Counting the minutes : The last conversation with Alexandre Villaplane before he heads off to the gallows
Deciphering someone’s life can often be difficult especially when it passes through the corridors of virtuousness and sinfulness with profound ease. One is left with a dilemma whether to see him as a hero or as a villain. Alexandre Villaplane’s life is one such – from leading his country in a world cup to finding himself in the corner of a prison cell awaiting a sordid fate, a baffling paradox. Goalden Times brings to you the story of the last day of this condemned man as he recalls the richness of his achievements and the monstrosity of his fallacies, a story easily forgotten and seemingly kept hidden in some lonely corner of a dark past.
“I was a hero you know”, the man coughed up a shudder from the darkest corner of the prison cell. Shrouded by a gray blanket that didn’t show any sign of ever been cleaned, his hair all cringy and dusted, with a broken voice, whispering the many aches in his body, the man broke the sullen silence that had taken over. Silence and the occasional shrieks were the striking features of this place. They called it hell on earth. And it lived up to its name.
“Oui?”, Came a thin and meek reply from his companion. The night was dark. From the grilled single window on the concrete wall high above, came the wail of fiery gusts as thunderstorms began to gather across the sky. A balmy poise had settled over the Fort de Montrouge, bringing with itself the essence of the grim reaper, beckoning ever closer. “Can’t sleep eh?” said the companion once more.
“Not anymore. I’ve done enough for a lifetime to take sleep away from my eyes”, the man said, with a serene gleam spreading across his face – agleam of anguish, disappointment, pain and also of despair; and also, of satisfaction from the fact that his sufferings were nearing their end. He went on, “Many years ago, I’d taken a leap of faith. One from which, there was never turning back. I kept falling. So deep, I’m here right now. Sitting next to you, not knowing what tomorrow holds. It all began-it all…”, his words choked in his throat. Unable to speak, he turned on his back, looking up at the corner of the sky as visible through the grill.
His companion could feel a tension rising inside the man’s chest. One that needed expulsion but couldn’t. He knew, his thoughts longed saying, but his heart was too weak. And only through revelation, could they ever be relieved. The companion pressed on, “Plait, do tell. Speak your heart out mate. It helps”.
The first patters of the rain had started to fall on the rooftop. As the clouds outside made its first bellow, Fort de Montrouge went to sleep. The man shrouded partly by the blanket and partly by the tatters the prison warden considered clothes, sat up. “It was a cold snowy winter Sunday I Montevideo, fourteen years ago. July 13, 1930. The chill had set in, and everyone had snuggled inside their own beds, under quilts, with a steaming cup of coffee and marshmallows. I, of course, didn’t have the luxury of any of those. Yet, it was the happiest day of my life”[1].
“Game faces lads. This is the beginning. Let’s make it special. You are all, the pioneers of something majestic. Enjoy every second out there, as you’re going to be part of history”, said the burly, curly haired old Raoul Caudron, the French boss sitting atop a high stool. July 13, 1930. Making a quick scan of the faces across the room, he knew, his boys were in high spirits and yet, in quite a bit of apprehension. They were on the footholds of history and he wanted his men to live up to the occasion. And most of all, he wanted his main man to rise. Turning towards his captain, he said, “Alex, you’re the man. Take the centre stage and infuriate, encourage, excel”.
Alex got up on his feet and started walking around the room. “Look here guys. This is a proud moment for all of us. We are the eleven that have been chosen to represent the flag that bears millions more like us. We are special. It’s time we repaid that favour. It’s time we live up to our expectations. Once we step out there, there will be multitudes around the globe, with their ears peeled to the transistor, anxiously listening to every word that’ll be spoken about us. Let’s make each one of them ominous. Grand. Our founding fathers had built this land on pride, respect and blood. It’s time for us to rest our labels next to theirs. So, c’mon lads, do we have a shout?”
“Ouiiii“, went a loud cheer across the room.
Ripples went down his spine, as Alex shouted once more, “Les Blues“.
“Les Blues“, the unity burst forth.
With the crowd cheering itself hoarse and the coaches shouting at the top of their lungs, France kicked off, the first ever match in the history of the FIFA World Cup, or the Jules Rimet Trophy, as it was known back in the day. After an early exchange, the men in blue took little time to get hold of the game and pushed deep into enemy territory. The French attack aided by their able captain from midfield were going at the Mexican defence again and again.
Unable to cope up with the pressure, Mexico crumbled at the nineteenth minute as Lucien Laurent scored the first ever goal in the history of the world cup. The game played on as France established her dominance over the game even further with three more goals in return for one. Their captain’s pep talk couldn’t have come any better. As the full-time whistle blew, the roosters have created history. Leading from the front, Alex had led his gang of wily wanderers through the wilderness and onto prestige. Their names had been etched in history. Proudest victors of the first ever World Cup match.
With the pleasantries and the formal handshakes having passed, everyone had left the green, everyone but him. Sitting alone, Alex couldn’t help but take the atmosphere all in. The flag fluttering across the breeze all around the stadium and everyone cheering his name with raucous earnest, it was truly the happiest moment of his life. A tear rolled down his cheek. One of jubilation and of fulfilment.
Few minutes passed and he got up on his feet. As he walked out of the field, there stood the man himself. Just as Alex was about to head for the tunnel, he felt a gentle tap on his back, and turned around to see Jules Rimet in person, standing in front with a wide grin. “You did good today, son. You have made this little war-torn country proud. The people of France will forever remember your name”.
