In This Hospitable Land (35 page)

On November the eighth, André and Alex listened to the daily broadcast of the BBC in French. They heard the cryptic phrase “The fish are in the river” just as the jamming started. It was repeated in Flemish. The brothers interpreted it as confirming the start of an Allied invasion of North Africa.

On the eleventh, Hitler ordered the occupation of the rest of France. Then the mailman reported that Germans had arrived in Alès and now directly controlled the French police.

“Also,” he said darkly, “the Gestapo are in Mende.”

Late in November 1942, a tall, overweight man trudged up the path to La Font with a black bag in hand. He wore a dark coat and despite the seasonal chill loosened the black tie that bound the neck of his white shirt already soaked with sweat. His generous jowls jounced up and down on his otherwise spare face. He felt old, gray, winded, and disgusted as he mounted the last steps onto the veranda.

“I’m the doctor,” he said when André and Alex came out. “Sent to check on your health.”

“By whom?” Alex demanded.

“By order of the prefect from Mende. I need to report back to the police.”

“Why do they want to know about our health?” Alex snapped.

“To make sure the air of the Cévennes agrees with you,” the doctor replied dryly. Then he added more seriously and heavily, “To see if you’re healthy and capable of work.”

He set down his black case and brought out his stethoscope. After a quick examination he declared the brothers healthy.

“Do you agree?” he asked.

Alex barked, “You’re the doctor. You tell us!”

“I am,” the doctor replied miserably, “and you are. Which is what I was sent here for, so now I’ll leave.” He prepared to go then turned back and told André, “By the by, the governor of Mende asked especially that I give you his regards. He hoped I would find you well. I will tell him I did.”

When the doctor was gone André said, “This is only the beginning. I’m certain the governor of Mende was sending us a message. If authorities that far away are thinking about us here in Soleyrols, we’re not safe at all.”

In the depths of December the Sauverins could muster no enthusiasm even when the BBC broadcast encouraging news. Nor did they have the Christmas pageant in Vialas to look forward to because by then they were afraid to be seen anywhere and not only for their own sakes: the laudable involvement of Protestant pastors in Resistance activities made the presence of any refugees in their temples, let alone a family as numerous as the Sauverins, a potential compromise of their security and their much-needed anti-Fascist activities.

New Year’s 1943 brought no brightness either. Soon enough the puppet Vichy government instituted an additional police force to work in “cooperation” with the Gestapo. The Milice, as they were called, were more active, aggressive, and authoritarian than the regular gendarmes. Directed by the German authorities in Mende, the Milice were instructed to apply more pressure to any Jewish refugees and other foreigners in the Lozère who had somehow eluded previous less-concerted efforts to extract them.

Consisting of carefully selected thugs, the Milice were only too happy to rid France of outsiders, especially Jews. But the Milice didn’t discriminate. Anyone who objected to Fascist ideology and policies or—worse—actively opposed them was subject to the roundups or
rafles
, for which the Milice evinced brutal enthusiasm.

In turn this placed enormous strain on those coalescing in the secluded mountain villages and hamlets of the Cévennes. As more and more men like Max Maurel joined the Resistance, it became difficult to find places they could stay. And since the youths who found their way to the few isolated camps brought very little beyond energy and determination, all food and clothing had to be supplied, stretching to the utmost the limited resources of local tradespeople and farmers—including the Sauverins, who clandestinely provided whatever they could.

Rumor had it that the resisters had begun to train rigorously in arms and guerrilla warfare. Meanwhile another four thousand Jews were rounded up in Marseille.

When school resumed after the holiday break, Katie and Ida seemed uncharacteristically reluctant to resume their studies. Denise was greatly puzzled but both she and Geneviève agreed it was important that the children go if only to get out of the house for a few hours every day.

Before the week was out both girls separately complained about irritation “down there.” Upon examination Denise was shocked to discover redness. When she looked up into her daughter’s face for an explanation she saw a torrent of tears.

Ida confessed first and Katie confirmed the abuse. During recess periods in December the older boys had taken them out into the woods to show them “what the animals do.” And they were doing it again.

The household spent a miserable sleepless night. The next morning both Denise and Geneviève escorted their daughters to school to confront Monsieur Molines. Appropriately appalled, he swore the culprits would be punished and the heinous practice stopped. But that didn’t mollify Denise. The more understanding, compassion, embarrassment, and regret Patrick Molines expressed, the more Denise bore down on him.

It wasn’t until Denise and Geneviève had walked halfway home that the bitter winter cold worked its way into Denise’s clothes and cooled her down enough for her to understand what had happened. The rape of Ida and Katie was an inexcusable offense, but by berating poor Patrick Molines viciously, Denise wasn’t just pouring out righteous indignation. She was releasing all the pent-up sealed-off emotion and trauma inflicted on herself, her family, and the world-at-large by the hideous, never-ending war.

In mid-February the French agreed to deliver another ten thousand foreign Jews to the Germans from the so-called unoccupied zone. Another rafle began, so André and Alex were not surprised—they were relieved—when late one night toward the end of the month they found Pastor Donadille with his sallow cheeks, graying temples, and thin nose almost hooked over his upper lip wearing his habitual ill-fitting suit of black and hammering heavily at their kitchen door.

