The Triangle

By Jack Agnew

This carefully researched novel tells of a group of Freemasons who became a Triangle in the French Resistance in WWII, performing intelligence activities and other tasks facilitating Operation Dragoon, the Allied invasion of southern France. Their adventures reveal little known aspects of history and Freemasonry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 4, 2006
• ISBN: 9781456790967

Jack Agnew

Former documentary film maker and college lecturer and now the author of both non fiction and fiction, he has written for both adults and children. His short stories and articles have been widely published and broadcast. THE TRIANGLE is his second published novel.

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© 2007 Jack Agnew. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/3/2007

ISBN: 978-1-4259-6860-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-9096-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Also by this author

Dedicated to

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

About the Author

Also by this author

An Expensive Game

Dedicated to t he real heroes and heroines

whose exploits inspired this story.

Acknowledgement t o

Dr. Keith Doney, w hose profound knowledge o f Masonry in Occupied France made t his work possible

Chapter One

Italy 1936

The image gradually formed, sharp and clear in the tray of developer. After all these years, Paul never tired of the magic of the photographic darkroom. Tall and slender, wearing his working apron, he bent over the bench. Although the picture was in monochrome the blue collar punctuated with gold shields and inlaid with semi-precious stones looked well. He called his wife, who was serving in their shop in front of the studio.

‘Amy. I have a photo for you to see. It cries out for your touch. It needs to be hand tinted in colour.’

‘I will come in a moment, I have a customer here.’

‘It is not ready yet. I will tell you when I have fixed it.’

The regalia was certainly impressive. Years ago the Worshipful Master had asked Paul to take it to his studio after the last meeting at the Lodge. There had been an unusual note of urgency in the Worshipful Master’s voice, when he suggested that he took it to his studio and hid it. Paul now understood why.

With the Fascists coming to power there could be no knowing when or where the Brethren would meet again. At the time the request seemed strange. This symbol of office seldom left the Lodge, except on an annual trip to one of the Brethren, a jeweller, who would add another gold shield and stone before it was passed to the next holder.

The Blackshirts had seized the Lodge and smashed its contents, but the Worshipful Master had already hidden the register of brethren . He and a few others had gone on meeting, but in absolute secrecy, in back rooms and Cafés.

Paul began to wash the photographic image. Suddenly there was a splintering sound. He could hear his wife screaming in reception. Then the din of raised voices came from the studio. Not bothering that he fogged the image over which he had taken such care, he flung open the darkroom door, yelling,

‘What is it, Amy?’

He could not believe what he saw. Three black shirted men, armed with pick axe handles, were kicking and smashing everything in the studio. An older man in the doorway was holding Amy by her shoulders. She struggled to be free, shouting,

‘Paul, Paul, I tried to stop them.’

‘What are you doing? Stop. Stop !’. he yelled , but the thugs, frenzied by their orgy of destruction, knocked over the lamps and their stands. Taking hold of the arm of one of the Blackshirts Paul made a grab at his pick handle , but the ruffian swung it away and then, barging him to the floor, crashed it against Paul’s leg. A shattering sound followed by a cascade of broken glass came from above as another lout battered the studio’s roof, thrusting a lamp and its stand up and down against it. The older man, who seemed to be their leader, suddenly saw a small camera on a cupboard. Flinging Amy to the floor, he shouted,

‘I’m having this !’

and then, seeing the regalia set up before the studio’s principle camera, snatched at it, triumphantly whooping,

‘Now this ought to be worth a few lira.’

Paul saw his precious camera and its pedestal toppling. He struggled up to save them, but the camera came crashing to the floor. Managing to drag himself to his feet, Amy lay on the floor and he screamed,

‘For God’s sake, what do you think you are doing?’

The youth who was pouring colour tinting inks on the tapestry of the posing dais chair, smirked, and sneered,

‘We can do anything we like. Didn’t you know you Free Mason scum were outlawed long ago, after the March on Rome? And now you, Signor photographer, have been found out at last. ‘

Amy struggled to her feet, but triumphantly swinging the Masonic regalia from his fingers their leader grabbed her again and looking over her shoulder at Paul, said.

