In This Hospitable Land (60 page)

The girls spotted their father and raced to him gleefully. André embraced them and Denise. Then Alex joined them and took his nieces to play so husband and wife could talk quietly.

Denise was puzzled by André’s air of despondency. Wasn’t he pleased that the liberation of France had begun? Yes, he said, but he was haunted by La Rivière…

Partway through André’s explanation, Denise started trembling uncontrollably. Her mouth went dry and her spirit filled with terrible foreboding. “André. Did you shoot anyone?”

“No,” he said sorrowfully, as if he regretted it. “No, I did not.”

Denise wrapped her arms around him. How strange and disturbing that André seemed mortally distressed not to have violated his principles.

But that wasn’t what had upset him. “During the confusion and madness of the firefight,” he explained, “no one noticed that two of the Milice from the overturned truck not only managed to survive but to escape into the bramble. They must have run down along the river until they reached the train station, where they telephoned their regiment. On Monday, Milice and German soldiers returned to La Rivière in force. Our men spotted them but all they could do was send a messenger racing ahead—a teenager on a motorcycle. When the Nazis entered the village every man, woman, child, and animal was gone and could not be found though the enemy searched for miles around. But they did find the messenger, whose motorcycle had stalled outside the next town. They shot him dead. Then they went back to La Rivière, discovered the damaged trucks and the unmarked grave, and ransacked the town before burning it to the ground with the aid of an incendiary grenade. By dawn Tuesday, La Rivière was nothing but smoking ruins. That’s when we got news of the Americans landing in Normandy—almost simultaneous misery and exaltation. But it could have been worse. We learned the Milice intended to search for the citizens of La Rivière again yesterday. Thankfully the Allied invasion put an end to that. And yesterday afternoon the villagers returned. Many of us went to help. Like diligent ants we cleaned up the aftermath and began rebuilding their homes.”

Denise remained silent for more than a minute then said, “It’s a terrible story. But it speaks volumes about the courage and indomitability of the people of La Rivière.”

André shook his head regretfully. “While I looked at the remains of what had so recently been a lovely village—a strong people’s home—I couldn’t help thinking of a passage in the Stevenson book about the Catholics’ assaults on the land of the Huguenots and Camisards, ‘the devastation of the High Cévennes,’ when some four hundred sixty villages and hamlets were destroyed by fire and pickax. I don’t know why this phrase stayed in my mind: ‘A man standing on this eminence would have looked forth upon a silent, smokeless, and dispeopled land.’ Luckily I remembered this too: ‘Time and man’s activity have now repaired these ruins.’”

“André. You sound as if you blame yourself for this destruction.”

“No,” André sighed. “But I sorely wish I could have done more to stop it.”

Holding her daughters’ hands, Denise left the camp a short time later, heartsick for her troubled husband. Her final glimpse of him and Alex—shouldering their rifles and marching off to train with the other Maquisards—distressed her profoundly and left her possessed by irreducible fear.

Events proceeded apace, but they couldn’t move fast enough for Alex, who felt penned up at Champdemergue where there was little to do besides follow reports of action elsewhere, attend to the dull daily requirements of life in a Resistance camp, and train incessantly. The only part he liked was target practice.

Rightly or wrongly Alex couldn’t wait for another chance to use his rifle against the enemy, having gotten a taste of fighting at La Rivière. He couldn’t say for sure whether any of his shots had struck any German but he was ready for the next fight. Let André keep the remnants of his pacifism to himself.

Enormous rapid progress was made in the Normandy campaign, but Alex felt so stagnant he almost wished he were back at Le Tronc. At least there he could do something. The only advantage to camp life was ongoing reports from elsewhere in France due to the resumption of shortwave radio use. The Resistance no longer felt so threatened by local Fascist forces. No more need for invisible ink.

More than three hundred thousand Allied troops on French soil had linked up across the established beachheads, creating a fifty-mile-wide front secure enough to allow separate visits by Britain’s King George VI and General Charles de Gaulle. Emboldened by what he saw, the Free French leader began taking steps to restore civilian government in the retaken territory. The RAF launched raids from French airfields for the first time since 1940.

But the retreating German military still did terrible things. Some six hundred fifty inhabitants of the small village of Oradour-sur-Glane near Limoges had been ruthlessly killed. All had been locked inside a church and burned to death. The few who somehow managed to escape were gunned down mercilessly.

Meanwhile, more young men poured into the Maquis camps emboldened by Allied advances and Nazi panic. Hoping to help complete the defeat of their oppressors, the new recruits were more anxious for battle than the elders recently rotated into Vimbouches and Champdemergue from other locations, including men who had seen fighting in the Spanish Civil War and on the Eastern Front in the early days of this World War. Their tales of wounding, maiming, and death could not deter youthful enthusiasts from wishing to enter the fray.

Despite his years, Alex felt more like the would-be warriors than the experienced and dismayed. And it seemed they might soon get their wish. The mayor of La Rivière had quickly reestablished Resistance operations in a rebuilt outpost and had just broadcast to his scattered underground forces, “They’re pulling some units out of Nîmes.”

