Agent Josephine, page 33
In Casablanca, Josephine was just emerging from her long months of sickness. She began to take gentle strolls in the Parc Murdoch, adjacent to the clinic, lingering in the dappled shade cast by the olive groves. As she strengthened, she and Abtey decided that she was ready for a first proper outing – lunch at the Coup de Roulis, one of the finer restaurants that lined the Corniche.
They took a table before the fireplace, where logs crackled merrily, dispelling the last of the spring chill, chatting away and enjoying their first taste of normality for what felt like an age. In truth, it actually was. Abtey and Bayonne had rushed Josephine from Marrakesh to the clinic back in June the previous year, making it ten months or so that she had been confined there. It was long past the due date when Josephine should spread her wings again and soar.
At one moment during that celebratory lunch, she paused and stared at the fire, her face growing serious. The sight of the flames brought images to her mind of homes and families burning in torment across the battlefields of Europe and further afield. In a world consumed by ‘monstrous hatreds’, if only a purifying fire could take hold, she told Abtey, vanquishing ‘human beasts of their criminal ambitions’.22 World dominion by a so-called master-race under Nazism – under Hitler – still needed to be fought and defeated. There was much to be done.
Of course, she was right. Although their work in Morocco was bearing fruit, on the wider canvas the war was not going well. Across the Atlantic, over which they enjoyed such a spectacular view from the Coup de Roulis, a battle was raging, a bitter and bloody fight to the death. The U-boat packs were hunting, and the losses suffered by the Allies were proving crippling. In the first ten months of 1942 over 500 ships would be sunk, as the wolf packs operating off this coast plundered America’s eastern seaboard.
The battle for the Atlantic would peak in May and June 1942, with over two hundred ships lost in just two months. This included a Norwegian tanker and a US destroyer steaming just off the New York and New Jersey State coastline. A complete blackout was imposed on the dock areas in New York City, as President Roosevelt was forced to admit that all was not going well, via a broadcast to the nation. ‘We have most certainly suffered losses,’ he acknowledged, ‘from Hitler’s U-boats in the Atlantic as well as from the Japanese in the Pacific – and we shall suffer more of them…’23
Today in Casablanca they might well toast Josephine’s recovery, but not the turning of the tide in this war. As matters transpired, even those limited celebrations would prove premature. The day had seemed to tire Josephine out of all proportion. By the evening she was running a terrible fever. She murmured to herself words of encouragement, but shortly she lapsed back into unconsciousness.24 By dawn of the following day, she was seriously unwell. Bedding down on the cot in her room, Abtey resumed his vigil, but as Dr Comte warned him, the patient appeared to be suffering a relapse. A bad one.
The infection was back with a vengeance. Within hours, Josephine’s condition was deemed critical. ‘Extremely serious…’ The good doctor’s words reached Josephine only faintly, ‘through a blur of pain’. 25 If anything, ‘the evil was getting worse’, as Abtey described it. ‘Once again, death lurked around the room…’ Tortured, anguished, he was consumed by fear: ‘everything seemed to be coming together, this time, to reduce us to nothing.’26
In response to Apostle Bartlett’s request to reforge their links with Paillole, Abtey was already in the midst of planning a trip to Marseilles. He intended to travel under the cover of being a Red Cross official, supposedly inspecting the conditions in the camps holding French prisoners-of-war. But he put the trip on hold indefinitely, due to Josephine’s parlous state, and in spite of her spirited remonstrations.
‘Where would we be,’ she objected, her voice weakened by fever, ‘if, in the midst of combat, the soldier gave up the fight to go to the bedside of a wounded comrade?’ He should go regardless, she urged. Abtey refused. He knew how his presence ‘could help her to get through the battle’. And he knew how crucial it was that she rallied, for the ‘very particular services she could… render’ to France and the wider Allies.27
It wasn’t until Dr Comte reassured him that Josephine was past the worst, that Abtey relented. As spring 1942 rolled towards summer, he caught a boat to Marseilles, to meet with Paillole, but he carried his worries about Josephine everywhere he went. He travelled in the company of Big Bill, Sydney’s enforcer, for he also sought to fire up their gangster network across France, to extend the dragnet of underground intelligence-gathering still further. In Marseilles, he would recruit the Andreani brothers, Antoine and Simon, Sydney’s close associates and kingpins of the French crime scene.28 Their underworld network reached as far as Paris, and Abtey had Abwehr and Gestapo agents in his sights, plus their gold- and currency-smuggling rackets.