“Thank God,” André said softly. “We thought you’d never come.”

The wives joined and hugged their husbands.

“
Mesdames
,” the pastor breathed, reflexively offering a quick courtesy.

Two packed duffel bags rested next to the door. Heavy coats and berets hung on the backs of kitchen chairs.

“Listen,” the pastor told the men, “we have just learned your names have been entered onto the list. Early tomorrow morning the police will come to take you away.”

“Damned Milice,” Alex growled.

“No, the gendarmes I think,” Pastor Donadille said.

“Thank you for coming, Pastor,” Denise said. “We were hoping not to be forgotten.”

The pastor looked perplexed, so André explained, “We knew it would come to this. We just didn’t know when.”

Alex declared angrily, “But it was clear what would follow after Vichy recruited thirty thousand toughs into their mini-SS.”

“And even clearer earlier this month,” André added, “when the government established
Le Service du Travail Obligatoire.
Once they were forced to call up whole age-groups of native-born citizens for obligatory work in Germany, how long could it be before they finally came for us?”

“How did you learn about tomorrow?” André asked the reverend.

“Let me just say ‘friends,’” Marc Donadille offered reluctantly. “I would prefer not to be so mysterious but it’s better this way. You understand: too much knowledge is dangerous. One must guard against such information falling into the wrong hands.”

“Bastards,” Alex snorted. “Traitors.”

Pastor Donadille shook his head. “It’s a sad day when the French throw in with the Germans. Have we learned nothing from so many wars, so much bloodshed, so many lives lost?”

“What happens now?” Denise asked, trembling.

Rounding on the brothers again, the pastor explained, “I will escort you to others. They will take you to safety some little distance from here. But hurry. We have no more time to lose.”

“What about our family?” André begged. “Will they be safe too?”

“The Resistance will see to them,” the pastor replied. “Don’t you have reason to believe? Because of someone else you know?” He looked deeply, knowingly, into André’s eyes.

“Perhaps,” André said vaguely.

“Then let us begin our journey.”

Denise clasped her husband. “It’s cruel and unjust,” she said sorrowfully. Then she released him.

“Just one more minute,” André said to the pastor. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small velvet pouch, and handed it to Denise. “The diamonds,” he told her. “You know where to go and who will help if you need to sell them.”

Alex went to the mantel above the fireplace and returned with a thick leather notebook he gave to Geneviève. “Our livestock records and the plan for the garden that has worked so well. If you’re still here when spring comes, just follow this schedule of plantings.”

Geneviève listlessly turned the pages. “So meticulous,” she said, her voice husky with unshed tears. “February twenty-first. You made your last entry today.”

“Ready?” Pastor Donadille prodded gently.

“Just let me kiss the girls,” André pleaded.

“Don’t wake them,” Denise counseled. “We’ll give your love to them and Rose.”

“Come quickly,” the pastor urged, looking at the clock showing close to midnight. In an instant they were gone, as Marc Donadille led André and Alex out the door into thick snow. The night was still and cold. The sky was filled with a multitude of stars but only a thin sliver of moon.

“Can you see well enough?” the pastor whispered to the brothers.

“Just,” André responded for both.

“Best make do,” the pastor insisted. “Who knows who might be up even at this hour?”

Lapsing into silence, they picked up speed going downhill.

“Careful not to dislodge any rocks,” the pastor cautioned. “Make no unnecessary noise.”

They reached the darkened café at the base of the hill, turned west, and went on. After leaving the main road, André wasn’t certain where they were. But the night was intensely beautiful. He could just discern the peaks of the nearby mountains standing out against the sharp night sky. Little villages and small clusters of houses half-hidden in the gloom loomed, sheltered by trees nestled along the mountainsides.

No lights could be seen. Only the occasional bark of a dog disturbed the tranquility.

“You’re sure of the way?” Alex asked the pastor anxiously. “This path is safe?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Monsieur,” Pastor Donadille said gravely. “Men have died of the cold in these mountains, falling and freezing in the snow. So watch your step.”

They tramped uphill and down, around bend after bend. Despite Pastor Donadille’s familiarity with the terrain, his ability to find his way surely on a lightless night was remarkable.

The three approached yet another road. The pastor stopped short and softly whistled a strange distinctive series of notes like the call of an exceptionally musical bird. All listened intently. Another low whistle sounded the same notes as the pastor’s.

He led them forward again slowly. André could just make out a shadow breaking away from some deeper dark, shifting direction and growing larger as it neared.

“Donadille?” the shadow called softly.

The pastor motioned the shadow forward. It assumed the silhouette of a man.

“Christophe Brett,” Donadille intoned, “I leave these brothers in your capable hands.”

“I will do all I can for them,” Christophe promised. “You take care.”

The pastor shook hands all around then drew away into the night.

“Come,” the new guide said, motioning and leading the Sauverins across the road.

“Where are we going?” Alex asked once the new guide had gotten them onto a wooded path.

Christophe Brett made no reply so André said quietly, “I’m sure we’ll be there soon.”

