“Collaboration, Resistance, and State-Sanctioned Journalism in Vichy France” by Nicholas Matthews
July 26, 2015
Wartime censorship of the press was far from an unusual occurrence during the Second World War. Government efforts to control the headlines, whether through volition or compulsion, were a logical byproduct of the nescience that characterized the information flows of the early and mid-20th century. But what of censorship in occupied countries? In France, the Third Republic censored the media prior to its surrender in 1940, and censorship continued in earnest with the introduction of Vichy and the commencement of the German occupation. These were, of course, two entirely separate experiences. I shall examine the latter of these experiences—state-sanctioned journalism under Vichy.
Vichy journalism had many clashing agents and moving parts, both spatial and temporal, and I shall not claim to have captured all of the complexities and nuances of the subject. I will, however, attempt to elucidate a general sense of three distinct phases of journalism in Vichy France. First, I argue that the press under German occupation in the north was censored and manipulated to such an extent that it became little more than a rubber-stamped propaganda outfit, one that feasted upon political partisanship to coalesce collaborationists for the Germans. Second, Vichy supervision of journalists in the unoccupied zone was slightly more porous than in the north, but on the whole, it was still highly regulated and censored. Finally, I argue that Liberation effectuated severe consequences upon collaborationist journalists and newspapers. The rise to prominence and the influence of Resistance journalists, the systemic problems the Resistance identified with the pre-war media, and the chaos of the Liberation set the stage for an industry-wide catharsis that would totally transform the face of journalism in France.
Collaboration in the Occupied Zone
In the occupied zone, censorship and control of the media by the Germans was total. The Germans gutted the media of incompatible parts, replaced them with more suitable cogs, and then manipulated the entire press machinery for the purpose of disseminating propaganda. The Germans’ propaganda efforts encompassed all sectors of the ideological spectrum. They attempted to co-opt potential troublemakers and mobilize sympathetic collaborators. And under such an operating environment, as might be expected, journalistic freedoms were in short supply.
In general, northern publishers had three options after the Fall of France. The first of these options was to cease publishing altogether. Of the more than 50 national daily newspapers operating in France at the time of defeat, most chose to stop publishing by June 10, 1940. Individual writers, such as Jean Guéhenno, also chose to stop publishing their work. Other newspapers, however, would prove to be more recalcitrant, packing their bags and leaving Paris to take refuge in the southern, Vichy-controlled provinces. This course of action represented the only route through which state-sanctioned media could avoid the onus of direct German control. But these papers were not exempt from Vichy censors, and they would fall under German sway regardless in 1942. Furthermore, papers that chose to leave, including Le Temps and Paris-Soir, found the border between the occupied and unoccupied zones to be impermeable. Their pages would never reach their readership base in Paris and the north.
The only remaining option for these papers was to collaborate with the occupier. German efforts to develop and control the flow of information in the occupied zone were spearheaded by Otto Abetz, the German ambassador to Vichy, and by the German propaganda wing known as Propaganda-Abteilung. Their goal was essentially to mold the media into a model of collaboration. While most publishers chose to avoid collaboration by shutting down or by leaving, a few papers opted to stay open and participate in the Germans’ propaganda scheme. This was particularly true of papers whose political leanings aligned with (or at least resembled) those of the Nazis, such as Je Suis Partout. Abetz’s embassy and Propaganda-Abteilung often found themselves in competition with each other, but nevertheless, they successfully worked to bring disparate sectors of Parisian political society—left wing, centrist, and hard right—in line with German objectives.
A sizable portion of the left wing political scene of Paris, seemingly incompatible with Nazi doctrine, was in fact co-opted by the Germans. Trade unionists, socialists, and other leftist elements bought into various fictions of European unification, German anti-capitalism and anti-clericalism, and Hitler’s socialism. Abetz moved to mobilize the influence of these elements by opening pro-German leftist papers, much to the consternation of Propaganda-Abteilung and others who believed such publications strayed too far from Nazi ideological orthodoxy. Abetz successfully cozened many prominent leftist figures into his scheme. For example, the socialist politician Charles Spinasse took over the daily L’Effort in 1940. Spinasse used the paper as a forum to exhort the benefits of peaceful collaboration, and he drew contributions from over twenty prominent Third Republic socialist representatives. Another of Spinasse’s papers, the weekly Le Rouge et le Bleu, also favored collaboration as a route to European unification and economic and intellectual prosperity. With help from Abetz and the German embassy, many left-wing collaborationist publications proved to be quite successful; for example, the daily La France socialiste reached an average circulation of over 110,000.
