of the Soviet Union. No sooner was he appointed than Rottée brought in his protégé Fernand David to head the anti-communist Brigades Spéciales, and, shortly afterwards, his own nephew, René Hénoque, as head of the anti-terrorist unit. David, who was in his early thirties, was arrogant and extremely ambitious; he would soon be known as the ‘patriots’ executioner’. Both brigades were to work closely with the Germans, particularly with the Gestapo.
There was no trouble finding recruits. Offered better pay, more freedom, plain clothes rather than uniforms, the promise of rapid promotion, and the chance to catch ‘enemies’ rather than persecute Jews and Freemasons, few of the young men refused. In other parts of occupied France, policemen, similarly seduced by ideas of power and promotion, hastened to volunteer for similar local Brigades Spéciales. The first were chosen from men who had already distinguished themselves as interrogators, but soon the new recruits were busy learning about surveillance, letter drops, safe houses, how to detect suspicious behaviour, all the telltale signs of the clandestine life. Rottée treated them well, inviting them to receptions, singling out those who performed particularly well and calming the doubts of the few who were troubled by the morality of spying on their fellow citizens. Soon they were perceived as an elite, with special privileges, generous expenses, access to many rationed items and even, occasionally, the possibility of securing the release of a relative who was a prisoner of war from a camp in Germany.
What Rottée had quickly understood was that everything depended on surveillance. His men worked in shifts, returning to the office to write up detailed reports. He taught them to develop their memory, to study minutely faces and gestures and clothes and to write down precisely what they observed. Some brought years of knowledge of the Communist Party to the job; others were skilled at deciphering codes. In the offices on the second floor of the Prefecture, on the Ile de la Cité in Paris, a card index was slowly assembled, of names, addresses, contacts, activities, pseudonyms, identifying characteristics, all greatly assisted by an army of informers, resentful neighbours, jealous friends and zealous bosses. Some of the tale-bearers sent in photographs with their denunciations. Every lead was followed up, every dossier of suspected communists picked over. Blackmail, bribes, promises, all brought in information.
Placing his men at strategic points around Paris, on bridges, by métros and train stations, and using old men, women and even children as extra spotters, Rottée’s officers, all through the autumn of 1941, began to assemble a picture of clandestine Paris. They watched, they followed—Rottée had arranged for them to have rubber rather than wooden soles to attract less attention—and they waited. Sometimes they disguised themselves as postmen, or electricity inspectors come to read the meter. When the people they were following appeared too anxious and too watchful, they backed away.
The moment would arrive when their card index would reveal the identity of entire networks of the Resistance; but not quite yet. And so, day by day, the inspectors returned to the Prefecture and filled in their report cards with minute descriptions. ‘1.80m, 30, moustache, slight limp, green overcoat’ and ‘1.55m, 20s, elegant, white socks, hat with a feather’, for among those they followed up and down the streets of Paris, along the banks of the Seine, through squares and over bridges, into parks and in and out of métro stations, were many women. The inspectors called Betty ‘Ongles Rouges’, because of her brightly painted red fingernails, and her stylish clothes.
Arthur Dallidet, attempting to instil in the resisters a proper sense of danger, kept telling them to vary their routes, wear different clothes, change the letter drops. Look elegant and coquettish, he
There was no trouble finding recruits. Offered better pay, more freedom, plain clothes rather than uniforms, the promise of rapid promotion, and the chance to catch ‘enemies’ rather than persecute Jews and Freemasons, few of the young men refused. In other parts of occupied France, policemen, similarly seduced by ideas of power and promotion, hastened to volunteer for similar local Brigades Spéciales. The first were chosen from men who had already distinguished themselves as interrogators, but soon the new recruits were busy learning about surveillance, letter drops, safe houses, how to detect suspicious behaviour, all the telltale signs of the clandestine life. Rottée treated them well, inviting them to receptions, singling out those who performed particularly well and calming the doubts of the few who were troubled by the morality of spying on their fellow citizens. Soon they were perceived as an elite, with special privileges, generous expenses, access to many rationed items and even, occasionally, the possibility of securing the release of a relative who was a prisoner of war from a camp in Germany.
What Rottée had quickly understood was that everything depended on surveillance. His men worked in shifts, returning to the office to write up detailed reports. He taught them to develop their memory, to study minutely faces and gestures and clothes and to write down precisely what they observed. Some brought years of knowledge of the Communist Party to the job; others were skilled at deciphering codes. In the offices on the second floor of the Prefecture, on the Ile de la Cité in Paris, a card index was slowly assembled, of names, addresses, contacts, activities, pseudonyms, identifying characteristics, all greatly assisted by an army of informers, resentful neighbours, jealous friends and zealous bosses. Some of the tale-bearers sent in photographs with their denunciations. Every lead was followed up, every dossier of suspected communists picked over. Blackmail, bribes, promises, all brought in information.
Placing his men at strategic points around Paris, on bridges, by métros and train stations, and using old men, women and even children as extra spotters, Rottée’s officers, all through the autumn of 1941, began to assemble a picture of clandestine Paris. They watched, they followed—Rottée had arranged for them to have rubber rather than wooden soles to attract less attention—and they waited. Sometimes they disguised themselves as postmen, or electricity inspectors come to read the meter. When the people they were following appeared too anxious and too watchful, they backed away.
The moment would arrive when their card index would reveal the identity of entire networks of the Resistance; but not quite yet. And so, day by day, the inspectors returned to the Prefecture and filled in their report cards with minute descriptions. ‘1.80m, 30, moustache, slight limp, green overcoat’ and ‘1.55m, 20s, elegant, white socks, hat with a feather’, for among those they followed up and down the streets of Paris, along the banks of the Seine, through squares and over bridges, into parks and in and out of métro stations, were many women. The inspectors called Betty ‘Ongles Rouges’, because of her brightly painted red fingernails, and her stylish clothes.
Arthur Dallidet, attempting to instil in the resisters a proper sense of danger, kept telling them to vary their routes, wear different clothes, change the letter drops. Look elegant and coquettish, he
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