In This Hospitable Land (36 page)

Smoke rose through the tall chimney to the open sky. Even in this remote habitation people felt compelled to shut their doors at night against the threat of the hated German interlopers and their French lackeys. Still, Émile believed this place was secure for the moment.

In this hamlet everyone knew everyone else as their parents and grandparents had and on and on. Émile believed each of them felt the same troubled way about the latest in the region’s long line of oppressors. Nevertheless the history and hard experiences of the Cévenols had bred a preternatural caution into him. He knew nothing could be taken for granted.

Having dozed uneasily for a few short hours on a wooden bench and three rush-seated chairs pushed together, Émile’s guests blinked, rubbed their eyes, and looked confused.

“It’s okay,” Émile called out. “Coffee’s on its way.”

“Where are we?” André asked sleepily.

“Le Massufret,” Émile replied, reaching past pots, crocks, and trivets hooked over the fireplace to the coffeepot held above the flames by a crane. “Too small to find on a map. With luck too small to find at all.” He poured the brew into tin cups that grew hot instantly but the handles were cool enough to hold. “It’s not much,” he admitted, offering the cups to the brothers, “and not real, but better than nothing.”

André shook himself, stretched, and stood up to take his cup. Alex remained motionless.

“I can’t stop thinking about our family,” the younger brother said anxiously.

“We can’t control the situation.” André sounded stiffly professorial. “Their safety, like ours, now rests in the hands of others.”

Émile held out the second cup again. Alex accepted it wordlessly.

“I’ll be just a minute,” Émile said flatly, stepping over to the front door to give the brothers a minute to themselves and to take a precautionary look outside.

He pulled the solid wooden door to and was immediately revived after his own sleepless night by the fresh mountain air. Le Massufret appeared peaceful. He didn’t see a single soul until the door to the next house opened and Pasqual Platon emerged.

“Morning,” Pasqual called cheerfully, heading straight Émile’s way.

“G’day,” Émile offered—his standard reply.

Pasqual was small but strongly built. His shirt and brown sweater with holes at the elbows were a too-tight fit. Like Émile, Pasqual wore the blue cotton pants common to the region—comfortable, easy to wash, and not very costly.

“So?” Pasqual asked.

“Yes,” Émile responded.

“Where?”

“In there.”

Émile returned to the dark interior. Pasqual followed in his wake and welcomed the Sauverins, smiling enthusiastically, taking each one’s hand in turn and giving it a short hard shake.

“Friend?” André asked Émile, puzzled and slightly unnerved.

“Brother-in-law.”

“Good,” Alex said relaxing his tensed shoulders. “Family.”

“So you know about us too,” André said to Pasqual.

“We all do in Le Massufret,” Pasqual explained. “Which I assure you is okay. You can trust us. As for the other little villages hereabouts—well, most are like us. Some are a little strange and may have funny ideas.” He began muttering in a Cévenol accent so thick the Sauverins couldn’t understand much but could make out “Fascists” and “bastards.”

“You must be hungry,” Émile told the brothers, changing the subject.

“I’m too nervous to be hungry,” Alex complained.

“It’s fine to be nervous or hungry but not at the same time, eh?” Pasqual joked.

“You still have to eat,” Émile insisted, glaring at his brother-in-law.

Going over to the cupboard he brought out a round loaf of crusty bread blackened by baking in the beehive oven at the back of the fireplace. Then the bedroom door flew open.

“You’re making an awful noise for men who are supposed to be secretive.”

The rotund, wizened woman, white hair tied loosely into a bun at the back of her loose-fleshed neck, shuffled forth with a broad smile of welcome.

“Mother,” Émile said. “Did we wake you?”

“I’ve been up for hours,” she said. “You know I never sleep much anymore.”

Émile presented Lucille Brignand, who said with satisfaction, “So these are the famous Sauverin brothers.” Wearing a faded blue dress and a lighter blue-checked apron securely fastened around her ample waist, she was pale and wrinkled but her fine brown eyes were clear and bright. “So what do you think of my boy?” she asked, reaching a hand to tousle Émile’s thinning black hair. “I keep telling him to do something about this mop. It’s ridiculous, no?—growing out like a great big bush at the sides and the back. No wonder he’s never found a woman.” She gave a little laugh to show she didn’t mean it. “But I love the blue of his eyes, don’t you?—even if those brows are too bushy. He’s got good color too—ruddy from long hours in the sun and from the wind that always blows down into this valley. Here,” she said, taking the loaf out of her son’s hands, which seemed too large for the rest of him and were spoiled by dirty uneven fingernails. “All of you sit,” Lucille commanded, motioning to the single large table. “You can stay too,” she told sheepish-looking Pasqual. Then she shot him a sharp look. “Unless you have something better to do.”

“I’d better get back to my wife,” he said meekly.

“My daughter, you mean.”

“I’m sure she’s got breakfast ready now,” Pasqual said, backing out the door.

Émile’s mother cut the bread into large slices then fetched a crock of butter from the small room off the kitchen and returned to spread a small amount onto each slice. She also brought back a jar of blackberry preserves, with which she was more generous. Not bothering with plates she just handed out the slices.

