Defying Vichy E-Book

Robert Pike

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 620

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

'Defying Vichy takes us into the heart of the French Resistance: the Dordogne region (in) this moving account of the darkest and brightest period in French history.' – Matthew Cobb, author of The Resistance Vichy France under Marshal Pétain was an authoritarian regime that sought to perpetuate a powerful place for France in the world alongside Germany. It echoed the right-wing ideals of other fascist states and was a perfect instrument for Hitler, who drew more and more power and resources from a beaten France whose people suffered. Resistance was an unknown until a small number sought to make a stand in whatever way they could. Each would play their part in destabilising the Vichy state, all the while rejecting the Nazi occupation of their eternal France. The Dordogne was one of many hotbeds of early refusal and its dramatic stories are here told against the backdrop of the rise and fall of Vichy France. These stories, like so many others of often ordinary people – men and women, young and old – tell of a period of betrayal, refusal and heroism.

Leseprobe

‘Pacey and engaging, this study explores the drama and complexity of the German occupation and resistance, highlighting moral ambiguities, deceit, betrayal and violence. A fascinating contribution to the field.’

Robert Gildea, author of Fighters in the Shadows

‘Robert Pike has not only produced a meticulously researched and valuable contribution to the history of the German occupation, but a reminder of how courageously and selflessly many ordinary French men and women behaved.’

Caroline Moorehead, author of Village of Secrets

‘This vivid and evocative account of the Resistance in Dordogne details the exploits of some remarkable personalities and makes us acutely aware of their courage and the dangers they faced. Robert Pike is to be applauded for bringing these stories to a wider readership.’

Hanna Diamond, author of Fleeing Hitler

‘Robert Pike skilfully shows how ordinary people responded to the German occupation: some heroically, others less so. Above all, this story is rooted in the towns, villages and wooded hillsides of the Dordogne, which Pike knows so well, and which come alive in this moving account of the darkest and brightest period in French history.’

Matthew Cobb, author of The Resistance

‘Using the pioneer work of local French historians in tracking down ex-Resisters, and doing his own interviews, Robert Pike has produced a book on the largely rural Dordogne full of specific names and places and pulsating with action and detailed stories.’

Rod Kedward, author of In Search of the Maquis

To my wife Kate, my boys Joseph and Elliot, and my late mother Mary, whose love of history inspired me.

First published 2018

This paperback edition first published 2023

The History Press

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Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Robert Pike, 2018, 2023

The right of Robert Pike to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 75099 035 6

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

Contents

Introduction

Maps

1   Peace and War

2   National Renewal

3   Networks and Secret Armies

4   The Rise of the Maquis

5   Turning Tides

6   Collaboration and Repression

7   Counter-attacks

8   Endings

Epilogue

Glossary of Key Terms

List of Principal Characters

Notes

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Introduction

‘Resistance, in its multiple forms, has become the fundamental reaction of the French … It is everywhere, fierce and effective … It is in the factories and in the fields, in the offices and schools, in the streets and in the houses, in hearts and in thoughts.’

General Charles de Gaulle, 3 November 1943.

Inspirational leader though he was, General de Gaulle was far from the mark in 1943 with his assertion that the idea of resistance had permeated through the thoughts and actions of all French people. He knew this full well. De Gaulle’s great achievement while guiding the Free French movement from London and later Algiers was to provide leadership for a vast array of different groups with a broadly common goal. In time he helped to rekindle French pride and inspired the spirit of its people to emerge triumphant. He managed to work side by side and toe to toe with the United States and the United Kingdom, whose leaders did not much like him. The French collective psyche throughout the 1930s, still rebuilding after the devastation of the First World War, was one of self-questioning and low self-esteem. The Front Populaire, a left-wing and partially communist alliance that claimed power in 1936, had offered brief hope to the masses but ultimately ended in financial crisis. The right wing placed the blame for the swift defeat of the once great French army in May 1940 squarely at the feet of the Front Populaire, led by Léon Blum, a politician of Jewish descent. Anti-Semitism was common in the country’s political classes, as was a fear of communism, but defeat also meant an opportunity to establish an authoritarian and nationalist government forged on the ideals of France’s monarchical past. Those deemed anti-French, which included militant communists and Jews, would be chased out of influential positions and, in some cases, underground.

Few people in France had heard of de Gaulle in June 1940, when he made his famous call to carry on the fight over the airwaves of the BBC, and the number that heard the speech – which was firmly aimed at the military – was also small. Many more knew of and trusted Marshal Philippe Pétain, who carried an almost mythical aura having earned himself the title of ‘victor of Verdun’. Some politicians behind his coming to power had assumed and hoped that, at 84 years of age, he would be a malleable figurehead for France. His influence, however, was profound in the creation of the new state through a process commonly and officially called a National Revolution, though Pétain himself abhorred this term, which he associated with communism; he preferred the notion of a renewal.

In his 1977 book, Quarante millions de Pétainistes, French popular historian Henri Amouroux claimed that those who openly applauded de Gaulle on the Champs Elysée in 1944 were the same as those who had applauded Pétain in the summer of 1940. His book was an indication of the mood that followed the release of Marcel Ophuls’ 1969 film Le Chagrin et la pitié (The Sorrow and the Pity), in which a revisionist view of occupation and resistance emerged. Up until then France had shied away from its guilt in the period known as the ‘Dark Years’ of occupation. Such works questioned whether France should consider its own role in the years of oppression of its own people, as well as its guilt in supplying Germany with a cupboard of men and materials to empty for the wider war effort. The Vichy government created police forces to subdue its own people who protested, and it offered up Jews for deportation before even being asked to do so, going so far as to include children in deportations to reach targets negotiated with its Nazi ‘partners’. The default position of the French population, both Amouroux and Ophuls argued, was compliance and therefore collaboration. Only a small number protested or refused – minuscule in the early days.

Following the war only 250,000 ‘membership cards’ were given out by the veterans’ administration to those who had actively fought in the Resistance, which was anything but a mass movement. During its early days right up to the liberation it attracted hostility and initially only muted support by some, while the events of the épuration (summary punishment for those thought to have collaborated) further undermined its reputation. On signature of the armistice with Nazi Germany, few career soldiers were behind de Gaulle and most scorned his efforts. General Philippe Guillain de Bénouville wrote later that ‘those who dedicated themselves to the active Resistance from the start know how few we were in those early days just as those at the end’.

