In This Hospitable Land (40 page)

Yvette Brignand didn’t think it fair to be left alone at the café while her mother and sister went to La Font to celebrate Philippe’s upcoming birthday. Especially when the café was so quiet.

Standing outside talking with a friend, Yvette was surprised by the noise of a motorcycle: the pastor from Le Pont-de-Montvert coming around the bend. She was even more surprised when he stopped right beside her.

“Good afternoon,” the pastor said evenly. “Are your parents inside?”

“Sorry. Mother and Alice are up at La Font. Father’s helping a neighbor fix his cart.”

“May I talk with you privately?”

Yvette assumed an air of formal reserve, waving good-bye to her friend and leading the minister into the otherwise empty café. Had the time come for her father to flee?

“I need your help,” the pastor said as soon as they were alone, taking an envelope from his coat and handing it to her. “Hide this and bring it up to the Sauverin mothers quickly.”

Before Yvette could make a sound the minister walked back out, hopped onto his motorcycle, and roared away. After shutting the door behind him, she shuttered the windows and hurried into the back room. Though alone she felt her face redden as she slipped the message into her bosom.

They’ll never think to look there,
she told herself, feeling important and afraid.

She put her coat on, opened the back door a crack, looked around cautiously, and stepped out. But when she set foot on the path to La Font she spotted something moving on the road and crouched down until she realized it was her uncle Émile in his cart full of hay drawn by his old horse Coquette.

“Oncle Émile!” she cried, leaping up and running to greet him.

Breathlessly she told him of her mission and the big man said “Hmn” to himself. “I bet the same information that sent the minister here sent Pastor Donadille to me.” Looking thoughtful, he told Yvette to go swiftly. “I’ll be right there with Coquette. But don’t say anything to anyone else, understand?”

“Wasn’t I right to tell you?” she quailed.

“Yes. But hurry.”

Yvette walked as quickly as she could without running, which might attract too much attention. She’d realized the Germans might leave her unmolested but the Milice were another matter.

Oh my God,
she thought, a knot forming and tightening in her stomach.
They’re French. No Frenchman would ever hesitate to reach into my bra.

Yvette’s mind raced as she came around the last bend of the path. She had to deliver her message confidentially in the midst of a party.

Philippe called excitedly, “Your mother said you couldn’t come!”

“Gracious, child,” Albertine cried out to Yvette. “Who’s minding the café?”

“Where are the mothers?” Yvette whispered heatedly into her own mother’s ear.

Imitating her daughter’s strange behavior, Albertine whispered back, “In the kitchen.”

Yvette hurriedly entered through the door by the woodshed. Geneviève was readying a small birthday cake. Denise was emptying a large sack. Yvette recognized Françoise Maurel, a contemporary she knew only from brief summertime visits.

“Yvette,” Geneviève called pleasantly. “We’re so glad you could make it.”

“Please,” Yvette said haltingly, turning away, reaching into her blouse, blushing and handing the slip of paper to Geneviève. “It’s from a pastor.”

Geneviève read the message rapidly, her face falling. Then she handed Denise the slip as if it had burst into flames and singed her fingers.

“It’s happened,” Denise said flatly, pulling strands of hair back from her forehead.

Puzzled, Yvette doubted anyone would enlighten her.

“Let’s just finish up the party as if nothing has happened,” Geneviève suggested.

“I’ll stay after,” Françoise said, “to help.”

“That’s not necessary, dear,” Denise said gallantly. “And it’s not worth the risk to you.”

Albertine stormed in and pulled Yvette to one side brusquely. “All right. What’s going on? Why is Émile here with his old horse and cart? Philippe keeps saying, ‘A hay ride! Hurray!’”

Geneviève intervened, explaining the situation briefly. Albertine’s expression and tone changed instantly.

“Yvette,” she said commandingly. “Run and telephone the operator in Florac. Tell her, ‘Send the white jacket of summer for Yvette immediately.’”

Yvette felt more confused than ever.

“Repeat it back to me,” her mother insisted, and Yvette complied. “Good. Now go. Then get back into the café as if nothing has happened.”

Geneviève gave Yvette a kiss and said, “Thank you. You’re a good brave girl.”

As Yvette raced away, Françoise asked if “white jacket for summer” was a secret code.

“Yes,” Albertine acknowledged. “To trigger calls to everyone involved in the Sauverins’ escape.”

There was no hayride. With the few guests gone, Émile stood alone, wind gusting around trees and blowing straight into his face. Touté stood on the veranda barking at the unfamiliar horse lazily browsing on a patch of grass.

“Good Touté,” Denise said as she and her sister came out of the farmhouse. She patted the dog’s head and scratched behind his ears. Then the sisters walked slowly down the stone steps, their faithful dog at their heels. “The children are settled down to supper now, so we can talk,” Denise told Émile.

“I’m sorry we must meet under these conditions,” Émile acknowledged. “But I helped your husbands as I will now help you.”

Geneviève flushed. “Are they staying with you? Please tell us they’re all right.”

“They’re fine. But no, they’re not staying with me anymore. Come. There is much to do if we’re to take care of you too—and very little time.” He placed one foot on the corner of the lowest step. Suddenly self-conscious, he realized how scuffed and scratched his boots must appear to women like these. But the boots were practical: firm, dry, warm. “Have you thought about your animals? They’re quite valuable, especially in times like these. I can see that they go to those in need.”