Émile tore off a piece and dipped it into his coffee. Lucille stoked the fire muttering, “You’d think a grown man would know how to get more warmth into this place.”

After some minutes André asked quietly, “Now what do we do?”

Émile shrugged. “Stay here for a bit. Then we’ll take you someplace safer.”

“Believe it,” Lucille said, patting Émile’s head. “Such a good boy.”

“I just can’t get to sleep.” Denise returned to the kitchen drawing a blanket around her shoulders.

Geneviève, staring blankly, gathered her shawl about her. The stove was already cold though embers glowed softly under ash in one corner of the firebox.

“I can’t sleep either,” she said.

The sisters sat silently side by side listening to the gentle, rhythmic breathing of their children in another room. One of the older girls uttered the softest cry. Then all was quiet again.

“I’m so afraid,” Geneviève finally admitted.

“We need to make plans,” Denise said. “The police will come for us sooner or later.”

“How are we to manage in the meantime—on our own?”

“Don’t worry so,” Denise counseled herself as much as her sister. “We can do what we must.”

“But what do we tell the children and when?”

“We’ll figure it out in the morning,” Denise said, suddenly weary of talking. “Let’s get some sleep,” she suggested, yawning. “We’re going to need it.”

“I’ll sleep later,” Geneviève replied in a thin voice. “Not yet.”

After Denise returned to bed, Geneviève got up and went out onto the veranda. The night’s stillness was broken by the call of an owl hunting. The pigs and sheep bedded down below rustled about. The goats in the little barn sounded restless too, but that was just their way.

Geneviève knew the gendarmes were bound to walk up the path soon. She listened for footsteps or muffled voices floating on the breeze. Staring out into the dark, she could barely perceive frost on the rocks of the path poking black above the thin mantel of snow and glistening in the starlight.

Exhausted, she went back into the kitchen and cradled her head on the refectory table.

Feeling the warmth of the sun on her back, Geneviève opened her eyes. There was Denise surrounded by children, holding Cristian in her arms.

“I’m hungry, Didi,” Katie said, using her nickname for Aunt Denise.

“Me too, Maman,” Ida echoed.

“Shortly,” Denise promised. “First I need to tell you something.” Katie and Ida perched on stools. Christel and Philippe clung to her skirts. “Your fathers have gone away,” she said in a clear, comforting voice. “They didn’t want to. They had to.”

Katie’s eyes began to water.

“But why, Maman?” Ida demanded, sounding close to tears herself.

“To be safe. Now you must get ready for school,” Denise said, heating up the bajana.

“But where did they go?” Katie asked. “Somewhere nearby?”

“Spain,” Denise answered spontaneously—to protect the children from the truth
(I don’t know!)
and to keep them from accidentally saying anything revealing to anyone. “Where our friends Sebastian and Emmanuel come from.”

“Then we will see them again?” Ida asked almost prayerfully. “Soon?”

“Oh, certainly you’ll see them again,” Geneviève assured them all. Fully awake now, she joined Denise at the stove and ladled thick chestnut soup out of the black pot.

“But when?” Katie squealed. “When?”

Geneviève carried the soup to the table and sliced coarse brown bread and a little cheese.

“Maman,” Christel asked. “Is there an apple? I’d like an apple.”

“No, dear,” her mother replied. “They’re all gone. You know that.”

“Is the war coming here?” Ida asked calmly.

Geneviève and Denise exchanged a look.

“We hope not,” Denise replied steadily, hoping the children could neither see nor feel her sadness. “Come,” she said forcing a smile onto her face. “It won’t do to be late.”

Geneviève dropped Christel, Philippe, and Cristian off to play with Rose then walked Katie and Ida to school. Denise sat on the veranda shielding her still-tired eyes against the early-morning sunrays slanting across the distant mountains. Overnight frost turned slowly to dew.

Fear of the gendarmes kept her wide-eyed and alert. Since they wouldn’t find André and Alex would they arrest the mothers instead? Or worse, want the children? She paced the veranda then saw what she expected: two French policemen in their distinctive blue uniforms and caps walking slowly up the path. In a sense she was relieved. At least she would soon know what would happen.

“Good morning,” the younger of the two men called lightly in a surprisingly kindly tone.

Looking down, Denise judged him to be about fifty—too old to have been drafted in the war’s earlier days and now safe from other duties since the Germans needed police to help keep order locally. The second man was older. He trudged up to the veranda with a slight limp, likely from service in the Great War. After that horror ended, ranks of the gendarmes had been filled by returning veterans.

The policemen touched their caps politely with their forefingers as they reached the landing. The man who had already spoken said, “Madame, I am Officer Pellet and this is my superior Brigadier Salager. Sorry to disturb you, but may we see Messieurs André and Alex?”

“They’re not here,” Denise replied surprised by the offhand manner she simulated.

“Excuse me, Madame Sauverin,” Brigadier Salager said politely, “but where are they and when will they return? We have been ordered to ask them to come with us.”