The middle of the political spectrum was no lesser participant in the collaborationist press, with liberals and conservatives alike advocating the cause of the Germans. Many liberals, for example, saw defeat as necessitating a pragmatic and self-interested form of collaboration. They were represented in the media by publications like Jean Luchaire’s Les Nouveaux Temps, which drew from a variety of centrist authors and regurgitated the German spin on Laval and Vichy. Other centrist publications reflected a more conservative orientation. La Vie industrielle, for example, propagated the pro-reform, pro-capitalism strain of the center-right Alliance Démocratique party. Its arguments in favor of collaboration were largely economic in nature, and its readership base of 15,000 to 20,000 mostly consisted of businessmen.
Finally, the journalists of the extreme right, with their militaristic, authoritarian, and anti-republican bent, represented some of the most vigorous intellectual collaborators of occupied France. For many of these individuals, collaboration with Nazi ideology was seen not as some sheepish necessity or inconvenience, but rather as a critical stepping-stone to national invigoration in the wake of embarrassing defeat. Extreme right groups used newspapers in order to further their own political ends and to support the Germans’ agenda. Such groups also had much wider latitude to publish freely. Marcel Bucard, for example, carried favor with Vichy officials in both the north and the south, and he was able to publish his newspaper in both zones; Le Franciste was nationalist, totalitarian, anti-communist, and rabidly pro-collaboration. Other extreme-right papers were similarly virulent in their anti-Semitism. For example, Jean Lestandi’s Au pilori was a hugely significant outlet for anti-Semitism, selling 50,000 copies daily by the end of 1941.
One of the most infamous collaborationist publications was Je Suis Partout, which was also one of the few outlets to have published before the war. The editor-in-chief, Robert Brasillach, was a famed and talented writer, a staunch fascist, and an avowed anti-Semite. Brasillach’s tenure at the helm of Je Suis Partout saw it become the largest newspaper by circulation in the occupied zone. The newspaper’s content reflected the values of its editor—hard-core fascist and anti-Semitic articles and columns were endemic in its pages. Brasillach himself contributed heavily to the paper, infamously arguing that France “must separate from the Jews en bloc and not keep any little ones.” Je Suis Partout was also unique in that it actively engaged in denunciation, outing the identities of individuals attempting to escape detention and arrest, individuals who violated anti-Semitic laws, and journalists publishing under pseudonyms. The depth of Je Suis Partout’s collaboration demonstrates the extent to which the Germans succeeded at transforming the occupied press into a tool for the advancement of German designs.
Pushing the Envelope under Vichy
In the German-occupied north, state interference in print journalism left publishers with a relatively cut-and-dry choice—collaborate or desist. In Vichy-controlled France, the question of state interference and censorship of journalism was somewhat more complicated. The Fall of France resulted in many Parisian papers migrating to cities and towns in the southern provinces, such as Lyon, and they were able to continue their operations despite encountering a whole host of problems on the production side of the business. There are also documented cases of southern journalists going to great lengths to assert their independence. But it would be a mistake to claim that journalism was ‘free’ in any sense of the term. Up until the Germans began occupying the south in 1942, Vichy imposed their own mechanisms of regulation and censorship that, while perhaps not nearly as severe as those run by the Germans, nevertheless had the effect of restricting free expression.
One way Vichy regulated the press was by controlling the primary sources of information. For example, the L’Agence Havas, which prior to World War II was a private news agency that distributed information to the press, was commandeered by Vichy and renamed Office français d’information (OFI). Vichy used the OFI to micromanage journalists in the free zone—in addition to telling journalists what they could or could not print, the OFI also established strict textual guidelines for journalists to follow. For instance, OFI instructed journalists to adhere to a very specific expository style in making references to Pétain:
In referring to the Head of State the expression ‘old gentlemen’ must be avoided, even when preceded by a well-disposed adjective like ‘illustrious’ or ‘valiant.’ Terms which evoke his military past such as ‘illustrious warrior’ or ‘valiant solider’ should be used as little as possible…On the other hand, frequent mention should be made of the Marshal’s moral and physical vigour, his generous disposition, his lucidity, and the interest he takes in every problem.
