Alex's Wake (27 page)

On September 1, 1939, as Helmut's spring lambs were being readied for market, the German army smashed into Poland. Two days later, France and England declared war on Germany and the Second World War began. Preparations for fighting had been going on for some time, as had plans for the large numbers of foreigners, particularly Germans, who were living in France. On September 14, a national radio announcement ordered all male German citizens in France who were between the ages of fifty and sixty-five to prepare for internment. There followed a flurry of weddings, as an addendum to the decree promised freedom for all foreigners who had married a French woman.

In the Vosges region, soldiers from France's 208th Regiment were dispatched to see that the national internment plans were carried out. The citizenry was simultaneously being primed to accept both the importance and the legitimacy of the action. An editorial in a local newspaper posited that people who held German passports were now threats to French national security and concluded by stating flatly,
“The German citizens should not be allowed to remain at liberty.” A week later, all Germans found themselves under house arrest and their papers given over to the police.

The agricultural center at Martigny-les-Bains, conceived so carefully as a place of hope and renewal for hundreds of refugees, most of them victims of the very German regime now at war with France, was summarily shut down following the proclamation of September 14. Alex and Helmut were loaded onto a bus and taken up the road to Neufchâteau, where an internment camp had been hastily set up within the walls of a factory. Two satellite camps, Camp du Martinet, in the village of Sionne, and Camp du Châtelet, in Harchéchamp, were established when it became clear that the Neufchâteau factory was far too small. During the autumn of 1939, the three camps of greater Neufchâteau held about twenty-two hundred German citizens, all guarded by the Second Battalion of the 208th Regiment. Alex and Helmut were transferred from the main camp at Neufchâteau to Camp du Martinet in Sionne, which was under the command of Lieutenant Francois Laurens. There they stayed for months, having suddenly metamorphosed in the eyes of their captors from displaced persons in need of a new and useful occupation to enemy aliens.

The history of these camps in and around Neufchâteau has not been told, not even by the rigorous and dogged archivists of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. The reason is fairly simple: the records have been destroyed. In June 1940, as the recognized government of France relocated from Paris to the city of Vichy, about 220 miles to the south, the camp commandants were given secret orders to burn their files. In the words of M. Duvaux, “It was then impossible to find the archives of the camps of Neufchâteau.”

As I ponder what became of what was once referred to as the “Welcome Center” at Martigny-les-Bains, as I think of the ruined hopes of those who planned what
L'Univers Israélite
called “this fine communal accomplishment,” those who organized the classes and straightened the furrows in the farm's vegetable garden, and as I contemplate the fate of those refugees who spent that one fruitful summer there, I more completely understand my initial visceral reaction to my first sight
of the now decayed Hotel International. In his ninety-fourth sonnet, Shakespeare writes:

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,

Though to itself it only live and die,

But if that flower with base infection meet,

The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

8

Montauban

M
ONDAY
, M
AY
23, 2011. After the deep emotions of the past week, today we need do nothing more strenuous, either physically or emotionally, than being tourists in the sunny French countryside. Our hosts in Montauban are wrapping up a holiday in the Pyrenees today and will welcome us to their home tomorrow. So until tomorrow afternoon, we are free to follow the call of the open road.

We wish a warm farewell to the staff of The Inn of the Twelve Apostles and are on that inviting road by 8 a.m. Had I known then what I would later learn, I would have taken the country road to Neufchâteau and Sionne, but instead we choose to spend a few hours on the limited-access A31 speeding south. The highway takes us around Dijon, birthplace of the great eighteenth-century composer Jean Philippe Rameau and the city that lends its name to a famous condiment (though we are surprised to learn that nearly all of the mustard seed used for Dijon mustard is imported from Canada). We leave the expressway a few miles north of Lyon, preferring to see the land up close from a series of D roads as we travel west and south. We cross the Loire, the longest river in France, and pass vineyards, orchards of apple and cherry trees, and fields of artichokes and asparagus. The land becomes hilly and we frequently notice the remains of ruined castles from antiquity and restored tenth-century châteaux commanding the surrounding landscape from the tops of hills.