‘Mario’s a clever lad. Years ago we did our duty. We Fascists have been cleansing Italy from scum like you. When the Blackshirts of this town visited your Lodge on the Via Vincenzi We thought we had finished you for good. I remember, that door was thick, but we smashed our way in and rubbished most of your Godless trash. But we never got a list of your names.’

Again Amy struggled, tearing her blouse. The Blackshirt laughed and taunted,

‘When Signor Mussolini, il Duce, outlawed you filthy anti-Christ Freemasons and your friends the Bolshevist scum, he meant forever. Completely. You have been meeting some of your more stupid brethren in secret since then. Mario here trains at Signor Petroni’s boxing gymnasium. He saw you and others going there, but not for exercise or boxing. Eh, Mario?’

Wiping his ink stained fingers on the tapestry chair, Mario grinned, saying,

‘You lot thought you were being clever, but you were too old to be training and you always went to the back room. I looked in there when you had gone and saw where a chalk circle had been drawn on the floor. You should have wiped it out more carefully. I asked our leader, here, what it could mean. He knew. You were easy to recognise.’

The Blackshirt who had been smashing the glass roof threw the studio light to the floor , stamping on it again and again. cracking its lens.

‘Outlawed. Means what it says. You are outside the law. We can do anything we like with you bastards and all your stuff. Smash it, take it and if you give us any trouble...’

He seized the crumpled lamp and jabbed it into Paul’s face.

‘We should have done this years ago. And no more of your filthy secret meetings or we will be back and you might not look so handsome and this pretty signora here had better watch out. She might not look so good if we get at her. We can do anything we like to you.’

Flinging the lamp down, he taunted,,

‘You know your so called Temple was given to us Avangardista. The fascist youth of the town have made good use of it. We ‘redecorated’ the walls with slogans loyal to il Duce.’

He kicked the lamp aside. Their leader , still clutching the regalia and camera, jeered,

‘I think we’ll be going now, Signor Freemason. It’s no use going to the carabinierie. We’re in charge now. Been nice meeting you, Brother.’

The Blackshirts left, laughing. A moment later Paul and Amy heard the chiming sound of the studio’s shop window being smashed.

Paul took Amy in his arms. She was trembling. Kissing her lightly on the forehead, he whispered, ‘Don’t be frightened. I will make everything all right. You’ll see. Italy is no place for us. We must leave. It’s only fit for fascists now.’

Later Amy tried to sweep up the shards of splintered glass as Paul examined the battered studio camera.‘Thank God they haven’t damaged the lens. The bellows have come apart a little , but I can fix that.’

‘I never realised that your being a Free Mason could lead to this. Why did you ever join? What harm have you done them? ‘

‘Masonry is about things those Blackshirt louts could never understand. It is about freedom of thought and real brotherhood.’

But Amy was not listening.

‘What are we going to do? Colette will soon be home from school and will see all this. What can we tell her? I am terrified for her sake after what those thugs said. It’s not safe to stay here.’

She stopped sweeping and began to sob. Putting down the camera, Paul went to her. Taking the broom from her, he clasped both her hands. whispering.

‘I know, I know. I will do anything to protect you both.’

Then gently putting his arms about her, said,.

‘We cannot return to Germany because I fear for you now that the Nazis are in power. It is no place for us. That is why we came here. We can save whatever is useful from the studio and shop and set up again.’

Rocking her gently in his arms, he murmured.,

‘We can make another new start. How would you like to live in France? I think they would be more tolerant there.’

Amy dried her eyes with her hands.

‘Even to someone called Paul Müller? Could you go on using your real name? There is still much hatred towards Germans in France.’

Paul thought for a moment,

‘We can put our stuff into store with one of the brethren here and take a holiday in France with Colette. We could look for a place where there is no photographer. I think Studio Paul would look good over a shop. How would that be?’. Amy nodded, but did not speak.

At that moment the shop doorbell pinged and Colette ran through to the studio. Stopping at its door she cried.

‘Oh Maman what have you done to your blouse? And Papa you have cut your face.’ She went to hug them, but seeing the destruction in the studio, stopped and sobbed,

‘Who has done this to you?’