“How far must we travel?” Alex persisted. “I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

Not catching the joke, Christophe said somberly, “Those who will hide you live about three kilometers from Soleyrols. But it’s down then up so it takes longer than it should.”

They walked on quickly but slowed when the way fell into the deep shadow of trees. Water could be heard streaming down the mountainside into the broad valley they traversed, helping to direct Christophe. Far away another mountain could barely be discerned.

They came to an old mill perched on the side of a dam long since breached. The spillway was empty now and water the dam could no longer contain rushed by some feet below.

The brothers followed Christophe across the mill’s threshold. What once had been a door had crumbled against the stone wall inside years or even decades before.

“What now?” Alex demanded.

“We wait,” Christophe answered serenely. “Someone will come for you soon.”

Only a few of the roof beams were still intact. The small building itself was solid stone. Some fallen timber gave the men a place to sit. Christophe took off his knapsack and tossed it into a corner. André and Alex set down their duffel bags.

“It’s safer to talk here than outside,” Christophe told the brothers.

He was very young, fresh out of the lycée. Roughly the same middling height and build as the Sauverins and fairly good-looking, Christophe had light brown hair and pale blue eyes, his angular face dominated by a prominent, whisker-free chin. His movements were notably quick.

André asked, “Why would you risk your life to help strangers like us?”

“I am Cévenol,” Christophe responded in a voice rich with sympathy. “My family lives here. My ancestors are buried here. We have always been a strong people who value independence of thought, conscience, and action and who cherish freedom—not just from ignorance and harassment but from laws that protect the few and degrade the many.” Christophe spoke more and more quickly, his voice rising in pitch but not volume. “Now the Germans have come and our cowardly French authorities and police have sold out our heritage, pride, and very name. But I am not one of them and neither are most of us in the Lozère. So I resist, working with others of like mind. I know how to write and I’m good with figures, when I dress like a shopkeeper I can blend in, and I have legs strong enough for the longest walks, so I serve as a courier for the pastors and the growing Resistance. But it is dangerous. Too many cooperate with the Germans hoping to get into their good graces. One needs to be careful.”

“More careful than that,” a deep voice sounded unexpectedly from the doorway, startling Christophe and the Sauverins. Then the large shadowed man chuckled warmly and Christophe relaxed visibly. Something about this fellow seemed eerily familiar but the Sauverins couldn’t place him. “Remember, my young friend,” the big man continued, “for now
they
have the upper hand so
we
must be stealthy and cagey—do all we can but hold our tongues and wait patiently.”

“For what?” Christophe asked.

“Opportunities. Organization. Direction. Right now we’re too fragmented, too weak to take action. We’re lucky we can do as much as we already do: protect people.”

“Like us?” André said.

“Like you,” the other agreed. “By the by, I’m Émile Brignand.” He laughed his deep warm laugh. “Don’t look so surprised. My brother and I look alike but not as alike as you two!” Émile squatted down beside them. “I’m here to take you the rest of the way. But don’t thank me. I’m glad to help but I’m more glad to do something against the Germans.” He stood again. “We should go before it gets too light.”

Striding to the door he glanced about then motioned all to follow. At the threshold the brothers looked at Christophe and tapped their berets as they would have tipped their hats in Brussels. Then they followed Émile one way as Christophe went the other.

They leapt rocks to cross the stream. Émile led them through a grove of chestnut trees interspersed with oak, poplar, and ash which formed a leafy canopy over sparse underbrush.

Climbing upward on paths lined with ancient stone walls, they finally came to an opening on a level plain. As the sky lightened with the approach of dawn, they saw the gray shapes of stone houses crowded close together along a path wide enough for an ox cart.

“Here,” Émile whispered gently, lifting the door latch of one of the larger houses, next to a barn. The three slipped inside almost silently.

“There,” Émile said. “We’re home.”

Standing awkwardly, Alex muttered, “Thanks.”

André quickly added, “We will never be able to express our appreciation adequately.”

Émile waved off their words in embarrassment.

“I don’t want to light a lamp yet,” he told them gruffly, covering his emotion. “Someone might see and it wouldn’t do for anyone to suspect I’ve changed my routine.”

Émile hovered over the broad, deep fireplace of the house he shared with his mother. The fire had been banked to smolder overnight but Émile wielded a poker, disturbing ashes and exposing a soft red glow. He fed in a few small sticks and as tongues of flame licked them added some larger chunks of wood. Shortly warmth crept out, taking the edge off the profound cold.

Outside a dog began barking. Then the rooster started in, waking the hens and some fifteen residents of a settlement too small to call itself a village.

The sun began rising behind the mountains, casting long shadows onto the clustered houses of the farmers of this difficult but much-loved land. How beautiful it was: the trees close together on the sheltering hillside, the gently sloping fields, the careful stonework of the old masons who had deployed their skills as no contemporary could match. Émile wondered whether the Sauverins would cherish the way those men had worked the rock into homes that would last for generations—how though driven by hard necessity they had been proud enough to take the time to create lovely arches over doors and passageways. Would these city-bred brothers even notice the painstaking care taken in carving the moldings around windows and doors?