As lunchtime approaches, we drive into the ninth-century hill town of Montbrison, birthplace of the conductor and composer Pierre Boulez. Maestro Boulez was my mother's boss for several seasons, when he conducted the Cleveland Orchestra in the early 1970s. As we search the narrow streets of Montbrison for a
fromagerie
, I regale Amy with Boulez stories: of how the orchestra members made fun of his devotion to contemporary music and his disdain for Romantic composers by calling him “The 20th Century Limited”; of his brilliant recording of Stravinsky's “Rite of Spring,” a performance so enthralling that it was chosen by the Soviet government to represent Russian art at the 1970 World's Fair in Osaka; and of how M. Boulez once chatted very amiably and without a hint of condescension with my brother and me at an after-concert party when we were both still in our teens.

Our hunt for
fromage
is successful and we leave the town with an aromatic cylindrical block of its signature blue cheese, Fourme de Montbrison, a cheese that has been manufactured in the region for centuries and has earned the coveted certification known as
Appellation d'origine contrôlée
, or AOC. Signifying that a cheese or wine possesses certain distinct qualities, has been produced for many years in a traditional manner, or enjoys an uncommon reputation because of its geographical origin, the mark of the AOC is highly prized, particularly in this land of so many arrogant
affineurs
. General Charles de Gaulle once famously alluded to the fractious nature of France by asking, “How can one possibly govern a country that has 246 varieties of cheese?”

But if balky governance is the price to pay for such a luscious repast, we tell ourselves, it may well be worth it. We lunch in a lush green field spotted with bright yellow daisies, surrounded by cloud-topped hills. We are in the Auvergne, a sparsely populated region of forests, streams, and extinct volcanoes, where the ancient language of Occitan is still spoken and was brought to music lovers worldwide by Joseph Cantaloube in his hauntingly beautiful “Songs of the Auvergne.” The sun is bright and warm, the bread and cheese delectable, and once more it is hard to remember the pain that has brought us to this splendid setting.

In late afternoon, we reach the charming village of Saint-Nectaire, named after St. Nectarius, who came from Rome in the fourth century
to bring Christianity to ancient Gaul. Nectarius discovered a temple dedicated to the god Apollo and forcibly reorganized it into a Christian church that still stands guard over the village as the Basilica of Notre Dame. For his trouble, Nectarius was surprised in his sleep and run through by a devout Apollinian, which hastened Nectarius's elevation to sainthood. Today, St. Nectaire is renowned for yet another local artisan cheese, which also proudly bears the stamp of the AOC. It is my favorite cheese of the entire journey, and we purchase several wedges, some for tomorrow's lunch and the remainder as gifts for our hosts in Montauban.

In the lengthening shadows of the oncoming evening, we follow the winding road higher and higher into the range of mountains known as Les Puys until the road straightens, the trees fall back, and we find ourselves on the banks of a glittering lake that reflects the image of the mountains beyond. We have reached our destination for the night, a village called Chambon-sur-Lac, with a population of about 350 souls. At the aptly named (for once) Hotel Bellevue, we are given a small room with an immense breathtaking view over the lake. We dine on local fowl, vegetables, and salad, a meal concluded with the flourish of yet another example of delicious fermented curd, which sends us up to bed repeating the wisdom of Monty Python: “Blessed are the Cheesemakers!”

In the clear, crisp air of morning, we continue on our way as the road rises above the timberline to an altitude over eight thousand feet. The shaggy coats of the cattle and sheep that graze here are designed for cold temperatures. For the first time on our journey, we are obliged to engage the Meriva's heater. At the top of the pass, we climb out of the car and shiver both from the cold and in exaltation at the glorious view of craggy volcanic rocks and alpine fields and, in the shimmering distance, what seems to be the whole of southern France stretching invitingly before us. But even as I revel in the natural beauty all around me, I once more consider what has brought me here and how much our happy jaunt differs from Alex and Helmut's journey to the south of France in 1940.