“You think they’ll come through here?” young Maquisards asked each other.

“Let’s set up barricades on all the roads leading north.”

“We’ve already blown up all the bridges.”

“And we’ve wrecked trains in their tunnels, removed and hidden the rails.”

“I understand the Germans lost a full convoy carrying away their guns and tanks.”

Strolling by and overhearing the young ones speak boastfully of what they would do in firefights they hoped and prayed for, the chief told them, “Easy, men. The leadership makes those decisions. That’s why we’ve been so effective.”

One young man piped up, “I hear a lone gunman shot at a German convoy and stopped it for a whole day by himself.”

“And killed a lot of Nazi scum,” another put in gleefully.

“When can we conduct another ambush?” a young farmer who had left the fields for a different kind of harvest wanted to know. “I’m busting to do something.”

“You’ll have your chance,” Roger assured them. “Most Germans near here are heading up the Rhône Valley but a whole group may soon leave Alès for Mende by way of Florac. If so, you won’t have to wait much longer.”

The young men and Alex were cheered by this news, but when the chief left, André, listening from a short distance away, ambled over.

“Don’t be so anxious,” he suggested, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “I know it may not seem so to you but war is a bad business no matter what.”

“We need to kill Germans,” the young farmer declared. His friends clapped and cheered.

“I understand,” André said, worrying his forehead. “But don’t forget they also want to kill you. And I’m not sure you realize how terrible it is to be shot or to watch someone on either side bleed and moan and die. That doesn’t leave you feeling triumphant. It leaves you feeling dead inside.” The youngsters jeered but André persisted. “It may be necessary to fight,” he insisted, feeling the full toll taken by the last four years, “but there is no glory unless you’re the one to survive.”

Alex and the young men went off to distract themselves and blow off nervous energy with a game of pétanque. Walking by himself, André was surprised and delighted to bump into Max Maurel, who had just arrived.

“Have you heard the latest?” Max asked, suddenly darkening after warmly greeting his old friend. “About the roundup of Resistance workers in Alès? The Milice turned them over to the Gestapo, who tortured them for information and then shot all fifteen.” André bowed his head and shook it slowly. “They were betrayed by collaborateurs and killed as an example. Their bodies were thrown down a flooded mineshaft at Celas, about a dozen kilometers north of the city.”

André breathed evenly, his eyes sad and sunken. “It’s cruel. Beastly. Barbaric.”

“The few who weren’t betrayed know who did it,” Max said heavily. “After our liberty is attained, the responsible parties will be called to account. As will many more.”

“Good to see you, Max,” Roger said when the young man checked in at his office. “I may have need of you.”

“Expecting injuries?” Max asked fearfully, never sure of his limited medical knowledge. How he regretted not completing his education and training.

“Not immediately, no. But there’s an action you can help with.”

The chief sent for André, with whom Max exchanged a quizzical look.

“Time for another raid,” Roger explained, closing his office door. “This time for money. We can’t ask the farmers for more food—they’ve already given us as much as they can and more than they should. But we still need to eat—and for that we need cash.”

“How will we get it?” Max asked.

“We’ll take it. From the government.”

André and Alex looked at one another again, more puzzled than before.

“You know the office of the mining company at La Grand-Combe?” Roger asked.

Max was shocked. “Where they threw the bodies?”

Roger’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the last place they’ll expect us now, even though other raids have been staged there for shoes, clothes, gasoline, even food from the storage sheds. But this time…The government owns the mine. So we won’t be stealing from a person though it will be a bit like picking Pétain’s pocket.” Roger snorted derisively. “The central office of
La Compagnie des Mines de La Grand-Combe
handles the payroll for five thousand miners. They pay out twice a month. ‘Friends’ have told us that the sum for the first two weeks of June—which is considerable—will be brought in today. Once we grab it this section of the Maquis should be able to subsist on the proceeds until our liberation.”

“Those coal mine warehouses are heavily guarded,” Max objected. “We’d have to go in with guns, maybe take and even kill hostages. Why would you want André or me for this mission?”

Roger turned to André. “You’re the cover. Since you don’t look like the typical Maquisard your very presence will help deflect suspicion.” Then he addressed Max. “You know the area and the mine office. You’re intelligent and quick. I don’t want any shooting, particularly since we’re going in in broad daylight—and I know you won’t be in a hurry to pull the trigger.”

“Those miners are going to be awfully upset when they don’t get paid,” Max pointed out.

“Their distress is just a side benefit.” The chief grinned wickedly. “We all know who they really work for. They’re no innocents. Many are full-fledged collaborators, so be glad for this chance to stick it to them.”

“Are you going with us?” André asked.

“This time Émile’s in charge. He’ll give you all the details tomorrow.”

“Chief,” André said politely. “Could Alex come with us? He gets upset when he’s left out.”

Kindly but unshakably Roger said, “No. Frankly this scheme is a bit dangerous and except in cases like the attack on La Rivière when I absolutely need every available hand, I won’t run the risk of losing both the Sauverin family’s men at once.”