Chapter Two

After their ‘holiday’ in France, Paul decided that a the little town of Peroylles not far from Aix le Provence would offer the sort of business opportunity he needed. It was small enough not to have another photographer, the property was not as expensive as if it were in the town and he hoped his reputation for portraiture might bring him custom, from as far away as Aix.

Amy and Colette, had begun unpacking china in the flat above the new shop,

‘It was good of Signor Atorelli to store these things and then motor all this way with them.’

Amy stacked some plates on a cupboard shelf, saying,

‘Papa has arranged for us to have a private tutor, He will help to improve our French. So we will soon be able to speak four languages. English, German, Italian and French.’

Colette did not seem impressed.

‘I hate this flat over the shop and Papa’s studio and having other shops all around. I hate this horrid brown wallpaper and there is always the smell of baking from next door I liked it much better in Italy. It’s so cramped and small here.’

‘But it has the conservatory at the back which is ideal for Papa’s studio. Maybe it was the smell of new bread that decided your father. He has always loved that. We will soon have the place more like home. We can repaper the walls and then I will put up some pictures.’

‘And it is so difficult at school. I don’t know anyone and it doesn’t make it easier to have a German surname. Several of the pupils lost their fathers in the war. They wont even talk to me.’

Amy gave Colette a little hug, saying,

‘You will soon make friends. Invite someone you like to come home. You enjoyed the petit fours I got yesterday from the boulangerie next door. I could get some more of those and we could have tea. That would be nice. Your new friend would like that.’

Unwrapping a large china cat, Colette gave a grudging smile, saying

‘I have found Pussy Whiskers ! She has survived the journey, shall I put her on her favourite place by the hearth?. There is one boy who has been friendly. He is called René. May I bring him home? His parents are musicians and he plays the violin.’

‘Perhaps he would like to play for us here.’

‘I will ask him. I think that his parents have got some work in Paris and he said he would go with them. He wants to study at the Conservatoir.’

Then, hearing the door open at the bottom the of stairs from the shop, they waited for Paul’s footsteps, instead he called up,

‘When you get through up there, can you come down and help sort some of the picture frames and things for the shop that have found their way into my studio?’

Amy laughed and turned to Colette.

‘A woman’s work is never done. I wonder what the French say about that?’

* * * * *

René did come for tea and he brought his violin. A shy sixteen year old, of sleight build and with sallow good looks, he spoke and ate little.

Amy tried to draw him out, asking,

‘Your parents are both musicians? Colette says they are going to work in Paris.’

‘Yes.’

Paul asked,

‘What instruments do they play?’

‘My mother plays the cello, my father the violin.’

‘Where will they play in Paris?’

‘With the Paris Radio Orchestra.’

Amy said,

‘It must be wonderful when the three of you play together.’

‘We could play as a quartette, but we lack someone to play the viola.’

Colette, anxious to impress her parents, said,

‘You hope to go to The Paris Conservatoir.’

‘Yes, I heard I have been accepted .’

Paul said, ‘Congratulations. That is wonderful. We hoped you would play for us.’

‘Certainly, sir. But may I wash my hands first? The petit fours were delicious but they have made my fingers a little sticky.’

Colette found him fresh soap and a clean towel saying,’ You will find the bathroom on the right.’

Soon René returned and they were surprised by the change in his manner. Every movement displayed professionalism. The respect he displayed as he took the violin from its case. The way he tightened the bow and rubbed rosin on it, his concentration as he plucked the violin strings, to tune them. When he suddenly began to play his attack was so sure that they could scarcely believe the way the tiny room seemed transformed, filled as it was with Kreisler’s Caprice Viennois.

The music stopped just as suddenly as it had started. René smiled shyly and swinging the violin down to his side, he gave a little bow. There was a moment’s astonished silence, then Paul, Amy and Colette spontaneously applauded.

Chapter Three

Paris Air Show 1937

‘She is beautiful.’ said the man leaning on the railing.

‘She certainly is.’ replied the older man with the walking stick.

‘Gull is a good name for her’

‘Percival. That is a British company.’

‘Yes. I like her streamlining. Much more elegant and modern than all these biplanes.’