Newspaper publishers were also forced to acquiesce to the inclusion of propaganda in their papers. In addition to following rigid Vichy guidelines on style, newspapers were expected to publish long articles covering even the most mundane of Vichy activities, such as Pétain’s travels to different French cities. Failure to comply could entail suspension or outright termination. Put simply, if Vichy censors wanted something published, they were likely to get their way. Thus, censorship was not just limited to negative or exclusionary expurgation, but also consisted of positive censorship that effectively amounted to propaganda.
Journalists hardly favored this arrangement, and for good reason—it eroded their independence and sense of free self-expression. Some journalists, including those working for the relocated Paris-Soir in Lyon, therefore chose to protest Vichy treatment of the press. Though they had few means available to them, they successfully used their skills and contacts to work together to frustrate and evade Vichy censors.
Perhaps the most daring and audacious resister of Vichy censorship, however, was a man by the name of Alexandre Varenne, the 70-year-old owner and director of the Clermont-Ferrand daily La Montagne. Before the war, Varenne had served the Third Republic in several capacities, including as an elected representative, as a governor-general in Indochina in the 1920s, and as a government censor during the First World War. He was also a trained attorney to boot. Varenne was dismayed by the disintegration of the Third Republic, and unlike Vichy, he refused to lay fault for its failures in its institutions or leadership.
Varenne, as John Sweets puts it, was “a nuisance of the first order.”  Time and time again, he hounded Vichy censors and high-level officials. He wrote seventeen different personal letters to Pétain himself, expressing varying degrees of indignation at Pétain’s unchecked powers and Vichy censorship of the press. Varenne backed up his words with his actions, railing against the censors’ propaganda almost immediately after he resumed publishing for the first time under Vichy rule in November 1940. “The public hardly reads these long accounts which all look the same whoever the high dignitary involved,” he wrote, “and this abundance of required copy threatens to give the public the impression of publicity controlled by the censor.” And although Varenne was not successful at getting through to Pétain, he certainly was not deterred from testing the limits of Vichy’s patience. He often appealed decisions made by local censors and officials, and he periodically managed to score victories—something that only emboldened him further. From the beginning of Vichy rule to its discontinuation in August 1943, La Montagne held the distinction of being the most frequently suspended newspaper in all of southern France, owing wholly to its violations of censorship rules.
Varenne’s pleas to Vichy to relax censorship laws largely fell on deaf ears. Though Vichy’s oversight of the press was certainly less restrictive than that of the Germans’ in the occupied zone, journalists were still expected to comply with the censors and propagandists. Only limited allowances were made for flexibility. For example, papers were sometimes permitted to publish from a range of propaganda articles—it was picking a poison, so to speak, but it was a choice nonetheless. In general, however, legitimately free expression was not possible unless it happened to align with Vichy attitudes or unless it was heavily disguised.
The arrival of the Germans in late 1942 spelled the end of what little freedom of press remained. German censors proved much more intrusive than Vichy ones. They micromanaged virtually every facet of newspapers, ranging from the title and placement of articles to the size of the fonts used. By keeping La Montagne open for several months after the occupation began, Varenne proved to be an exception; many papers chose to close down almost immediately, including those Parisian papers that had sought refuge in the southern provinces in 1940. The intensity of German censorship matched that of the north, and creativity was tolerated only if it consisted of collaborationist propaganda that exceeded the specifications of the censors. Newspapers effectively became monolithic mouthpieces for the state. After making preparations to eventually resume publishing after Liberation, and after bidding farewell to his readers (he euphemistically blamed the closure of his paper on technical difficulties), Varenne disappeared into hiding. La Montagne would not resurface until September 15, 1944, when it published with the jubilant proclamation, “France is saved.”
Resistance, Liberation, Purge
Though the impetuous behavior of Varenne and other state-sanctioned journalists certainly posed problems for Vichy, they were minor irritants compared to Resistance journalists. Resistance journalists operated entirely in the shadows, constantly out of reach of German and Vichy censors, and they played a major role in disseminating alternative perspectives on Vichy and the war to those living under occupation. But beyond the immediate wartime influence of Resistance journalists, it is important to acknowledge the influence they had in the aftermath of Liberation. The Resistance press, more than any other agent or combination of agents, would come to dominate the immediate post-war media scene. The extensive, almost gratuitous nature of the purge of the collaborationist press was thus no accident—it was part of a concerted effort to remake an industry that, in the eyes of Resistance leaders, had become fundamentally decadent by the onset of the war.