What follows is a story of resistance, inauspicious to begin with against an ever-greater force. It is the tale of how the notion of refusal took root in the minds of French people, driving them to respond through action, whether in a clandestine and fighting sense, or in a more restrained but equally dangerous manner, in full sight of the authorities. Focusing on the department of Dordogne – an area where Resistance flourished – the events here demonstrate the resilience of a people under inordinate amounts of pressure as the military powers of Nazi Germany combined with the politicians of Vichy to turn the public against the very notion of Resistance. The resulting story demonstrates the best of humanity, and the worst. The people of South-west France were fearful, were force-fed propaganda and were uncertain of their own fates should they commit to either side. By 1944, when reprisals were reported daily, battles and ambushes raged in the countryside, and acquaintances were summarily executed, the default position was to lock the door and retreat. In the Dordogne, as was the case elsewhere in the southern zone, a large number refused to give in and instead, some way or another, chose to defy Vichy.

Maps

Occupied France, 1940–44.

The Dordogne, showing the demarcation line that separated the northern and southern zones.

The military regions of the Resistance in spring 1944.

1

Peace and War

The Byzantine cathedral of Périgueux is unmistakable. Approach from the south and it appears to hover over the sharply descending hill on which the old town is constructed, at the foot of which runs the River Isle. The shapes of the basilica are eastern and sharp edged, out of place against the medieval architecture. It is a patchwork city, old and new, modern and ancient, traditional and forward thinking. The administrative capital of the department of the Dordogne, it can be bustling but is more often than not quiet and unspectacular, with few tourists to clog its streets. The contrast could not be more striking as the pedestrian emerges from the car parks and open spaces of the Place Francheville and Boulevard Montagne through a virtual doorway into the close walls of the winding streets of the old town. It is easy to pass by when travelling south, the motorways and orbital roads allowing the tourist to steer clear and head for the better-known Bergerac or Sarlat further south. But those who go find it charming, its roman remains and pretty boutiques along the meandering rue Limogeanne enough to occupy the single-day visitor.

Formerly the ancient county of Périgord until after the revolution of 1789, the people still often refer to themselves as Périgourdin. The same is true for their gastronomy, history and heritage. The countryside is home to farms full of ducks and geese, many of which are destined for the dinner table served as fatty confit, or lean magret, often with creamy mushroom sauces. Most restaurants still offer the Périgourdin menu of salads featuring walnuts, warm goat’s cheese and gésiers, followed by poultry of which nothing is wasted. Wine is white and sweet; prunes and apricots are abundant and the local eau de vie pruneaux best taken in moderation. To taste the local truffles, ‘black diamonds’ which were for centuries snuffled out by pigs in the woodlands, best to do so in an omelette.

Its green luscious countryside has played host to those seeking a slower pace of life for hundreds of years. Visitors have always wandered amongst the impressive châteaux that stud the countryside, paddled along the rivers Isle, Vézère or Dordogne, or lazed amongst the many farm buildings built amongst the fertile farmland. Life is still lived at a slow pace, and its people glow with the healthy bronze of a long, warm summer. Situated between Bordeaux to the west and Limoges to the east, it is a wide area often only passed through by those who holiday elsewhere. Once home to the four tribes, or Petrocore from which the Périgord derived its name, it is located between the Loire Valley and the Pyrenées. The Petrocores resisted the Romans, leaving behind ruins such as the enormous tower and arena on the south side of the River Isle, in the part of the city formerly known as Vesone. Bastide towns like Sarlat and Montpazier are reminders of the violent Middle Ages.

The Dordogne river is some 30km south, bisecting Bergerac, the region’s second town. This is a farming region, vast, leafy and filled with slow-moving rivers and gentle slopes. It has been inhabited by tribes since prehistoric times, as testified by the famous cave paintings of Lascaux and Rouffignac, and the troglodyte dwellings of La Roque Saint-Christophe and Les Eyzies. The river that runs through Périgueux is the Isle. The department’s major towns and villages are found along its rivers, but its people have never relied upon them other than as tourist attractions. This is a farming region, and its people rely on the land, and its animals. It is also a place where the rural world and the towns intermingle and co-depend. The people of the countryside, over the past millennium, have been identified as the paysans (peasants). They and the landowners have co-existed happily since the days of the revolution. Around the villages are towns where small factories sprang up, mirroring the more industrial towns of Brive and Limoges further east. Some of the paysans became ouvrieurs (factory workers), while others who worked on the railways became les cheminots. In the towns, the professional classes thrived.

According to a census held in 1936 the region was home to 386,900 inhabitants. The sparsity of population when compared to the 918,383 hectares of ground was testament to the open spaces of this idyllic corner of France. Even as heavy industry developed across the country and elsewhere in Europe, life remained slow in pace and agriculture was by far the biggest industry. For the people of the Dordogne the polyculture of wheat, rye and maize complemented the potatoes, fruit trees and vegetables. Vast vineyards adorned the hilly land around Bergerac while the rearing of cattle and poultry enriched the local economy throughout the rest of the department into something approaching idyllic but precariously balanced self-sufficiency.

A huge number of agricultural businesses nestled between the rivers and wooded areas that divided the region into four ‘Périgords’. The centre of the region, the ‘grenier de blé’, or grain store of the Périgord, deserved its name: le Périgord blanc. In the north of the region le Périgord vert is a vast area packed with woodland taking in the beautiful towns of Brantôme and Nontron. Le Périgord pourpre of the south-west is home to the large wine-producing areas that surround Bergerac. The south-east of the region, or le Périgord noir, houses the ancient Bastille towns of Sarlat and Domme. Well-populated valleys with steep escarpments were surrounded by forests, scattered throughout the region, vast and empty.

Of those inhabitants recorded in 1936, very few lived in large towns. The largest of these towns was Périgueux, with Bergerac next in line. Those were the only urban centres with populations of more than 20,000. Other slightly larger towns such as the medieval Sarlat, Ribérac, Nontron and Mussidan were at that time still rather small by comparison.

