Chain-smoking English cigarettes from parachutages (a status symbol among maquisards ), he would talk offhandedly yet at breakneck speed about ‘old man Churchill’, ‘that chap De Gaulle’, Chinese art, the acoustics of a château dining-room, ‘occasionally interjecting “Your turn now!”, which it was as well not to take too literally as an invitation to reply’. When later captured, he claimed to have declared himself to the Germans as ‘the military chief of this region . . . I have nothing to confess. I have been your opponent since the day of the Armistice.’ He also convinced himself that his captors were of the notorious Das Reich Division, although by then they were a month gone from the department.
The FTP regarded Malraux with withering scorn and took no notice whatever of his opinions, and even the AS had their reservations about him. But Malraux visibly enjoyed the confidence of the F Section officers, and encouraged the résistants to believe that he himself was an SOE-trained officer with important influence on parachutages and weapons and money supplies. By the summer of 1944, he had become a familiar figure to the résistants of the region.
Asked many years later about the lack of substance in Malraux’s claims and achievements as a résistant , Jacques Poirier paused for a moment. Then he said: ‘There are a few people bornin every century who are important not for what they do, but for what they say. Malraux was one of those.’ All of them were mesmerized by his obsessive fluency, the torrent of ideas that flooded over their heads in conversation. Visiting the camps of bored young maquisards in the torrid heat of the summer woods, Poirier knew how to talk pragmatically to their leaders. But he watched fascinated as Malraux leaped on to the roof of a gazogène and harangued the guerillas about the glory of France, the dignity of struggle, the nobility of sacrifice. It was irresistible, and it brought tears to their eyes. Poirier quoted a favourite word of Malraux’s – un farfelu , a compulsive activist who is also half-crazy. Malraux had for years been obsessed with the story of Lawrence of Arabia, and had himself always been a compulsive role-player. There is no doubt that while other Frenchmen in the woods of the Corrèze in 1944 thought of the next parachutage , the next cigarette, Malraux saw himself acting out a great heroic drama.
Some maquisards joked about his unsoldierly appearance – a certain physical clumsiness, one eye chronically weeping, Basque beret tilted, the constant sniffing. Poirier admitted that it was difficult to concentrate Malraux’s attention on practical military problems. The SOE officer would urge: ‘André, we must discuss the blowing of that bridge.’ But Malraux would say: ‘No, tonight I think I would prefer to hear Casimir play the piano.’ And in the château that was now their headquarters, in the failing summer evening light Malraux would sit lost in thought, gazing at the ceiling, while their wireless operator played his brilliant repertoire of classical music surrounded by a little group of half-naked, half-literate maquisards lying beside their weapons.
But Malraux’s personal courage was beyond question. One day, he and Poirier were driving together down a road when they were hailed by a maquisard who warned them of German vehicles ahead. Neither man wished to be the first to suggest turning back. Poirier drove nervously but defiantly onwards, until inevitably they rounded a bend to meet a German tank. Poirier desperately swungthe car in a screaming turn. Malraux seized the small automatic pistol from his belt and absurdly – yet to Poirier, also nobly – stood up and emptied it at the tank. Miraculously they escaped to tell the tale, although later that summer Malraux was less fortunate. He was with George Hiller in a car that ran headlong into a German column. Malraux was slightly injured and captured. Hiller was terribly wounded and
The FTP regarded Malraux with withering scorn and took no notice whatever of his opinions, and even the AS had their reservations about him. But Malraux visibly enjoyed the confidence of the F Section officers, and encouraged the résistants to believe that he himself was an SOE-trained officer with important influence on parachutages and weapons and money supplies. By the summer of 1944, he had become a familiar figure to the résistants of the region.
Asked many years later about the lack of substance in Malraux’s claims and achievements as a résistant , Jacques Poirier paused for a moment. Then he said: ‘There are a few people bornin every century who are important not for what they do, but for what they say. Malraux was one of those.’ All of them were mesmerized by his obsessive fluency, the torrent of ideas that flooded over their heads in conversation. Visiting the camps of bored young maquisards in the torrid heat of the summer woods, Poirier knew how to talk pragmatically to their leaders. But he watched fascinated as Malraux leaped on to the roof of a gazogène and harangued the guerillas about the glory of France, the dignity of struggle, the nobility of sacrifice. It was irresistible, and it brought tears to their eyes. Poirier quoted a favourite word of Malraux’s – un farfelu , a compulsive activist who is also half-crazy. Malraux had for years been obsessed with the story of Lawrence of Arabia, and had himself always been a compulsive role-player. There is no doubt that while other Frenchmen in the woods of the Corrèze in 1944 thought of the next parachutage , the next cigarette, Malraux saw himself acting out a great heroic drama.
Some maquisards joked about his unsoldierly appearance – a certain physical clumsiness, one eye chronically weeping, Basque beret tilted, the constant sniffing. Poirier admitted that it was difficult to concentrate Malraux’s attention on practical military problems. The SOE officer would urge: ‘André, we must discuss the blowing of that bridge.’ But Malraux would say: ‘No, tonight I think I would prefer to hear Casimir play the piano.’ And in the château that was now their headquarters, in the failing summer evening light Malraux would sit lost in thought, gazing at the ceiling, while their wireless operator played his brilliant repertoire of classical music surrounded by a little group of half-naked, half-literate maquisards lying beside their weapons.
But Malraux’s personal courage was beyond question. One day, he and Poirier were driving together down a road when they were hailed by a maquisard who warned them of German vehicles ahead. Neither man wished to be the first to suggest turning back. Poirier drove nervously but defiantly onwards, until inevitably they rounded a bend to meet a German tank. Poirier desperately swungthe car in a screaming turn. Malraux seized the small automatic pistol from his belt and absurdly – yet to Poirier, also nobly – stood up and emptied it at the tank. Miraculously they escaped to tell the tale, although later that summer Malraux was less fortunate. He was with George Hiller in a car that ran headlong into a German column. Malraux was slightly injured and captured. Hiller was terribly wounded and
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