Resistance journalism was crucial to the success of Resistance groups. Newspapers played a key role in spreading pro-Resistance ideas and in recruiting and sustaining both material and moral support for the Resistance. Resistance journalists operated with impunity, bypassing German and Vichy censors and violating a whole host of Vichy laws. Little surprise, then, that participating in Resistance journalism was an incredibly dangerous affair. But Resistance journalism was as important and influential as it was daring—indeed, in both the occupied and unoccupied zones, major Resistance groups often became synonymous with the publications they produced. And while the ideological diversity of Resistance newspapers mirrored the ideological diversity of different Resistance groups, their disparate beliefs did not stop Resistance journalists from developing a cohesive and sophisticated professional apparatus. For example, Jean Moulin created the Bureau d’information et de presse in 1942, providing key news bulletins and facilitating communications for Resistance journalists.
For the Resistance, the clandestine press was significant not just because of its wartime activities, but also because it represented a chance to eventually transfigure the structures and institutions of the pre-war press. Many Resistance leaders believed that pre-war journalism had been totally corrupted by the influence of the wealthy elite. For example, big industries and the banks had increasingly consolidated ownership of the major dailies. Resistance groups and Liberation planners thus prepared to clean up the press at occupation’s end. They expected the cleansing to include, among other things, reforms aimed at making the press more pluralistic and more financially transparent. The intellectual and Resistance leader Albert Camus succinctly summarized the impetus for these reforms:
We knew firsthand that the press before the war had lost both its sense of principles and its morality. The appetite for money and the indifference to things of greatness had conspired to give France a press that, with a few rare exceptions, sought only to increase the power of a minority and in doing so diminished the morality of all. It is therefore not difficult to see how this press came to be what it was during the years 1940-44, which is to say, the shame of our country.
Like dominos toppling one over the other, the collaborationist press fell by the wayside with the progress of the Liberation. In Normandy, newspapers that operated under occupation closed their doors with the Allied landings of June 1944. New dailies dutifully sprung forth with the rolling tide of Allied movements to replace these papers—indeed, some papers simply took over the printing presses abandoned by collaborationist publications. Papers like La Renaissance du Bessin and Liberté de Normandie were among the first to publish in the waning days of the German occupation. These days would eventually conclude with the purge.
The purge of the collaborationist press was a hastily executed process. Charles de Gaulle enacted the first official policy concerning the press on June 22, 1944, decreeing that newspapers published under Vichy be immediately suspended and their property confiscated; furthermore, regional committees of Gaullists and anti-Vichy journalists were created and given oversight over the new Liberation papers that replaced collaborationist ones. In September of 1944, the Allies liberated Paris, and this led to the passage of additional media regulations on the 30th of the month. The new policy upheld the suspensions of collaborationist papers that had appeared under occupation, and it suspended pre-war newspapers that continued publishing for at least fourteen days after the armistice in the occupied zone or at least fourteen days after the German takeover of the unoccupied zone. These suspensions could be lifted only if the owners and editors of the papers were not brought to trial within six months, although the statute of limitations would later be extended by an additional six months. On the whole, at least 900 different papers and 649 publishing companies were affected by punitive Gaullist measures. And of the 206 dailies that published before the war, just 28 would eventually publish again afterwards. The Resistance thus succeeded in achieving one of its primary Liberation goals—to eliminate the pestilence of the old media and wipe the slate clean.
In addition to shutting down collaborationist publications, the Resistance-led press reform movement took steps to formally expropriate their property and assets. A May 1945 decree authorized the prosecution of collaborationist press owners; a guilty verdict could result in either the full or partial seizure of ownership profits and company property. The Paris Court of Justice brought 538 papers to trial on the charges related to collaboration. The vast majority of these cases were dismissed, but 115 papers were convicted, and thirty more were acquitted.