The population of the late 1930s was not cosmopolitan, although the area did host many retreats for more wealthy Parisians. The year 1939 saw some changes due to an exodus from Spain of Republicans chased out by Franco’s new regime, and from Eastern Europe as Nazism engulfed the continent, but these numbers were relatively small. The overall demographic of the Périgord was typical of the rural provinces: primarily French, white and Catholic. In the fields there was a significant influence of militant socialism, but generally the region was rather conservative. The gentry, a significant proportion of which were in the wine-producing west, were patriotic and Conservative. Some believed in the ideas of fascism and wished for a strong and stable France that could hold its place at the negotiation tables of the world.

Whatever their social status, those living in the southern half of France in late 1938 and 1939 could be forgiven for feeling insulated from events elsewhere in Europe. The local population had been spared the horror of trench warfare that engulfed much of the north-east only twenty years previously, so for many of the paysans (peasant farmers) the prospect of another war was distant, almost imperceptible. In Bergerac, brothers Léon and Robert Bondier, professional photographers, recorded scenes from the foire-exposition of June 1939. Amongst the parades were men dressed as Nazi dignitaries, parodied in no uncertain terms. The most flagrant of these was a comical ‘Hitler’ piloting a tiny plane, encouraged by a laughing crowd.

***

Away from the calm of the rural south-west, France was a country in political and economic turmoil. Its people, politically aware and engaged, were fed up with a political system whose instability and vulnerability to outside influences had led to economic and social failures that profoundly affected most layers of society.

The Third Republic was creaking, bending under the weight of the interwar years that had taken their toll on France’s standing in European and world theatres. German militarisation had already galloped ahead of France.

In 1936 the Front Populaire, a combination of the far and middle left, came to power. Led by Léon Blum, the party promised reform and some respite from the economic downturn that had plagued France since the great depression of 1929. It swept to power on the promise of a shorter working week, paid holidays and new rights for workers through trade unions. Staunchly anti-fascist, it distanced itself from the success of Hitler and the Nazis, but took pains to persuade the French that it was not run from Moscow. This pushed it into a strange middle ground that pleased neither the far-left communists, numerous in the factories and mines of northern France, nor the right wing, on which the future collaborationist government would be founded.

Ever since the creation of the Parti Communiste Français (PCF) at the congress of Tours in 1920, just three years after the Bolshevik revolution in Russia, communism played an increasing role in French politics. Often involved in just as much conflict with the socialist parties as with the bourgeoisie, the sworn enemies of its Russian cousin, the party played its part in the democratic life of the Third Republic without threatening a revolution. Socialist leader Léon Blum had distanced himself from Marxism, however, defining himself as a leader of the moderate left. He was more concerned with the threat on the other side of the Rhine, concentrating on opposing an ongoing appeasement of Hitler, rather than on the irritant of a Communist Party that preferred to emphasise its non-affiliation to Moscow. Every government of the Third Republic had, in fact, been concerned with curbing the excesses of the far right – in particular Action Française – and the first year of the Front Populaire was the height of leftist influence in the interwar years. The traditionally right-wing Third Republic had a history of hatred towards the communists, as well as other foreign influences, particularly the Jews. When the coalition government became partially infused with communists with the 1936 election victory, led by the Jewish Blum, the divisions that already existed within the system were only reinforced.

The period of the Front Populaire began with a general strike between the months of May and June 1936, which did little to endear the movement to the bourgeoisie. Then came a period of relative success over twelve months as the social reforms promised by Blum were introduced. Shorter working weeks and paid holidays were popular, but the ground had not been properly laid for such major changes.

The Lichtenbergs were a Jewish Polish family who moved to Paris from Siedlce near Warsaw in 1928 because of growing anti-Semitism in Poland. While at primary school in the Marais area of the French capital, Léon lived with his grandmother, a practising Jew, and became accustomed to Jewish practices. His parents, however, gave little thought to their being Jewish, his mother being far less of a believer than his father. With his grandmother Léon spoke Yiddish, and rarely Polish, while with his parents he spoke Polish and French.

In 1936 the family began to once again feel uncomfortable as anti-Semitic sentiment swelled, combined with the rise of Hitler and his German National Socialists, so they relocated to the Périgord. Hitler’s thoughts on Aryanisation and anti-Semitism were becoming well known, albeit linked to civil persecution rather than anything more severe. Nevertheless, the threats to livelihoods weighed heavily on the minds of many in the Jewish Parisian communities.

Still only 11 years of age in 1936, Léon Lichtenberg had begun to understand the nature of politics and was aware of the advent of the Front Populaire, taken in by the progressive atmosphere and material benefits enjoyed by those of his class. His family were left-leaning – repulsed by right-wing ideology – and Léon revelled in the ‘festival atmosphere’ that left him with ‘very warm memories’ of the short period: ‘People were happy, there was … an atmosphere of brotherhood, not this tension of previous years.’ The paid holidays were spent as a family, cycling on tandems. ‘It was a kind of liberation. There was change in the air … The atmosphere, it was one of humanism.’1

The Front Populaire’s brief time in power left Léon politicised, and convinced of his socialist inclinations. However, as the party’s power began to crumble, Jewish sections of society began to feel the force of blame for France’s political strife. Despite not being subject to direct discrimination by the French people they knew, the Lichtenbergs were concerned by the language of the press and politicians’ speeches. This violence verbale was enough to persuade the family to relocate to the Dordogne, a ‘forgotten corner of France’ where Léon’s uncle had set up business. They arrived in Périgueux in 1936 and Léon continued his schooling there, due to sit his baccalauréat philo in 1942.

The Dordogne was a department anchored in leftist tradition. Between 1919 and 1940 two thirds of all députés elected to Parliament in the department belonged to left-wing parties. This tradition stretched back into the nineteenth century and would be strengthened during the two world wars in 1936 the first two communist députés in its history were elected in Paul Loubradou of Bergerac and Gustave Saussot of Nontron. Only one out of the six députés elected that year did not belong to the Front Populaire. The Dordogne and the neighbouring Lot-et-Garonne were examples of the influence of rural communism.2 This combined with the large increase in population – first in 1938 with the arrival of swathes of Spanish Republicans, and later with the arrival of evacuees from Alsace-Lorraine, of whom nearly 50,000 stayed until the end of the war – resulted in a substantial rural left-wing element. This set the stage for a leftist-influenced Resistance earlier rather than later.