For a minute or two, I am seized by a mad impulse to stay up here with the sheep and the bracing mountain air and to forsake this nonsense of following in my relatives' footprints. I could remain above the
trees and live on cheese, I tell myself, until it's time to fly back home. Enjoy myself on high and leave the sadness down below. But even as I tempt myself, I realize it's all for naught; my journey may indeed be folly, but I have come here with a job to do. So with a last look at the indistinct panorama stretching away to the horizon, we climb back into the car and begin winding our switchback way to sea level, out of the pure incorruptible atmosphere of the mountains and down to the scene of the crime.

Once we return to the flatlands, we again follow express highways, which speed us west and south. We continue to see the sweet green highlands of the Auvergne on our left for miles, but by mid-afternoon we notice a profound change in the landscape. The basic color of the countryside is no longer green but a tan-to-russet shade of brown. The broad trees of farther north have given way to scrubby growth reminiscent of the American Southwest. The sun flares down relentlessly as we leave the expressway at the outskirts of Montauban and follow detailed directions to the home of our hosts, Jean-Claude and Monique Drouilhet. Their two-story house is topped with terra-cotta tiles, giving it a distinctive Mediterranean appearance. Their garden contains a number of subtropical flowers and cactus plants that thrive in hot, dry conditions. With a start, we realize that we have arrived in that storied part of the world known as the South of France.

Jean-Claude and Monique come out to greet us and we embrace warmly. He is a man of middle height, with a full head of gray hair and a ready smile under sparkling eyes. She has an exotic dark complexion and seems just a bit restrained next to her buoyantly enthusiastic husband.

Jean-Claude was born in 1934. At seventeen, he entered the teachers' training college in Montauban with the intention of becoming an elementary and middle school teacher. He graduated four years later and then spent the next two years teaching middle school and studying agronomy at the University of Toulouse, about thirty miles to the south. In January 1958, he was drafted and sent to fight in Algeria as part of France's nearly eight-year war to deny Algerians their independence. Jean-Claude served more than two years in the war, attaining the rank
of sergeant, before returning to Montauban, where he taught middle school biology and geology and established a school radio station that was entirely staffed by students.

In the midst of his tour of duty in Algeria, Jean-Claude had obtained a leave to marry Monique. She was born in 1937, the daughter of a French army officer who spent much of World War II fighting General Rommel's army in North Africa, leaving his wife and Monique and her three siblings alone for the duration. After the war, Monique stayed with a godmother in Normandy, where food was more plentiful, before returning to Montauban to take and pass the civil service exam. She joined the city's Administration for Public Finances and served as the chief controller of taxes.

When Amy and I enter their comfortable home, we immediately notice the many examples of Native American art and crafts that Jean-Claude and Monique have collected: paintings, sculptures, blankets, and dreamcatchers are everywhere. When we are all seated in the bright living room with glasses of wine, the windows thrown open to welcome the late afternoon breeze, Amy, who grew up in the West, asks Jean-Claude about his obvious interest in Indian heritage. He smiles and says, “I believe it is an article of faith for many Native Americans that everything is connected. And I think my love of American Indian art and your presence in our house today are both undeniably connected to what happened here in Montauban 181 years ago.” He leans forward in his chair and weaves for us an amazing tale.

When the earliest French settlers journeyed to the New World in search of furs and fish, they established alliances with many Native American tribes. Among their closest allies and trading partners were the Osage, whose territory included parts of present-day Missouri, Kansas, Arkansas, and Oklahoma. The painter George Catlin, who captured the likenesses of many Native Americans, described the Osage as “the tallest race of men in North America, either red or white; there being indeed few of the men at their full growth being less than six feet in stature, and very many of them six-and-a-half, and others seven feet.”