Much of the wealth stolen from Jewish families, and other victims of the Nazis, was being laundered via those supposedly policing that process, so they could line their own pockets. Of course, they were hedging their bets, in case the Allies actually won the war. While in Marseilles, Abtey kick-started the Paillole pipeline, with immediate results. He secured intelligence on the departure from the port of Bordeaux of a fleet of U-boats, plus other warships; details of the Atlantic defences erected by the German military along the French coastline, plus a list of Abwehr agents working across France. The information was red-hot, and Abtey would spirit it into the hands of a delighted Bartlett.
It was early summer 1942 when he telephoned the Casablanca clinic, to check in on Josephine. Her nurse, Marie Rochas, took the call, for Josephine was unable to talk. During the long months that she had spent with her patient, Marie Rochas’ devotion had become ‘a passion’ and she hovered over Josephine protectively, like an ‘angel’.29 Abtey had huge respect for her, so when she told him how bad things had got, he made a dash for the clinic to be at Josephine’s bedside.
He arrived, only to find the long-suffering patient tortured with pain, ‘her body folded in two, her legs up to her head’.30 Abtey was distraught. ‘What I saw made a deep impression on me: her face was taught, her skin had taken on the colour of wax, her eyes were extinguished.’ Josephine smiled weakly but seemed unable to speak. He took her hand, and was struck by how thin she had become. She was being fed intravenously, for the repeated bouts of infection had led to an intestinal obstruction. Dr Comte was contemplating surgery, but feared his patient was too weak to survive it.
The first night that Abtey spent with her proved one of the most difficult of his entire life. Marie Rochas had just given Josephine her medicines, and he believed she’d fallen asleep, but then she started to speak to him in whispers. She moved her arm in his direction, her voice barely audible. ‘Jack, take my hand,’ she murmured. ‘Jack, I would like to pray. Jack, I would like to pray.’31
In the midst of their prayers, Josephine drifted into a fevered sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Grim Reaper Calls
Time passed and from somewhere deep in her soul Josephine found the strength to rally. It was not yet her time. As she strengthened, Dr Comte decided to risk surgery. Without it, he doubted if she would ever truly be well. As the good doctor waited for just the right moment, June drifted towards July 1942, and Abtey was rarely absent from Josephine’s side. His network was self-supporting, the deliveries of ‘English cigarettes’ to Sydney’s Mafia proving regular as clockwork – the fuel that kept it running. He could remain at the centre, and all intelligence would be reported in, and from the Comte Clinic to Bartlett.
How did Josephine react to Abtey’s underworld connections and his espionage-driven smuggling operations? She was no stranger to that milieu, certainly. In her early teens, before breaking into Broadway, she’d toured the illegal drinking dens of Chicago to perform. It was the era of prohibition, when alcohol was banned in the USA, and the only places to get a drink were the illicit gin halls. With the Mob controlling the streets, as they did in Chicago in the 1920s, the police were paid off, to ensure they turned a blind eye.1
Then, during her early Paris years, Josephine had taken to frequenting the notorious nightclub Le Rat Mort – The Dead Rat – after her theatre performances, giving a second, private show. She worked tirelessly and she was perfectly at ease mixing with a crowd many of whom were Mafia-types. In fact, Le Rat Mort was actually owned by Corsican gangsters. It was a rough place, but Josephine was quite at home there. At two o’clock in the morning she’d twirl and laugh and spin, letting her most ardent – and wealthy – fans get an up-close taste of the superstar.2 She had never had so much fun, and among her clientele were the wealthy, the famous and more than a few Paris gangsters.
If, in the spring and summer of 1942, cutting a deal with the Moroccan/New York Mafia would help win the war, so be it. After all, the New York Mafia were good enough for the American Government to partner with, in Operation Underworld, and the British had their highly profitable, piratical smuggling fleets plying the seas, which Josephine and Abtey had to thank for their cigarette deliveries. They were simply following that lead.