Perhaps the most tragic consequence of the purge was the persecution of journalists employed by collaborationist papers. The Resistance and Gaullists worked to extirpate not just the publishers and ownership of the old press, but also the individual journalists who had continued to work under the German occupation. Whether these journalists had done so as a function of their ideology or as a matter of professional necessity was irrelevant; all writers who collaborated or demonstrated “a weak patriotism” were systemically excluded from the post-war press by the decree of September 1944. The new government even used press credentials to screen journalists and prevent collaborationists from returning to work. Camus remarked that the “total renewal of its personnel” signified just how pervasive the purge of the press was in comparison to purges of other industries. Resistance journalists, as might be expected, faced few problems obtaining press credentials—further demonstrating the reach of Resistance’s influence in shaping the post-war media scene.
The scope of the purge was not just limited to civil repercussions. Collaboration became a matter of criminal justice after the war, and it was in the trials of journalists that the purge took a decidedly violent turn. Journalists were among the first to be prosecuted by the Paris Court of Justice. And from a comparative perspective, prominent journalists and other intellectuals were among the most likely to be prosecuted precisely because the public nature of their activities produced damning evidence of their transgressions. In many instances, prosecutors prepared their cases simply by cutting a few choice columns from collaborationist newspapers—an open-and-shut strategy if the defendant’s name appeared on the bylines. The relative ease of prosecuting journalists partly explains why they were purged more heavily than businessmen and bureaucrats, whose dealings were often anonymous and difficult to bring out from under the table.
A few journalists were prosecuted under articles 75-86 of the Third Republic’s penal code, which laid out penalties for treason, espionage, and acts that undermined French security. The new government also enacted ex post facto laws that classified denunciations as acts of treason under article 84 and established a new, lesser type of collaborationist crime called indignité nationale. Along the whole spectrum of crimes tried in the French Courts of Justice, sentences ran the gamut from dégradation nationale (national degradation and loss of civil rights), seizure of property, prison terms, forced labor, and even capital punishment. The latter of these penalties was reserved only for those prosecuted for and convicted of treason, which was a substantial minority of journalists charged.
Why were journalists sentenced to death? And for that matter, why were journalists even prosecuted in the first place? Journalists who collaborated, after all, had only committed intellectual crimes, something that did not necessarily rise to the standard of materially aiding or abetting the enemy. Many attorneys working for indicted journalists sought to expound upon this line of defense. For example, Robert Brasillach’s defense argued that he had merely gotten carried away with his own literary devices—even as he had lobbied for murders and executions. Prosecutors, on the other hand, argued that the concept of a victimless intellectual crime was impossible under the circumstances of the occuapation. The public character of journalists’ penmanship, imbued with the magnitude of substantial persuasive force, made it likely that such writings had material consequences in the real world. Je Suis Partout, for instance, engaged in widespread denunciations under Brasillach’s watch—denunciations that may very well have contributed to the deportation of thousands of Jews and others who resided on the margins of French society.
Brasillach, along with a few other journalists, was ultimately executed for treason by the French government. But opposition to their fate swelled from the unlikeliest of corners. Even Camus, who had spared no invectives in describing his contempt for these collaborators, was deeply appalled by the notion that a journalist could be executed for his writings. To him, the punishment seemed wildly disproportionate to the nature of the crime. He was one of many Resistance intellectuals who signed a petition requesting Brasillach’s sentence be commuted to life in prison. A month before Brasillach’s execution, Camus warned in the Resistance publication Combat that, “[France] will condemn to death still more journalists who never deserved anything like the death penalty.” Camus’ fears, though ultimately exaggerated, do serve to demonstrate the banality of the violence that occurred in the period between Liberation and the end of the war. Resistance journalists may have emerged as the winners from the purge, but they did not do so without incurring a substantial moral toll.
Journalism under occupation proved to be a traumatic experience. Given the wholesale collaboration in the north and censorship in the south, it was virtually impossible for journalists to express themselves freely through official channels. Only the Resistance offered an alternative forum for rebellious journalists to continue their work. And in the aftermath of Liberation, the Resistance descended upon the entrails of the industry with a vengeance. Resistance leaders and Gaullists ensured that the state of affairs of the press would not return to the pre-war status quo. It is therefore unsurprising that this critical moment, for all of its ethical hazards and pitfalls, was absolutely transformative for journalism in France.
1. Pierre Albert, “The Journalism of the French Resistance: An underground war of words,” Media Studies Journal, 14, no. 2 (2000): http://www.freedomforum.org/publications/msj/courage.summer2000/y08.html
2. Alice Kaplan, The Collaborator: The Trial and Execution of Robert Brasillach, (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), p. 33.