France went on to narrowly lose their next two matches by a solitary goal, against the mighty Argentina and Chile respectively, ending their first world cup campaign prematurely. However, they returned to their homeland as heroes. As legends in their own right.
The man stopped and heaved a sigh. The rain outside had turned into a more torrential form and its relentless patter had gone silent to the ears that had become accustomed. Even the heavy breath of the man sounded loud across the pin drop silence that had engulfed Fort de Montrouge, except for the solitary cell holding the man and his nightly comrade. Having listened to the man’s story for so long with a stunned silence, the companion finally spoke up with a stutter, “So what happened next?”. He was still reeling from the shock of sharing his cell with the man who’d been a national hero. This was the man even he had sung the name of, years ago. Times changed. The war came, bringing with itself, apocalypse. With utter disbelief in his eyes, the companion broke open once more, “You had all the riches in the world. You were worshipped by millions. So how did you end up in a place like this?”
The man, with a nonchalant disposition, resumed, “Of all the vices that entrap man, my friend, I had none, but one. And the one, I had the vilest of them all. It was greed the lust for money. And it led me down a dark path. One from which, there was no coming back”.
Today’s World Cup winning French squad is an advert for multi ethnicity and cross-cultural harmony. It all actually started with Alexandre Villaplane, or Alex as he is known to Les Blues. Born in Algeria. in 1905, Alex was the first player of North African origin to represent France. But he had a lifelong fight with his inner darker side. After the inaugural World Cup, he appeared in the very first French professional championship in 1932–33 with FC Antibes. But as luck it would have it, the club was disqualified that season for corruption. Alex too went on a downward spiral of gambling and horse racing, eventually making a mess of his footballing career. In 1934, he did make a last-ditch attempt for redemption with the Bordeaux Second Division club Hispano-Bastidienne. But again, his involvement in a horse race fixing scandal led him to imprisonment for most part of the season.
The companion, ever more enthralled by the feast of a tale he had been dished out so far, asked, “Did you not have a lover? Someone, who meant more than everything in this world? La belle de ton amour”.
With a wry smile, the man said, “Oui. I did, and I still do. Mon amour est mio country. But my lust overpowered my love. I betrayed what I held most dear to my heart.” He paused for a second. Speaking these words, were hard. His throat was dry and his heart aching. In admission, he had expected to feel deliverance. Instead, he felt a gnawing feeling of devastation; of disappointment. He wanted to cry. But his eyes resisted, building up the pain further inside.
As the World War II was looming large over Europe, Villaplane went on to become one of the most sought-after criminals in France and Germany. From involvement in the Parisian black market, to extorting the Jews and finally “specializing” in the racketeering of gold merchants – the French football captain had done it all. Imprisonment did not bother him anymore and eventually Alex got associated with the French Carlingue, a vile organisation to conduct counter-insurgency operations against the French Resistance. The notorious group, also referred to as French Gestapo, was formed by collaborating criminals to work for the Nazi security services.
Even in those dark lanes of Paris, Alex did have his former teammates to rely upon during tough times. One of them, Louis Cazal arranged for his new identity papers when he was playing hide and seek with the police. As the years went on, Alex became more and more feared. The savage character of his recruits earned him the unflattering nickname of “SS Mohammed”. Not only that, Alex rose to the rank of SS-Untersturmführer (Second lieutenant).
Through the grille high above, came in the first glint of sunshine. Dawn was setting in and the night would soon be over, and with it, another day of ignominy. He willed on, “My lust led me astray. In order to make some quick money, I turned my back on my country, joining the French Gestapo and later on, collaborating full frontal with the Nazis. I have blood on my hand, mon compadre. Not a day goes by, when I don’t repent the decisions that have landed me here today. And I want to make things right. I want one last opportunity, to expunge my sins, once and for all. I couldn’t live for my country. I’d very much like to die for her. Let my love know, it was her after all, in the end.”
A stunned silence prevailed. Hours passed by, with not another exchange of words. Business as usual had set forth around the Fort. However, today was judgment day. Judgment for 11th June 1944 when Alex had 52 people killed in the village of Mussidan. The grand tower clock rang twelve. It was 26th December, 1944 – Boxing Day. The war had taken a drastic turn. The Battle of Leyte had ended in a decisive victory for the Allied Forces. A German U-Boat had been sunk in the Baltic Sea. And its many accomplices were being exterminated.
The banging of the prison warden’s baton couldn’t have sounded louder as it beat against the bars of the man’s cell. “It’s time Alexander. Come”, he said. The man got up on his feet to be taken out to the courtyard. The time had come. As the guards started tying his hands behind his back, he turned around to look at his nightly companion, smiled and said, “Remember me mio compadre. Adieu“.
“Je vous salut“, his companion replied.
Taking his final steps through the corridors of the Fort, all his memories came flooding back. Of Lucien, of Lafont, of Jules, and most of all, of Angelique. It was just a matter of few minutes more now. His confession had got him what he wanted – liberation. He’d be free now, once and for all. He took his final stand against the wooden post, with his hands tied around.
“Any last words?”, The commander asked.
With a grin spreading from ear to ear, he said, “Bon nuit, mon amour…”
The shattering sound broke through the grimace of the hallways and echoed through the long corridors that seen pain aplenty. It heard it’s most familiar sound one more time. The pigeons on the parapet were awoken from their slumber and fluttered away with the fainting cry,
“Viva la France“.