By June 1937 a downward economic spiral set in. Higher wages were neutralised by the rise in prices due to inflation. Due to the higher costs of running factories in which working conditions had been skewed to benefit the workforce, owners scaled back production and businessmen took their funds abroad for investment in healthier markets. This turn in the economy and a Senate controlled by conservatives forced Blum to take many backward steps, stopping his social reforms and devaluing the franc. A further complication for the Front Populaire had been events on the other side of the Pyrenées in Spain. General Franco’s revolution had gathered momentum and many on the left were keen for France to reinforce the left-wing republican democrats against the far right-wing Franco. Blum had resisted this, not for ideological reasons but because he was worried that such a war would spill over the borders into France.

The politicians of the Front Populaire no longer presented the united front that was needed in times of potential war. A chasm appeared between pacifist socialists and communists not willing to look beyond the protection of workers from the march of imperialism. As Blum fell the Radicals – who, despite the name, were far less radically socialist than the communists – took over power on 10 April 1938.

By the autumn of 1938 the Front Populaire dissolved itself, a victim of its lack of preparedness for the continued ill effects of the global downturn after the great depression. It also failed because of a right wing that was so entrenched in the political system, that it bid to undermine everything the Front Populaire tried to achieve. It had been too much, too soon, and too left wing for a conservative country like France. By the end of April, Blum had been replaced by the Radical Édouard Daladier as président du Conseil, who remained in post from April 1938 to March 1940. During this time he steadied the ship by repealing much of the social reform of the Front Populaire and distancing himself from it. He got some big businesses to reinvest in France and presented a strong diplomatic force abroad. Backed by his Finance Minister, Paul Reynaud, he oversaw a good recovery of the economy, but he knew that the Republic of France was in trouble. He went to Munich in 1938 knowing that France would be playing second fiddle to Britain, and took a back seat to Georges Bonnet, a French politician and leading figure in the Radical Party, not involving himself in Chamberlain-style triumphalism on his return. Nevertheless, he was well received in the chamber after his visit and was perceived to have done what all of France wanted: avoid a war.

After Munich Daladier began to realign himself, courting the Soviet Union once he was sure that any links to the Front Populaire were firmly cut, but making it clear that he in no way intended to promote Bolshevism, only peace. When Hitler occupied Prague, he stepped up rearmament and stood on the side of Britain over the Polish corridor, changing France’s policy of appeasement to one of diplomatic resistance. This in itself was a result of a swing in public opinion – from determination to avoid war, to regret at having avoided international responsibilities.

Nevertheless, France was restricted to a defensive strategy; the aim of the leaders was to engage in a defensive war, making France’s borders impenetrable and hitting Germany with economic blockades. A series of concrete armament installations, fortifications and obstacles, the Maginot Line was built on the French side of her borders with Switzerland, Germany and Luxembourg, with construction beginning well before the Second World War, in 1928. The concrete structures were served by a complicated system of underground tunnels and railway lines, meaning those manning it could go for weeks without seeing sunlight. Its primary role was to avoid a repeat of the types of losses that had been endured in the First World War. These losses, both human and material, had been disastrous for France, where so much of the fighting had taken place.

Neither Marshal Pétain nor Pierre Laval, traditionally the villains of the story of Vichy collaboration, expressed an attitude towards Germany that was out of kilter with the right-wing French politicians of 1939. For them, it was far better to deal with Germany, led by a strong, charismatic leader like Hitler, than to be infiltrated by the internal enemy, or the ‘anti-France’. These dangers to the patrie française were the internal Communist Party, the Jewish establishment that had infiltrated France’s economic infrastructure and the influx of immigrants from the east – even more Jews that presented a danger to Catholic idealism.

The far right of French politics, in which the ideologies of leagues such as Action Française and Croix de Feu played a central part, were more concerned by the enemies within than the enemies without. Hatred of the Germans had been intense throughout the 1920s due to the catastrophic physical and emotional results of the First World War, and the far right had openly criticised the governments of that decade for not making Germany pay heavily enough. However, by the mid 1930s admiration had grown for Germany’s resilience and this, together with a huge distaste for the success of the Front Populaire, meant that the personality and success of Adolf Hitler held some allure for those with fascist leanings. They also saw the success of nationalist movements by Franco in Spain and Salazar in Portugal, while Mussolini had created ties with Hitler that were benefiting Italy.

The majority of French people in the mid 1930s were not concerned about Germany’s remilitarisation; rather, the overriding concern – of the people and most French politicians – was the avoidance of war. Nobody wanted bloodshed such as had been witnessed twenty years earlier, and foreign and defence policy was hugely influenced by a finely balanced pacifism. The governments of the Front Populaire were the first to employ a hurried programme of remilitarisation due to events over the Rhine, but in fact remilitarisation had begun even earlier, in 1934. Blum, however, increased spending significantly, upping the ante by putting concerted effort into building tanks after Germany’s Anschluss with Austria in 1938.

French defence policy in the 1930s was in turmoil. The left wing, including the communists, was eager to put the brakes on Hitler’s progress. Having to tread carefully, Blum’s left wanted a policy of a strengthened national defence. The right, on the other hand, were urging negotiation and co-operation with Hitler’s Germany. For them a peaceful co-existence with a strong Germany as a bulwark against Soviet communism and internal left-wing forces was far preferable to Blum and his Front Populaire. A slogan emerged, ‘Rather Hitler than Blum’ – an invitation to peace, rather than one to invade.

In a thinly veiled reference to Jews and communists, Pierre-Étienne Flandin, former French conservative prime minister and leader of the Democratic Republican Alliance (ARD), wrote that ‘occult forces’ were ‘dragging the country to war’, while right-wing publications supported the Munich agreement by openly articulating a refusal to go to war for the ‘Judeo-Bolshevik’ refugees, who were themselves seeking revenge on Germany. Blum called for the Munich delegation to make a firm stand against Hitler. He was caught between ‘relief and shame’ at the appeasement – it was the Communist Party who vehemently opposed the accord.