3. Raymond Kuhn, The Media in France, (New York: Routledge, 1995), p. 22.
5. Philippe Burrin, Living with Defeat: France under the German Occupation, 1940-1944, (London: Arnold, 1995), p. 372.
6. Ibid., p. 372.
7. Ibid., pp. 386-7.
8. Ibid., p. 394.
9. Ibid., p. 390.
10. Ibid., pp. 390-91.
11. Ibid., p. 394.
12. Ibid., p. 399.
13. Ibid., pp. 400-1.
14. Ibid., p. 411.
15. Ibid., pp. 415-416.
16. Ibid., p. 420.
17. Kaplan, The Collaborator, p. 55.
18. Ibid., p. 81.
19. Ibid., p. 82.
20. Ibid., p. 32.
21. Kuhn, The Media in France, p. 22.
22. Harry Roderick Kedward, Resistance in Vichy France: A Study of Ideas and Motivation in the Southern Zone 1940-1942, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978), p. 187.
23. Ibid., p. 188.
24. John F. Sweets, Choices in Vichy France: The French under Nazi Occupation, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), p. 141.
25. Kedward, Resistance in Vichy France, p. 188.
26. Ibid., p. 72.
27. Sweets, Choices in Vichy France, p. 137.
28. Ibid., p. 138.
29. Ibid., p. 142.
30. Ibid., p. 139.
31. Ibid., p. 141.
32. Ibid., p. 142.
34. Ibid., p. 143.
36. Kuhn, The Media in France, p. 22.
37. Sweets, Choices in Vichy France, p. 144.
39. Kuhn, The Media in France, p. 22.
41. Ibid., p. 23.
42. Ibid., p. 53.
43. Herbert R. Lottman, The Purge, (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1986), p. 229.
44. Kuhn, The Media in France, p. 54.
45. Albert Camus, Between Hell and Reason: Essays from the Resistance Newspaper Combat, 1944-1947, trans. Alexandre de Gramont (London: Wesleyan University Press, 1991), p. 44.
46. Lottman, The Purge, p. 230.
49. Ibid,. p. 231.
52. Kuhn, The Media in France, p. 54.
53. Lottman, The Purge, p. 233.
55. Ibid., p. 231.
56. Ibid., p. 232.
57. Kaplan The Collaborator, p. 80.
59. Robert O. Paxton, Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, 1940-1944, (New York: Columbia University Press, 2001), p. 333.
60. Kaplan, The Collaborator, p. 78.
61. Ibid., pp. 78-9.
62. Patrick Baert, “The power struggle of French intellectuals at the end of the Second World War: A study in the sociology of ideas,” European Journal of Social Theory, 14, no. 4 (2011): 422.
63. Kaplan, The Collaborator, p. 179.
64. Baert, “The power struggle,” 424.
65. Kaplan, The Collaborator, p. 32.
66. Baert, “The power struggle,” 423.
67. Camus, Between Hell and Reason, p. 101.
Albert, Pierre. “The Journalism of the French Resistance: An underground war of words.” Media Studies Journal. 14. no. 2 (2000): http://www.freedomforum.org/publications/msj/courage.summer2000/y08.html
Baert, Patrick. “The power struggle of French intellectuals at the end of the Second World War: A study in the sociology of ideas.” European Journal of Social Theory. 14. no. 4 (2011): 415-435.
Burrin, Philippe. Living with Defeat: France under the German Occupation, 1940-1944. London: Arnold, 1995.
Camus, Albert. Between Hell and Reason: Essays from the Resistance Newspaper Combat, 1944-1947. Translated by Alexandre de Gramont. London: Wesleyan University Press, 1991.
Kaplan, Alice. The Collaborator: The Trial and Execution of Robert Brasillach. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000.
Kedward, Harry Roderick. Resistance in Vichy France: A Study of Ideas and Motivation in the Southern Zone 1940-1942. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1978.
Kuhn, Raymond. The Media in France. New York: Routledge, 1995.
Lottman, Herbert R. The Purge. New York: William Morrow and Company, 1986.
Paxton, Robert O. Vichy France: Old Guard and New Order, 1940-1944. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001.
Sweets, John F. Choices in Vichy France: The French under Nazi Occupation. New York: Oxford University Press, 1986.