In This Hospitable Land (61 page)

This time the resistants traveled as a small brigade in three light trucks and two cars. Things really had changed since the invasion of Normandy. There was little chance of being stopped along the way what with the Vichy government on the verge of collapse and the Milice and the Gestapo rarely moving about anymore without a reason.

As the Maquis headed south, several trucks showed up on the road ahead of them—old cranky vehicles sputtering and fuming…just farmers bringing produce to market. When the towers of the mine works finally appeared, Max led the way, turning off the main road, rounding a small hill, heading for the main office. The trucks stayed behind to block the entrance.

Soon Émile, André, and Max were inside, anxiously watching over several clerks. Three other resistants were in the back room with another clerk retrieving the money.

The clerks out front seemed calmer than the Maquisards. They sat quietly at their desks as if being robbed were an everyday occurrence and if they just waited patiently this little drama would end quickly and well.

Only the men in the trucks were armed. The chief’s prohibition against weapons in the office had seemed a sensible precaution back at the camp but Émile realized now that he and the others had no way to defend themselves if anything untoward happened except with their fists. That’s why he kept his hands in his pants: if someone with evil intent came in suddenly he would point his concealed index fingers pretending he had a pistol in each pocket.

After what seemed an eternity but was only three minutes, the back-room door swung open with a bang. The mild-mannered clerk came out first followed by Émile’s deputies.

“Here,” the last man called to Émile jovially, holding up a large cloth sack stuffed to bursting. “Every franc we were told to expect.”

“Let’s go then,” Émile ordered, annoyed that his deputy had spoken incautiously, thoughtlessly disclosing the fact that the resistants had an informant. “Hurry.”

“Wait!” the clerk who had been forced into the back room shouted. “That’s the workers’ wages! They need to be paid!”

Émile sneered, suspecting the clerk was truly concerned only with his own pay packet. “Don’t worry. You’ll all get what’s coming to you soon enough.” Émile motioned his men to get out. When they were gone, he turned back to the clerks. “No funny business now. No running for help. Not that it matters. By the time you find someone we’ll be far away.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” the youngest clerk assured him from behind the farthest neatest desk. The other clerks glowered at him until his face turned red. “What?” he grumbled, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do about this. It’s not our responsibility and it’s not our money either.”

“You got that right,” Émile said, leaving happily.

Back in a car with André, Max pressed down on the accelerator, employing greater speed going out than in. Passing a telephone pole neither had noticed before, both were surprised to see wires dangling uselessly to the ground.

“I guess Émile and his crew cut them to prevent a call to the authorities,” Max surmised.

“I still don’t understand why we never ran into any guards,” André said.

“They’re probably all over at the warehouses,” Max speculated. “Too late now.” Departing the grounds of La Compagnie des Mines, André and Max felt relaxed, even elated. When they reached the outskirts of La Grand-Combe, they saw a German troop transport rumbling north. Too bad. A little more time to celebrate the successful heist would have been lovely before being forced to face grim reality again.

They proceeded with more caution and less speed. Fortunately they didn’t see any further evidence of reinforcements or the various police forces that could have stopped and challenged them.

The roads were considerably more trafficked than at daybreak, mostly with pedestrians and bicyclists. And why not? The sun was high in the sky. It was the kind of extraordinarily fine day that reminded Max why he loved the Cévennes so. Though much better-traveled André was equally enthusiastic.

“Any idea where the chief got his information?” André asked after a while. “How could he know how much money there was right down to the franc?”

Max laughed. “It was one of the clerks.”

“No!”

“That’s what the chief told me this morning.”

A short time later André was perplexed again. “This doesn’t look right,” he said. “Is this the way back to the camp?”

“No,” Max said, beaming. “We’re going to Le Tronc. For a little break. The chief suggested it as a gesture of thanks for a job well done, assuming we would pull it off. And we did.”

Yvonne Guin was glad to go inside her farmhouse for lunch, not just because she was hungry but because she was physically exhausted from the heat. Her black dress was not well-suited for work in the fields but all her dresses were black. It might have been better had she put her long hair up in a chignon as intended but she simply hadn’t had time that morning what with Léon yelling at her to hurry hurry hurry—and for what? The weeds would wait. But Yvonne always did her best to keep her husband’s temper in check if only to protect herself from further verbal abuse. Pulling her hair back into a ponytail was the best she could manage.

Thankfully it was cool and dark in the house. Yvonne had left the shutters closed not out of habit but because Léon had rushed her to get out and get to work. Now she was glad he had been so intemperate.

But opening one set of shutters to let a little light into the otherwise gloomy interior—what a shock! Where had André and Max come from and what were they doing standing out in the bright sunshine, grinning impishly, especially at a time of day when anyone happening by could see them large as life?

“Don’t just stand out there dripping in the midday sun,” she admonished, ushering the two men into the kitchen, ranging extra chairs about the round table and setting out milk, cheese, and chestnuts.

The guests launched into the tale of their daring raid, laughing as if it had been a farce and not a bold, dangerous action. Yvonne laughed along, impressed.