These opposing ideas on France’s foreign policy were little more than a conflict of ideology until things came to a head in 1939, as the overall policy of a defensive approach was challenged very little if at all. With the Maginot Line in place, it was considered inconceivable that German troops would be able to penetrate the Ardennes, so that area was lightly defended – the River Meuse, it was believed, would be impossible to traverse, and much of the terrain would be impassable anyway. France had not wanted to offend its neutral neighbour Belgium, so the Maginot Line stopped at the beginning of the Belgian border. Stretching south from the English Channel to the Ardennes, the Seventh, First and Ninth Armies dug into what would become known as the Daladier Line – a series of lighter defences. France had developed its strategy based on a public belief that war must be avoided at all costs, and so no military planning could be seen to threaten an outbreak of conflict; even Pétain advocated the defensive nature of France’s policy. The creation of the Maginot Line was a visual embodiment of this: concrete structures took the place of iron machines, and the well-photographed underground passageways and book-adorned living quarters bathed in artificial lighting spoke of a determination to dig in. When comparisons were made with the horrors of First World War trenches, it was claimed ‘defence was now about concrete rather than human flesh’. Additionally, despite Belgium’s declaration of neutrality in 1936, those in office believed – based on gentlemen’s agreements and personal ‘links’ – that Belgium would allow French soldiers on her land to take up advanced fighting positions, and that they would benefit from any intelligence provided by the Belgians. France’s view of the army was outdated and focused, even relied, on such nostalgic concepts.

To compound these misapprehensions, both the French army and population at large regarded the French armed forces as highly effective, well equipped and highly skilled. The French military leadership insisted that conscription continued to be the best way to procure an effective and fresh fighting force, and the professional soldier was only required to lead vast reserves of men, called upon when needed. There was no recognition that Germany had moved on and continued to do so while France concentrated on her internal enemies in an unstable political climate that kept tearing itself apart.

Paul Reynaud, Finance Minister in Édouard Daladier’s post-Blum government and in 1940 président du Conseil, was one of the very few politicians to recognise that France’s army was in need of modernisation. He read and was heavily influenced by a little-known book published in 1934, Vers l’armée de métier (Towards a Professional Army), written by an unknown lieutenant colonel called Charles de Gaulle. Reynaud put in front of Parliament its ideas, such as moving the machinery of war forward to reflect the technology of the modern age, and making up the armed forces with professional soldiers rather than conscripted civilians. These soldiers would be retained and upskilled, leading to fewer losses and more efficient fighting, and they would be complemented by the use of up-to-date machinery that would require fewer fighters. Reynaud’s suggestions were defeated by a comfortable majority, and de Gaulle’s foresight was lost.

At the end of August 1939, Germany and the Soviet Union were at loggerheads over Poland. It seemed possible that the world was about to be at war again unless Hitler backed down. It was also conceivable that the two opposing ideologies of fascist Germany and the communist Soviet Union would blow each other apart. Instead, during the second half of August 1939 news broke that Nazi Germany had signed a commercial accord with the Soviet Union. On 23 August Europe gasped when a pact of non-aggression was signed between the two countries, and suddenly the USSR, seen since the Munich Agreement of 1938 as the absolute foe of Nazi Germany, became a mighty enemy to France and Britain. Daladier declared that the unknown terms of the vague treaty increased greatly ‘the chances of an attack against France’s allies, or against France herself’. As well as precluding a unilateral attack against each other, the accord also ensured that the world knew that, should Britain or France uphold the promise to support Poland should Germany invade, the USSR would not side with them. When Molotov and Ribbentrop announced this Nazi–Soviet Pact of non-aggression, Stalin opened the door to Poland for Hitler, and war was inevitable.

So began the systematic destruction of the PCF, now considered a dangerous satellite organisation of Moscow within French borders that could and would collaborate with an ever-strengthening and ever more belligerent Nazi Germany. The last few years of the Third Republic bore witness to a methodical crushing of the communists that would lay the foundations for the harsher realities of the Vichy police state.

Communist party members and militants had been caught off guard by Stalin’s negotiations with Hitler, and many felt aggrieved at the betrayal. Gustave Saussot, a former mechanic and now député for Nontron in the Dordogne, responded by announcing, ‘This pact concerns us all directly. By signing this treaty with Nazi Germany, Stalin has stuck a knife into the backs of England and France.’ Other communist leaders preached the idea of trusting in the judgement of Stalin, and avoiding appearing traitorous to Moscow, but Saussot was of the persuasion of the French Communist Party, which had adopted the ideals of Marxism but for whom patriotism as a Frenchman came first.

Even as a meeting took place on 25 August of the parliamentary Communist Party, the premises of the printer of the communist newspaper Humanité was raided by police. The following day Saussot, along with his colleague from and representing Bergerac, Paul Loubradou, sent his resignation letter to Jacques Duclos, secretary of the parliamentary Communist Party. In his letter, Saussot spoke of his admiration of the Soviet Union’s defence of republican Spain, Czechoslovakia and China, but criticised Moscow’s passivity towards Hitler’s threat of taking Danzig. According to Saussot, if a defensive position had been adopted there, Hitler would have been pushed back and it was for this reason he no longer wished to work with the Communist Party.

A few days later Loubradou explained his own resignation. He believed that the only guarantee of peace would have been if an Anglo-Franco-Soviet pact – something that would have, in the case of war, meant the ‘crushing of racism’ – had been made. Instead, claimed Loubradou, the new pact only served to encourage aggression, and he made a statement that sounded like an ominous death knell but would prove remarkably prescient: ‘It took Hitler five years of effort and savagery to crush communism – and freedom – in Germany, in Austria … in Czechoslovakia; it will only have taken five days for Stalin to crush it in France.’

Whereas the social idealism of the communists had always been unpopular with the French ruling classes and support for Marxism reached little further than the industrial north, these policies were not what ultimately sharpened the Third Republic’s knives towards the Communist Party. Rather it was the Nazi–Soviet pact that caused utter outrage. Despite public declarations by many militants that they took their orders from Paris rather than Moscow, communism became, for several years, public enemy number one.

On 26 September 1939 a government decree was made ordering the dissolution of all communist organisations, including affiliates. Daladier announced on 18 November that ‘just as foreigners, French individuals dangerous for national defence and public security could be interned by préfets.’

The Soviet invasion of Finland in November exacerbated matters for the remnants of the Communist Party, now underground. Images of the Finnish suffering on a snowy battlefront led the likes of right-wing writer Charles Maurras to declare that the Soviet Union should be broken in Finland as elsewhere. By January 1940 the right-wing Catholic député for the Gironde, Philippe Henriot, was ready to claim that ‘whoever is a follower of Stalin is a follower of Hitler’. The embattled communists were subject to a full-scale purge.

