanence à l’enseigne de la francisque. Tous deux pédalaient comme des dingues, dans une direction opposée. Rendez-vous avait été pris, une heure plus tard, dans un autre quartier, pour s’assurer qu’on était intacts, comme après chaque action menée séparément. Juste une poignée de mains. Pierre et moi, on rentrait chacun chez soi. Petit-Marcel allait faire son rapport à un quatrième que je n’ai jamais connu. Même cérémonial, après chaque action.

This was all a good deal, more serious than the stink-bombs!

I only ever carried out small jobs; but since I was also given the task of collecting funds from any private citizens considered to be anti-Petainist, I got to be known to too many people in so small a provincial town. In a short time I’d be sure to get nabbed, as they say, and Petit-Marcel agreed that I should have a change of air and leave the town.

Et çà, Monsieur Henry Lévy, c’était avant. Avant l’entrée en guerre des nazis contre les russes.

I never again saw Petit-Marcel and his eternal smile, nor Pierre G. with that sombre look of his. They paid with their lives.

And out of how many similar groups of three was there to be only one survivor?

Well then, you must understand how painful it is to hear so much quibbling over dates, over the position adopted by this one or that…

(2) Toulouse

But I had to leave that too after the explosion in the Ax-les-Thermes tunnel.

Later, I also had to leave Aveyron in hurry, since I had attracted the attention of the Naucelle police, not so much, however, as to make flight impossible. One evening, exhausted, I knocked on the door of the Pastor Delord at Carmaux.
– Voilà, je suis pris de court. Je ne sais où aller
– Tenez, lavez-vous. Je vous prépare quelque chose à manger. Vous allez dormir ici et, demain, vous irez chez mon père, dans le Gard. Il dirige une léproserie à la Chartreuse de Valbonne. Vous y serez à l’abri. Les allemands ont une peur noire de la lèpre. Ils n’approchent jamais le secteur.

At Valbonne, for a twenty-two year old man with no vocation, the atmosphere was unbearable.

To look after the sick there was little in the way of medication: oil of chaulmoogra and some methylene blue to bath their wounds.

No electricity. A generator that was rarely going so as to save on petrol.

In the darkness of the corridors, I was in constant fear of bumping into one of these ‘blue’ men who might touch me with the stump of his arm. I had been assured, however, that in our European climate, leprosy was not contagious.

Il en mourait souvent, dans des douleurs atroces.
Chonchette, l’institutrice poète de Martinique, a hurlé trois nuits de suite. La quatrième, le glas de la petite chapelle a sonné. C’est moi qui ai creusé sa tombe, dans le petit cimetière du cloître…

The three litres of brandy, which my mate Mitka had given me when I was leaving Vauvert, was all gone and I had nothing left to bolster my spirits.

Despite the hospitality and security of Valbonne, I’d had enough. I left for the Drôme to take up menial work on a small farm in Montmeyran.
1943
I had been there for quite a while when my parents let me know that their situation in the city was getting more and more precarious. They expected any day to be arrested.

In a Valence agency, I found – it worked like that at the time – a small furnished house at Portes-lès-Valence, between the RN7 and the Rhône.

(3) Gnioure

Savez-vous que là, juste derrière, un peu en retrait de la Nationale, il y a une stèle. Douze noms y sont gravés. Douze hommes sont tombés là, main dans la main, face à un peloton nazi.

On the other side of the highway is the cemetery of Portes-lès-Valence where lies the body of Gaston Nogier (4).

The furniture of my little place was all rather rickety and I asked to have someone come from the carpentry shop. It was Nogier. I helped him keep the planks steady while he planed them down, and we chatted.

That’s how I got to know him.

Il m’a tout de suite procuré une attestation d’emploi signée de son patron (sans justification d’emploi, les jeunes se faisaient envoyer au S.T.O.)

The whole family fitted in to the tiny residence. Moreover, we were no longer a family, simply friends, and our false papers bore different names.

Nogier got me a job at the Barnier factory at Valence.

To go there on bike, I took the by-road parallel to the National Highway 7, between the Rhône and the railway. It met up with the highway at the Pont-des-Anglais, at the entrance to Valence.

One day I was on early. (We began, I think between 5 and 6 in the morning and knocked off in the early afternoon) I was riding alone in the silence of the night when, all of a sudden, a voice near at hand shouted:
– arrête petit !
I put a foot to earth, but I could not make anyone out in the vicinity. The man was doubtless stretched out in the colza field, for again from the field, the voice began:
– fais demi-tour, les boches sont au Pont des Anglais !
I don’t think I could even have said thank you, and went for my life back home.

Every time the railway line was planted with a bomb, the Nazis picked up a few individuals, simply taking them by surprise: they were never seen again, and simply reported as ‘missing’.

You, that French man from Drôme, you saved my life! I hope you too got through safely!

Mes papiers étaient « bons ». Mon cousin Emile s’était procuré un authentique extrait de naissance, celui d’un jeune parisien. A l’aide cet extrait, il avait obtenu, à Toulouse, carte d’identité, carte d’alimentation et tout !…

Avec le même extrait de naissance, la Police d’Etat me délivra le même jeu de papiers, de vrais papiers !…

In fact, there were three of us all with exactly the same papers, the real André B., my cousin, and myself. All completely in order!

But it was too good to be true. Emile had me warned at Portes-lès-Valence that I should clear out quicksmart with a change of identity.