“Serves them right,” she said, offering her visitors mugs of tea. Then she gave them an earful about the way her religious faith and the Communist ideology she shared with Léon made it possible for her to view their exploit at the mine offices as a justified act of righteous retribution rather than simple thievery.

In turn André and Max told her how brave they thought she was to take them into her home without the slightest hesitation—wanted men who might be hunted at that very moment by the Milice and the Gestapo. Taking the situation more seriously, they assured her they had stashed their car in the barn and shut the doors. As long as they remained indoors they were unlikely to be much of a threat to the Guins’ security.

“As if we care,” Yvonne hooted. “We’re every bit as crazy as our Huguenot forebears. They didn’t worry about taking risks for what they believed and neither do we.”

“Who are we sticking our necks on the chopping block for this time?” Léon growled coming in. Seeing who was there, he smiled crookedly. “Good. Extra hands.”

“Now Léon,” Yvonne clucked. “These two have done yeoman service for the cause. They need and deserve some rest, so you just let them rest.”

For once Léon gave his wife no back talk.

During the third week of June a British officer parachuted into the Cévennes. Toward the end of July, the captain, sequestered with Roger Boudon in his office at Champdemergue and waiting for someone the chief had recommended to him, talked about local conditions. The heat was oppressive, 1944 being one of the hottest summers ever in the Lozère. But worse than the heat was the cutback in rations for the adult population. All French citizens between twenty-two and seventy were now restricted to seventeen hundred calories a day, potentially beneficial for the severely overweight but not for the typically wiry inhabitants of the Cévennes.

The captain described what he knew of the complex operations with which the Allies captured Cherbourg in a week. He spoke about the longer, harder-fought action to take Saint-Lô in Lower Normandy, forcing a German withdrawal toward the Seine. On July seventeenth, German Field Marshal Rommel, riding in a staff car on a country road outside of Livarot, had come under an airborne strafing attack that killed his driver, causing the car to spin out of control and hurl Rommel into a ditch, resulting in head injuries, hospitalization, and a return to Germany for further recuperation. Then an attempt had been made on the Führer’s life at his command post on the Eastern Front.

Earlier in July, Charles de Gaulle had gone to Washington to talk about the Free French forces’ need for aid. The United States had formally recognized de Gaulle’s London-based administration as the de facto government of France.

“That’s all well and good,” the chief interrupted, “but what about southern France? When can we hope to see these mythical Americans?”

The captain smiled knowingly. “I can’t tell you specifically about Champdemergue but another invasion has been scheduled for August fifteenth.”

A knock on the door made them both jump in their seats and stop talking. Roger relaxed as the door swung open. “This is the young fellow I was telling you about,” he told the captain, bringing Max Maurel to him. “He’s okay.”

“And he can keep his lips sealed?” the Brit asked with concern.

“Max has been with the Maquis from the beginning. We can share anything with him.”

As Max offered the captain his hand, his eyes moved slowly from the captain’s face to his own commander’s and back again.

“Without getting too specific,” Roger told Max, “an Allied invasion of the south is coming soon.” The chief sat down at his desk, took a map of the region out of his briefcase, and smoothed it out. “American, British, and Free French forces will be involved and when they come here we need to be ready.”

Walking back toward his quarters showing the British officer the layout of the camp, they passed men sitting outside, chatting and enjoying the gentle refreshing breezes of a late July afternoon in the Cévennes.

“We’ll teach the Germans a thing or two.”

“They really do need a good lesson.”

“Why don’t we launch a sneak attack, catch them off-guard?”

“We have the guns and ammunition now.”

“We’re trained and ready to go.”

“And the Germans are scared.”

“So are the gendarmes.”

“And the Milice, damn them.”

“Hey Doc,” one of the newer Maquis called to Max. “Are we going to fight or what?”

Max stopped to look at his questioner, who was much younger than himself—really a boy. “Soon,” Max told him and then repeated with a touch of melancholy, “Soon.”

One thing troubled Max as they met up with André and explained the plans during the anticipated invasion. “Our only transportatioin is our small truck. Once fighting begins, we need another way to quickly get around.”

After a long, pained silence, Andre said, “I know where we can get a car.” He explained about the big black Buick sedan stashed in the Brignands’ barn. “It could be just what we need, assuming it still runs after sitting idle for almost four years. If it’s still where we hid it!”

Max smiled gratefully. “Let’s find out.”

André had found his brother at Le Tronc rhythmically wielding a scythe and sweating profusely. Quickly apprised about the potential invasion and the need for the Buick, Alex was happy to help. Not that he looked forward to a vehicle stained with blood from any fighting. But given the cause…

Finally reaching Soleyrols on foot—feeling both strange and encouraged to be so close to the place they had so long called home—they considered stopping at the Brignands’ café.

“Is that wise?” Alex asked. “To risk making our presence known? I know you’re tired but surely you’re not anxious for a cup of foul coffee.”

“I wasn’t thinking about coffee or a rest,” André replied, “just that we should warn the Brignands of what we’re doing. If someone sees us go into their barn unannounced we don’t want them coming after us with guns.”