“Just as we hoped,” Denise agreed. “If possible though we would like them to go to those who have helped us most generously, especially here in Soleyrols.”

“I will do it carefully,” Émile promised, “so no suspicions arise. A sheep here, a goat there, a rabbit someplace else.”

“I suppose we can let the cats loose,” Geneviève said. “They’ll be all right.”

“But not the dog,” Émile muttered as Touté went in and out between his legs, wagging his tail. Émile caught the dog’s eyes and Touté stretched out at his feet, tongue darting in and out, ears standing straight up. “Even if we give him away he’ll follow you. Smart dog. Knows how to find sheep. He’ll find you too.”

“What can we do?” Denise gasped.

“Can’t take chances,” Émile insisted dolefully, “with your lives at stake.”

The sisters clutched each other’s hands.

“I’ll take care of him.” Émile glanced around and saw a heavy pitchfork standing in the manure pile by the lower level of the big barn. “Not good,” he mumbled, “but necessary.”

Denise shook her head tearfully. Geneviève set her jaw, grim but determined.

“Please don’t pay attention,” Émile said regretfully. “Don’t even look.” He took hold of Touté’s collar. The dog looked up at Denise and Geneviève then rose to his feet trustingly beside the mountain man. “You have a rope?”

The sisters exchanged a terrible glance but Geneviève stepped into the space beneath the house and quickly returned with a short, stout line. The women stood stock-still as Émile led the dog down to the side of the barn, tied him to the latch of the door and drew the line up tight. Inside sheep and goats rustled about nervously, baaing and neighing at the scent of Touté, expecting to be let out of their pens again.

Stupid animals,
Émile thought.
Better to take care of them than clever Touté.

Long schooled in hard necessity, Émile did not hesitate. He pulled the pitchfork out of the pile of manure and swung it around with both enormous force and deadly aim, crashing it down mercilessly and, paradoxically, mercifully upon Touté’s head. The dog, having completely transferred his trust for his masters to this stranger, was too surprised by the blow to dart aside or make a sound before being stunned to his knees.

Émile brought the pitchfork up and then down again quickly. Touté let out a whimper as a huge crack sounded, his right eye bulged and he collapsed onto his side, his tongue hanging out of his slack jaws, blood bubbling and foaming at the corner of his mouth. Swinging the pitchfork one more time, Émile made sure the poor dog was dead. Lifeless Touté’s head rested against the edge of the manure pile.

Émile took up the pitchfork once more and manipulating it expertly scooped enough manure from the pile to form a deep hole. Then he forked the dead animal into it and covered him with dung, mounding up the manure until the pile resumed its natural appearance.

He stabbed the pitchfork into place and turned back to the farmhouse. Denise and Geneviève looked as stricken as he expected but he was surprised to see two little children on the veranda. They had watched the whole scene.

“I’m sorry, little ones,” Émile called out, knowing his words were useless.

Crying, Christel and Philippe raced to their mothers.

Denise reflexively embraced her sobbing daughter. “You were supposed to stay inside!”

“Why, Mommy?” Christel wailed. “Why did that mean man kill Touté?”

The trunks were to be transported to the loft in Louis and Albertine’s barn underneath the load of hay already in Émile’s cart. Outside, Coquette neighed, growing as impatient as her master. Inside, Geneviève and Denise hurried to finish up.

“You think we’ll be intercepted?” Geneviève asked her sister.

“No,” Denise answered anxiously. “I have faith in Émile and Louis.”

“I hope Emmanuel and Sebastian get here in time to help cover our tracks.”

Émile entered the farmhouse. “I’ll carry the trunks out.”

“We can help,” Geneviève insisted.

“No,” Émile said definitively. “If anybody saw me letting women lift a heavy load they’d know something’s up.”

Denise watched Émile labor alone, folding and unfolding her hands inside the apron about her waist. Every minute it grew colder but Denise wasn’t warming her hands. She just didn’t know what else to do with them.

Émile loaded the trunks onto the bed of his cart then spread the hay over them, piling it up on top until it looked as it had when he arrived.

“All right then,” he said, climbing onto the hard wood plank behind Coquette. “Louis will be back just after midnight so be ready. And let’s hope for a bit of moon. You don’t want to use a lantern to find the way because that could draw attention.”

Émile lifted Coquette’s reins and gave them a snap. Only when Geneviève heard the squeaking of cart wheels rounding on their un-greased axles and the scraping of metal rims bouncing over the stony cartway to Soleyrols did she comprehend that the moment they had so long dreaded had finally arrived.

Supper was simple but there was tension in La Font even among the children. Taking a break from final preparations, Denise and Geneviève sat at the table. Rose was kind enough to bring out the last of the soup of chestnuts, garlic, onions, potatoes, and carrots. Breaking off chunks of bread to dunk, everyone ate quickly. There was even some cheese to help fill their stomachs, for tonight there was no need to stint. Whatever remained would go to others or to waste.

“Now children,” Denise said when they were done, rousing herself from melancholy, “we need to do a few more things to get ready.”

“But why do we have to go, Maman?” Katie cried out.

“You know all that,” Geneviève snapped.

Ida said, “At school we hear the Germans don’t like Jews.”

“Even some French people don’t like Jews,” Katie added.

“Who told you that?” Geneviève asked sharply. “And what has it got to do with you?”

“One of the older boys,” Ida answered softly, “whose father owns a leather shop.”

“He said some families hiding in these mountains have Jewish relatives but aren’t Jews themselves,” Katie explained.