While not yet a police state, the dogged pursuit of those judged ‘dangereux pour la défense nationale ou la sécurité publique’ preoccupied many officials during the last days of the Third Republic. The resulting centres de séjour surveillé pour indésirables were created out of what became an important government policy that pre-dated the Daladier government, but on which it could build. The first of the centres was in Rieucros near Mende in the Lozère, and from 21 January 1939 tens of thousands of foreigners were interned there. Initially inmates were predominantly Spanish, but when war broke out Daladier’s government stepped up surveillance of political groups considered ‘subversive’, and allowed for the internment of any individual, foreign or otherwise, who was considered a threat to national defence or public safety. Once the Vichy state became established they were joined by Austrians, Poles, German Jews and further French communists.

***

With war on the horizon, action had been taken since June 1937 to evacuate those parts of Alsace-Lorraine in north-east France that fell within a contested zone. In all, 485,000 inhabitants from 417 communes within the Moselle, Haut-Rhin and Bas-Rhin would be required to travel south. Much of the population of the Bas-Rhin, including Strasbourg, would relocate towards the Dordogne, and parts of the Haute-Vienne and Clermont-Ferrand. The peoples of the Haut-Rhin would set off in the direction of the Landes, Lot-et-Garonne and Gers. No amount of planning could have made the operation run smoothly. Trains were prepared, but comfort was at a premium: many of the locomotives pulled agricultural or commercial transport wagons with little in the way of sanitation or access to food and water. The travellers had been told to bring supplies for ‘several days’ of transit but for many the journey was much longer.

In the first week of September 1939, Anne Vergez, aged 17, along with her family, was one such traveller. She was sitting near the doorway of a carriage designed for cattle: ‘I said to my mother, “Look I’ve got tanned legs!” She said to me: “Wait till you are washed, you’ll see if you are tanned!” In fact, I was just dirty! Nobody was able to wash for twelve days.’3 For others the journey was stop–start, with half-day pauses while the overcrowded rail network creaked under the weight of a simultaneous population migration and military mobilisation.

In less than a week seventy-eight trains transporting 87,300 people from the Strasbourg area were headed towards Périgueux. On 5 September, the Mayor of Périgueux asked for the city’s population to take in Alsatian families, estimating 3,000 new arrivals per day. The numbers would be higher, on certain days peaking at 10,000 people. The Croix Rouge set up teams in the Gare de Périgueux that provided much-needed food and comfort, as well as information about stations for ongoing transit – for many their journey was unfinished. Cars with loudspeakers circulated the streets confirming when the first trains had arrived. In all, Périgueux took in 11,375 Strasbourgeois, in doing so doubling its population and becoming Alsace-Lorraine’s first city. On 18 September 1939, the prefect of the Dordogne sent a letter to a colleague in Limoges saying, ‘We have arrived at a degree of saturation that is worrying me a lot’4

The refugees were sometimes treated suspiciously, particularly as the Strasbourgeois dialect sounded German. In some instances, the newcomers were referred to as ‘les Boches’, while in schools children were often called ‘ya-yas’ because of the sound groups of youngsters seemed to make together. The Périgourdins had their own patois as well, and their clipped regional accent was hard to understand for those unfamiliar with it. Country life required some getting used to for those from much more urban settings such as Strasbourg, where the quality of life was higher; indeed, some Alsatians noted that by going to the Périgord it felt like they were regressing by 150 years. In this environment, some hosts were put out by the request to provide for their ‘guests’, but most accepted it despite having little to spare.

The Belgian family of Marie-Josèphe Pauwelÿn came to the Dordogne in 1937 in search of a farm to rent, becoming French citizens and first settling in Normandy before seeking to diversify elsewhere. Marie-Josèphe was 4 years old when she arrived in Sencenac-Puy-de-Fourches near Brantôme, and the family soon grew with the arrival of a sister – the fourth child – in late September 1939. However, when her father was mobilised in summer 1939, life became harder: that autumn her mother was unable to pull up the beetroot and 6-year-old Marie-Josèphe had to help so it would not spoil. Even when her father was sent back that December, his absence meant it would be a difficult time ahead for the farm. Marie-Josèphe recalled him crying each night because he had returned far too late in the year to successfully sow wheat.

An already difficult period was made far more difficult by the arrival of the Alsatians and Strasbourgeois:

I remember that my sister was in her cot and my mother had put a big table in between the cows. She cooked potatoes and gave milk to all these people that had arrived from Agonac. They slept in the corner on the hay. A few days later some got up and left but a few remained.5

Those refugees who were found a space in a family home, though restricted for space, learned that their lot was a fortunate one. For many, their initial accommodation was in a school. Others were set up in man-made sheds or even caves that were little more than hovels, without heating, electricity or water. To ease the problems, it was decided that 165 barracks would be built around the larger towns – huge sheds to shelter up to 100 people each.

Space was not the only commodity at a premium: funds were also sparse, meaning that most welfare tasks had to take place in the larger towns, usually Périgueux. Other important administrative functions were relocated around the immediate area. The Hôpital civil de Strasbourg was transferred to Clairvivre in Périgueux, but, despite large spaces and a convenient location, preparations for the ill and the workers were nowhere near complete. Meanwhile, a huge task was undertaken so that the new hospital for the refugees, with its 120 beds, could be opened.

Mobilisation

At 4.15 a.m. on 1 September 1939 a general mobilisation of the French military was decreed for Saturday 2 September at midnight. TSF radio sets were rare so, as in 1914, bells rang out to alert the population, and to announce the mobilisation of all army reservists. A muted sadness reigned. Some felt as though the war graves completed just twenty-one years previously were still warm. Jean Marotin, who had travelled to Mussidan to visit his son Robert, a railway worker, when the invasion of Poland had taken place, recorded his thoughts in a private diary: ‘From now on, after the departure of each train leading the men of Mussidan away, fathers, mothers, wives, children file away along the street, overcome, in tears, handkerchief on the eyes or on the mouth. It is like coming back from the cemetery after the funeral.’6

Reservists were surprised at the lack of readiness they encountered. Alphonse Dureisseix was just 20 years old when he was allocated to the 196th Régiment d’Artillerie in Bordeaux:

Nobody was ready for war like in 1914. When we left Bordeaux, we went to Bassens to collect lorries and pieces of artillery. There were tractors and lorries that were brand new. I asked my captain why we were taking old lorries and not the new ones. He said that we would have them when the time came. Some reservists had neither guns nor uniform.7

Throughout the country the feeling was one of resignation.8 4.5 million men were drafted in France and her colonies, and there was very little refusal to sign up even if there was a distinct lack of enthusiasm for war: no one wanted a repeat of the 1914–18 conflict. Nevertheless, recalled veterans of the First World War passed on much-needed positivity created by the 1918 victory.