A Toulouse, il s’était fait aborder dans la rue par trois inspecteurs de Vichy.

Contrôle d’identité :
– Papiers !
Emile produced his card, perfectly in order.
– Fouillez-le !, dit le chef
In two seconds, Emile had done the searching himself, grabbed his 7.65 and fired into the air.

While the inspectors lay flat on the ground, he cleared off.

Mais les papiers au nom d’André B. étaient restés aux mains des flics et, bien entendu, ordre fut donné à toutes les polices de retrouver André B. !
J’étais aussi un André B. ! Je courus chez Nogier.
– Apportes-moi une photo d’identité et prépare tes affaires. Demain, on monte dans le Bedaud (l’Ardèche).

(4) Gaston Nogier – 27 juin 1902 Le Charnier St-Mélany, 26 novembre 1944 Portes-lès-Valence

We knew that the civic state archives of Maubeuge had been destroyed in a 1940 bombardment and that verification was out of the question.

But not food rationing card either...
– T’n’en auras pas besoin, là-haut !

He introduced me to the boss of a sawmill :
– tu ne pourrais pas mettre ce jeune dans tes coupes ?
the chap, sleeping his hand under his cap, scratched his head a bit uneasy. :
– c’est que j’ai déjà des républicains espagnols dans les coupes !
– çà ne fait rien, on va monter au village !
He took me to Marcel (5).
– un jeune réfugié du Nord, tu ne pourrais pas l’employer ?
– vous allez bien boire un canon ?…
We drank a bit.
– Alors ? demanda Nogier.
– Alors quoi ?, demanda à son tour Marcel, interrogeant Nogier de son regard bleu, en souriant.
– …
– Ah oui ! Mais bien entendu, il reste, cette question !

I didn’t become a worker for Marcel. I worked, but I was like a young brother to him, like another son to his mother.

I fell ill. To see the doctor was no problem. At night-fall, when you saw two head-lamps winding along the road in the mountains, that could only be the doctor making his way to a small village.
I stopped the car :
– Docteur, je ne tiens pas à aller vous voir à la ville…
Il m’a ausculté dans sa voiture, m’a établi une ordonnance et m’a tapé sur l’épaule avant de redémarrer,
– Allez, encore un peu de patience, ce sera bientôt fini pour toi !…

De Portes-lès-Valence, les nouvelles étaient bonnes. Çà sautait presque toutes les nuits sur la voie, entre Avignon et Valence : les trains de l’Afrikakorps, ou de l’Armée d’Italie qui remontaient.

My parents’ house was situated at about 300 meters from the line.

Every night, there were patrols with dogs in the neighbourhood of the house...

What’s more my father had been conscripted as a line guard.

Je tremblais pour eux, pour lui surtout !…

I spoke about it to Marcel, oh, no more than three sentences :
– j’ai mon oncle, ma tante et deux cousines, à Portes. Il faudrait qu’ils puissent monter ici…
he nodded and spoke of the matter to the Mayor (6).
– çà va ! L’école des Sœurs est désaffectée. Il y a un fourneau. Ils y seront bien…
Someone had to go and fetch them.

At daybrake, Marcel carefully prepared his lorry with its gas-producer. He had some spare coal and wood made up a bit to eat and then got dressed: a new check shirt and a clean pair of overalls. He sat at the wheel as calmly and as cheerfully as if he were of to pick up a load of chestnuts from the neighbouring village.

I watched him drive off. And what, I thought, if I were never to see you again?

He simply told me that, on the way back, he’d go through Vallon-Pont-d’Arc and Ruoms, so as to avoid Aubenas.

Then, they were to cross the Rhône at Pont-Saint-Esprit.

I knew that the bridge was under German guard at both ends. The Germans kept a check of all bridges…

Que ce jour-là m’a paru long !…

De là haut, je scrutais la route. Le soir tombait… enfin ! Les deux phares du gazogène !…

In the cabin, next to Marcel, was my mother. On the tray of the lorry was the sewing-machine, two mattresses, and two trunks. My father and my two sisters were curled up under some blankets. What a picture!

And thank God, the look-out police were either tired out or distracted that day.

While my parents freshened up at Marcel’s place, the people from round about examined the lorry.

Within a few hours, everything necessary was provided.
One would bring a chair, one a frying-pan, another a carbide lamp.

When the meal was over, everything was set up in the school which was now their shelter.

The village kept an eye on them right up to the liberation.

Quand quelqu’un cuisait du pain, il y en avait toujours un pour eux. Quand on tuait un tchabri (7), ils avaient leur part.

Certains faisaient parfois de longs trajets, à travers faysses (8) et châtaigniers, pour leur apporter quelque chose.

These people of the Ardèche, they did all that so naturally, like Marcel when he sprayed his vine with copper sulphate.

They were not in combat units.

They were French people, people of the Ardèche.

I love them for what they are and forever.

(5) Marcel Roux – 12 juillet 1903 St-Mélany, 19 avril 1990 Guilherand Granges
(6) Fernand Fournet – 13 novembre 1866 La Mathe St-Mélany, 1er janvier 1945 La Brousse St-Mélany
Maire de Saint Mélany du 7 décembre 1919 au 27 février 1944
(7) cabri, chevreau
(8) cultures en terrasses

Crédits photos : archives familiales et Michèle Durand (née Illy)
Fac-similés de documents : archives familiales

© marc draer, novembre 2007

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