During that early summer of 1942, Bartlett, the Californian cowboy, proved to be in an unusually ebullient mood. He’d received warm congratulations from Washington for the intelligence that he was providing via his Comte Clinic sources had proved to be absolute dynamite. An upbeat Bartlett railed against those senior French figures in Morocco who were still blindly dancing to Hitler’s tune. Why couldn’t they see the writing on the wall? He instructed Abtey to investigate each of them. If they only knew what was coming, he warned, they would think twice about retaining their Nazi sympathies.
Her strength returning, Josephine begged Dr Comte to operate, to put an end to her suffering. ‘We have to end it, Doctor, one way or another…’ she told him, bravely, ‘going backwards will not help…’3
On the morning of 28 June 1942 she finally got her way. As Josephine was wheeled into the clinic’s operating theatre, Abtey decided to head out, preferring to kill time in the Parc Murdoch. From the shade of the palm trees he kept watch on the window where he knew Josephine was going under the knife. When they lowered the blinds, it would signal the surgery was done. He’d been warned it would last two hours at least. Even so, his ‘nerves were stretched to breaking point’, as the life or death struggle unfolded.4 With the minutes ticking by, he was unable to keep still. As he wandered through the trees, images from his and Josephine’s shared past crowded into his head: of Château des Milandes, of kayaking on the Dordogne, of Lisbon, Marseilles, Marrakesh and so much more.
Abtey was pulled out of his reverie by a worried Dr Comte. He had had to halt the surgery prematurely. ‘If I had continued, I would have killed her,’ he confessed. ‘Maybe it will work itself out. I have done everything that is… possible, but the result is not so brilliant…’5
Short of Josephine not surviving the surgery, this was the news that Abtey had dreaded most. They were in limbo again… That night the patient was restless. The nurses could tell Abtey very little. They remained silent, tense, troubled. But early the following morning Josephine seemed to rally. She was conscious again. She started to chatter ‘like a magpie’.6 She picked up a radio and began to tune it to the music that she liked. It seemed impossible to think that she had just undergone surgery, even less that she was in mortal danger.
She demanded real, solid food. It was out of the question, of course, but they were amazed at such a spirited recovery. Later, Dr Comte passed by. He seemed astounded at the vitality of someone who had just been under the knife. Even so, he counselled caution. ‘We have to wait four days. Impossible to say anything before then.’7
On the 6 July 1942, eight days after her surgery, the doctor gave the magical pronouncement: Josephine would live. An analysis of her blood showed an unusually healthy number of red blood cells. She had deep, hidden strengths. They would have to wait two or three months, but as long as there were no further complications all should be fine. For Abtey, it felt like resurrection; a miracle.
Three weeks after the surgery, Josephine was out of bed. They were expecting a visitor. During his recent voyage to Marseilles, Abtey had by chance shared a cabin with one Ferdinand Zimmer. Zimmer, a Frenchman, had served as a submariner at the start of the war, which was odd, considering his physique – he stood over six feet tall and had an imposing build. They’d hit it off during the voyage, and Abtey had recruited Zimmer to the cause. He came to the clinic now, bearing news. A man of great daring, he was just back from Paris where he’d rendezvoused with a French agent working for the Gestapo.
That man was keen to get Zimmer to Berlin, to recruit him as a spy for Germany. Zimmer had told him they should meet in Casablanca, to flesh out their plans. He was due to arrive shortly, and Zimmer wanted to discuss exactly what they should do with such a traitor. Abtey argued that the first priority was to get him to talk. To pump him for information. Zimmer should engineer a meeting at which all could be present and they’d also warn Bartlett. Together, they’d ensure their visitor received just the right kind of a welcome. As with Sydney, Big Bill, El Hadj, General Richert and so many more, Zimmer was to become an indispensable part of their team; the Comte Clinic Resistance.