Writer Roland Dorgelès, while visiting the front line in October 1939, commented in the publication Gringoire that ‘war was not drôle [funny], but it was certainly une drôle de guerre [a funny war]’. The following nine months would be defined by this term: very little happening, few signs of German aggression and French soldiers battling with little other than boredom. The British called it a ‘phoney war’.

France had wanted, and had planned, its resources for a long-term, defensive battle, hoping to force Germany to retreat and rethink. But the blitz of the victorious German effort quickly extinguished this hope. France’s fall not only came quickly, but her allies seemed to have deserted her. Britain’s retreat via Dunkirk would prove vital in the course of the war, but at the time it was perceived by some French as a cowardly abandonment. A lack of assistance from Holland and neutral Belgium meant that France was under-informed as to the state of the defences of those countries. Despite some examples of feeble resistance such as the second-class troops along the Meuse, there had also been some stern and heroic defence, such as in Lille. There was no absolute collapse in morale, just poor tactics and jumbled leadership as Hitler and his generals remained nervous of a counter-attack that never came. In being defeated thus, France lost a whole army to prisoner-of-war camps within Germany.

Still the defeat was a shock. Just nine months earlier France considered itself to have one of the strongest armies in the world, but it had collapsed in a period of six weeks, having come up against 136 well-equipped, effective and thoroughly modern divisions. The lack of modernisation and forward-thinking among the military leadership meant that the French forces were routed by extraordinary German gains between 10 May 1940 and 17 June 1940. The French army was well resourced, and its tanks were among the best – but the French method of using them statically was outdated in comparison to Germany’s blindingly quick forward manoeuvres. The men on the ground, the leaders and the public were shocked by the losses they had endured in so short a space of time.

***

On 17 June 1940 two schoolboys looked disbelievingly at the newspaper headlines that shouted from the kiosks along the leafy boulevard Montaigne in Périgueux. The French army was defeated, France’s Prime Minister – now Paul Reynaud – had resigned and Marshal Philippe Pétain, a general during the last war, had offered himself as a gift to the French people. An armistice with the enemy loomed. The boys, both 15, were shocked – not so much by defeat but by the manner in which France had given up.

The two boys were both French, and ‘Périgourdins’. One, Léon Lichtenberg was originally from Poland and the other was his best friend, Raphael Finkler, who, like his friend, was brought to Périgueux in the mid 1930s. His parents were Romanian and had fled to France when they felt threatened by rising anti-Semitism in their own country, but they also sought a better life. They moved to Paris where Raphael was born, but stayed for only a matter of months. Having family in Périgueux, they headed there for an easier existence. Life in the open spaces and fresher air, and in the semi-rural surroundings of the region’s capital, suited them far better than what they had known in Paris.

The Finkler family fled the economic and social difficulties of Paris just like the Lichtenbergs, who were equally concerned by the uncomfortable anti-Semitism swelling in France. In the Périgord, however, where Jews were few and far between, danger seemed some way off. The two families became firm friends.

Neither of the boys fully understood the international politics that had led to war nor had insight into the level of significance their cultural and religious background would have in the years to come – raised in France and a product of the secular republican school system, religion meant very little to either of them. Indeed, if asked, Raphael would define himself as atheist, and even his parents respected certain traditional dates and festivals primarily only to catch up with family and friends.

Both Raphael’s and Léon’s parents had taught the boys to know that racism and fascism were unwelcome scourges on the world, so on that June day, they knew enough to decide that something had to be done. The boys had followed events abroad more closely than most, and recognised the 1938 Munich agreement as the failure that it was. However, they regarded themselves not as Jewish but as concerned onlookers with socialist leanings. They believed that war would be avoided, then watched as ‘Poland was crushed, and nobody made a move. We had a general staff of imbeciles and politicians who were capitulators.’9 They worried about the reaction of the population, both locally and nationally – it was muted, and worryingly almost satisfied: a blind deference to Pétain, the victor de Verdun. The cessation of fighting seemed for most to be a blessed relief. Raphael and Léon saw it differently. They knew something had to be done, but had no idea what. The majority of the population had no such thoughts and were content to see normality resume. But as sparse and isolated as they were, like-minded individuals refused to accept France’s lot.

Defeat and the Birth of Vichy France

During June 1940 the roads leading south became packed with refugees fleeing northern France, Belgium and Holland. Many columns of terrified men, women and children, estimated to number between 6 and 10 million individuals, travelled slowly in carts, on bikes, in vehicles or on foot. The roads were blocked, the sound of engines was, in places, deafening and in towns the hot air mixed with engine fumes. Further south, vehicles were abandoned having run out of fuel. As far south as Angoulême these slow-moving columns of people, scared for their future plight, were caught up in attacks on the retreating army, costing hundreds of civilians their lives.

The French government was also on the move, adding to the feeling of fear, chased from Paris by the advancing German army. Beleaguered politicians were headed south-west: a long land train making its way slowly over the damaged roads to Bordeaux, after a short stay at Tours. In the Périgourdin town of Mussidan drivers of packed trains refused to leave the station. There was no bread left to buy and the water was each day being cut off for several hours. Windows were left open with radios on so that passers-by could hear the news, and inhabitants gave of what little they had: some townspeople made cauldrons of soup, while others allowed refugees to sleep in their homes or outbuildings.

The last president of the Third Republic, Albert Lebrun, called on Marshal Philippe Pétain to replace Reynaud at the head of the government. Reynaud was torn, not wanting to give up but out of options as his military persuaded him that innocents were dying with every passing day. Germanophile and career politician Pierre Laval worked behind the scenes to manoeuvre Pétain into place, and Reynaud was persuaded that Pétain would act as a figurehead, nothing more. Pétain accepted Reynaud’s job, which he occupied for just under a month before assuming Lebrun’s own role. Lebrun met with Pétain envisaging a plan to continue the military resistance against the Germans from the North African colonies, but instead Pétain produced a list of ministers favourable to capitulation, from which he formed his government.

Having secured his place as the new prime minister, Marshal Pétain called for arms to be laid down by the French army. He made a speech on 17 June 1940 at 12.30 p.m., declaring, ‘With a heavy heart I say … that it is necessary to try and stop the fighting [C’est le coeur serré que je vous dis aujourd’hui qu’il faut tenter de cesser le combat].’ During the speech he cleverly offered himself as a ‘gift’ to the French people. He was yet to even request armistice terms, but even so many Périgourdins breathed a sigh of relief when he appeared at the head of the government. After all, here was a trusted pair of hands to safeguard the country as he appeared to save it from the brink of defeat.

On the ground, military units were ordered to retreat, with divisions headed into southern regions not knowing whether they would be returning to the fight. During the retreat, Payzac, in the north-west of the Dordogne, played host to an armoured division. Its local population helped to accommodate personnel, including General Charles Delestraint, later the first leader of the AS. The following month, at the camp of Caylus in the Tarn-et-Garonne, Delestraint spoke to his soldiers before they were demobilised:

France is caving into a terrible disaster. It is up to us now, it is especially up to you, the young, to see that France does not die … If we keep faith in the destiny of the country, if we behave as Frenchmen and not as beaten dogs or slaves, if we know how to want it, France will one day be reborn from its current ordeal.

In Réthondes on 22 June, in the same railway carriage where German defeat had been sealed in 1918, the armistice was signed between Hitler and Pétain. For Pétain, the main aim was to ensure France was not subjugated by its occupiers.i He began with partnership with the Germans in mind but intended to negotiate with Hitler in the months to come. Determined that France should rekindle her own identity and re-establish herself on the world stage, Pétain was an ambitious 84-year-old. His view, however, of what collaboration with Germany might look like differed from Hitler’s, as events of the next fours years would demonstrate.

After a short stay in Clermont-Ferrand, it became clear that the nearby spa town of Vichy offered more and better hotel facilities for the new seat of government, so it was chosen for the new state. Pétain arrived on 2 July, and Parliament met eight days later, with what remained of the députés and senateurs, at the Grand Casino de Vichy. Also present was Pierre Laval, who used all his skills to persuade opponents to accept the proposition to hand over full powers to Pétain, and to end the Republic. Eighty voted against the motion, twenty abstained and 569, whether through belief, fear or opportunism, voted in favour.

Laval’s desire for France to lock arms with its, in his eyes, stronger neighbour was foolhardy. He saw France as key to Germany’s future, but, although the armistice was not particularly harsh on the French, Hitler had very different ideas. Politically the armistice was only meant to be a short-term deal to be replaced, it was assumed, by a peace settlement progressively more beneficial to France. But, even so, it didn’t take long for the French economy to feel the pinch of the agreement. Trade and exports became expensive as monies had to go through a German-imposed clearing system, not to mention that the French had to pay for the upkeep of the German army: an estimated 20 million Reichsmark a day.

France’s defeat had hurt the political classes as well. Vichy propaganda painted the Third Republic as too concerned with leftist social policy to prepare for a war, and Édouard Daladier, Léon Blum, Paul Reynaud and General Gamelin (head of the French army) were locked up as a result. In his later speeches Pétain blamed the parliamentarians and the temperament of the French people themselves for the defeat – making no mention of the poor decision-making and incoherent command of military leaders.

As a government minister under Reynaud and an army general during the Battle of France, and unhappy with the state of affairs, de Gaulle found himself unwelcome in his own country for fear of arrest. On 17 June he flew to London with his entourage and worked to establish a French army from there, based largely around Frenchmen who were already in England following the evacuation of Dunkirk. The next day he responded to Pétain’s calls to put down arms by encouraging the military in France and overseas to do the opposite. His famous speech, broadcast by the BBC, drew on sentiments of France as eternal and encouraged a continuation of the struggle that Pétain had given up. For the French people this appel summarised all that de Gaulle – someone they didn’t know at all – would become to them: a beacon of hope, a man of action and a rallying point for refusers.

For Charles Sarlandie, of Les Monts, near Saint-Mesmin, the new regime had led to chaos. After his unit, Groupe Aérien d’Observation (GAR 1/52) de Limoges, had been disbanded, he returned to Sarrazac, where he took up a teaching job. He commented, ‘Back in France we came into a total upheaval. It was a monstrous shambles. Everything was disorganised: services, supplies. The army, well there was no longer one. It was decimated and scattered around. The armistice treaty had practically feudalised France to Germany …’10

He also proclaimed the new regime a pseudo-government, and an illegal entity. For de Gaulle ‘la France libre’, or as he preferred to call it, ‘la France’, was the only legitimate authority, though he stopped short at claiming it to be a constitutional governance. Several months later, he proclaimed:

There no longer exists a government that is properly French. Effectively the body situated in Vichy and which claims to carry that name is unconstitutional and submissive to the invader. In this state of servitude, this organisation is only, and can only be, an instrument used by France’s enemies, against the honour and the interests of the country.11

As German columns began their journey north into the occupied zone they passed many hundreds of malnourished, unshaven demobilised soldiers heading in the other direction. No longer having to look out for German bombers above, these were the men who had escaped death or captivity and were headed either home or to their barracks. Lieutenant Georges Friedmann, a philosopher who later had a part to play in the creation of the first Resistance networks in the southern zone, commented on what he had seen in mid June in Niort, a few days after Pétain had made his famous speech:

A whole country seems suddenly to have given itself up. Everything has collapsed, imploded … Today, among many French people, I do not detect any sense of pain at the misfortunes of their country: during the days of this perfectly pure summer in these villages, towns, and camp stations of Limousin, Périgord, and Guyenne, among so many civilians and soldiers … I have only observed a sort of complacent relief (sometimes even exalted relief), a kind of base atavistic satisfaction at the knowledge that ‘for us it’s over’ … without caring about anything else.12