With the arrival of the warm summer weather, a thick cloud of locusts descended over the city. They whirled into Josephine’s room, crashing into the screens and piling up on the floor like leaves blown from the trees, their shiny wings reflecting the sunlight, which danced off the walls. Josephine thrilled to these exotic visitors – the glistening swarm. She tried to tame them, but to no avail. One of the nurses bustled in and began to stamp the insects underfoot. Josephine was furious.8
Abtey was buoyed by her reaction to the surprise airborne invasion, as Josephine played ‘like a schoolgirl’ amongst the locusts.9 At her request, he brought her books: her second biography of the Sun King – Louis XIV, Europe’s longest-serving monarch; a memoir of Napoleon’s exile on the island of St Helena. She had another welcome distraction, as she chafed at the bit to be free; welcome at least to her, but not so much with the clinic staff. She’d heard mewing at the window – a tiny stray cat, his voice sounding so far away.10
His legs were so weak, he kept collapsing into a ball. But not a ball of fluff. He had almost no hair, he was so riddled with pests. She demanded the cat be given refuge in her room. The clinic staff named him Fleabag. Josephine called him Saki. No bigger than a rat, she was sure she could nurse him back to health. All animals needed were some small acts of kindness, just as did people. Likewise, surrounded by tenderness herself – from Abtey, from Marie Rochas, from Dr Comte, and from her visitors – Josephine went from strength to strength.11
Across Europe other figures rallied to the call, the fight. In London, General de Gaulle – the leader whose June 1940 broadcast had first shown Josephine and her Château des Milandes crew the way of resistance – issued an appeal to arms. It was 24 June 1942, and his powerful words were published by underground newspapers across France and beyond.
‘The outcome of this war has become clear to all Frenchmen: it will be a choice between independence or slavery. The sacred duty of all must be to contribute to the… total annihilation of the invader. There is no hope for the future except in victory.’ Striking a distinctly Churchillian tone, de Gaulle signed off by appealing to all his compatriots to fight in the spirit of the country’s time-honoured motto, ‘of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity… Such a victory is worth all possible effort and all possible sacrifice…’12
De Gaulle was a figure not without controversy. The Americans remained reluctant to back him, despite London’s reassurances that this was the man to lead the French resurgence. But like it or not, by the summer of 1942 he was fast becoming the standout figurehead of the French Resistance. As the widely respected Economist news magazine declared of de Gaulle, he was ‘the unheeded and unrecognised prophet, the “voice in the wilderness”,’ which lent him an enduring appeal. ‘To the mass of Frenchmen, General de Gaulle remains the symbol of French resistance,’ the Economist concluded.13
In Washington, Roosevelt and Churchill gathered for their second wartime conference. In the midst of cementing their plans for Operation Torch – the first major joint US–British (Allied) counter-strike – there was calamitous news. A telegram arrived at the White House. Roosevelt read it first, before handing it to Churchill: ‘Tobruk has surrendered, with twenty-five thousand men taken prisoners.’14 (In fact, some 33,000 Allied troops had been captured at Tobruk).
At first, Churchill refused to believe it. If Rommel had taken Tobruk, he could use that strategically placed port to bolster his forces and complete his drive into Egypt. The Suez Canal would fall, severing a vital British lifeline for wartime supplies. Churchill demanded a call be put through to London, to check. It was, of course, all true. ‘I did not attempt to hide from the President the shock I had received,’ Churchill would write. ‘It was a bitter moment. Defeat was one thing; disgrace is another.’15
At the same time, the fighting on the Eastern Front had descended into horrific bloodshed and carnage. While Moscow was holding out, Leningrad lay under a brutal and bitter siege, and foremost in Churchill and Roosevelt’s minds was the need to relieve the pressure on the Russians. They’d pledged that America and Britain would open a second front, and by no later than the end of 1942. They were gunning for the French North Africa landings – Operation Torch – as the means to do so.
But many senior commanders demurred. As they were at pains to point out, such an operation would involve dispatching a vast fleet of warships from the USA, packed with men and machines, across 4,000 miles of an Atlantic ocean plagued by U-boats. The convoys would need air-cover, and how was that to be maintained over such distances? By contrast, Northern Europe – specifically France – lay just a few dozen kilometres from British shores, allowing British ports to be used as a staging post for any such invasion. But Churchill remained set on French North Africa, convinced as he was that seizing that territory would allow the Mediterranean to be won, enabling thrusts into the ‘soft underbelly’ of southern Europe.