The moment they walked inside, Albertine grabbed the Sauverin brothers’ hands and raced them into the back room, swiftly shutting the door though there were no customers to see or overhear them. André and Alex politely declined her efforts to ply them with food and drink, explaining their haste.

They caught up on each other’s family members swiftly and were delighted to learn everyone was reasonably well. Albertine lamented how much she missed the little Sauverins then couldn’t help blurting out Yvette’s news. “She’s getting married! And at such a time as this. Life goes on, eh? Maybe it’s important to show those Nazi bastards they can’t stop us from living our lives. But one thing breaks my heart. Hard as it is to find a fine handsome man in these dark days it’s harder to find a good dress! I know that sounds trivial but for a once-in-a-lifetime occasion…We can’t even come up with material to make one from scratch. My wedding gown’s so moth-eaten there’s not even enough to fashion a flower girl’s outfit.”

“Now now,” André consoled. “It might work out yet. When is the wedding?”

“In just a few weeks.”

Alex looked thoughtful but said nothing.

“No one can be sure,” André continued, “but the Allies might be here by then.”

“Oh,” Albertine gasped. “From your lips to God’s ears!”

At the old barn the brothers made their way stealthily through the door jammed by weeds, its hinges rusted from years of disuse and rough weather. They kicked up dust from dried hay as they moved to the rear of the barn’s lower level. Small farm implements and boards of wood they had stacked to help hide the canvas-covered car appeared undisturbed as, fortunately, did the Buick.

They pulled aside rakes, hoes, and pieces of lumber and pushed several mounds of old, desiccated hay into a corner. Then they lifted the canvas. The Buick’s dark paint showed through thick layers of dust.

After they rolled the canvas over the roof and off of the hood the car looked just as they remembered it apart from the dust. Its condition was excellent. The inside was almost pristine.

“Shall we see if it runs?” Alex asked, imagining driving back to Belgium.

André climbed the rickety steps leading to the loft. Alex watched him reach here and there until his hands described the familiar shape of the battery. Next to it André found the precious jar into which they had drained the fluid in the fall of 1940.

“Got it,” André called down excitedly.

“What about the gas?”

While André fished around for the gas can, Alex opened the car’s hood. Together the brothers poured in the acid to fill and replenish the dry battery cells. Then Alex dropped the battery into its housing and connected the cables. André added gas to the tank.

They agreed to leave the car on its blocks until they determined whether or not the engine would turn over. André pulled open the driver’s side door and felt under the mat for the key.

“Just where we left it.”

He climbed in gingerly, inserted the key into the ignition, and, after hesitating nervously, turned it to the start position. Slowly, gently, he depressed the starter button. Both men let out unconsciously held breaths as the engine responded fitfully.

“Stop it and try it again,” Alex suggested. “It would be very bad if after we got out onto the road the car stalled and we couldn’t get it started.”

“The oil is congealed,” André theorized. “It’ll be sluggish as it works lose. Warming up it will liquefy again and spread along the cylinder walls.” The test was run and the engine turned over much more rapidly as if it had regained familiarity with what it was supposed to do. “Amazing,” André called out, relieved and exhilarated.

They listened to the strong, steady thrum of the engine as if they couldn’t hear enough of that wonderful sound. Almost regretfully, André shut it off again.

Working the jack was a slow process. They took turns, finally settling the car onto each of its tires. The tires clearly needed air but remarkably they had retained enough tire pressure to drive on.

They left the trailer behind because with it attached it would be impossible to maneuver the Buick through narrow mountain passes. André found the sensation of driving again peculiar but enjoyable.

“I hope you have your driver’s license with you,” Alex joked.

“Worse than that,” André said, laughing and playing along. “The car’s registration has expired.”

The second week of August went very slowly. For Max Maurel in the temporary hospital at La Tour Du Viala, the wait was unbearable and the boredom was getting to everyone. How many times could they clean the premises, review the supplies, and test their equipment?

On the fifteenth of August the wait came to an abrupt, overwhelming end. Operation Dragoon landed three American divisions at beaches code-named Alpha, Delta, and Camel along the Côte d’Azur. French General de Lattre de Tassigny brought his forces ashore in southern France, five thousand French troops were airlifted to Le Muy, and there was a seaborne landing on the Île du Levant, between Toulon and Saint-Tropez. The Allies encountered strikingly little resistance, swiftly conquering six towns and taking more than two thousand prisoners.

Suddenly energized after what felt like an enormously long sleep, the Maquis struck numerous German positions, derailed more trains, blew up more bridges, blocked roads, downed telephone and telegraph lines, and damaged factories. The German army struggled to protect its garrisons and to preserve every available means of retreat.

The numberless young men who had come into the Resistance camps after D-Day were finally granted their wish to take the conflict to the enemy. Descending from scattered camps onto roads throughout the Lozère and into towns where the Wehrmacht had bivouacked, they assaulted Germans joyfully and viciously. Skirmishes ballooned into full-fledged fights and sustained battles. The Maquis fired down from hills and from behind stone walls but the German army possessed superior armaments. Nazi machine guns replied with an intensity that overpowered the lightly armed Maquisards, who retreated into the woods and forests from which they had barely emerged.

The next ten days were extraordinary. Events moved swiftly. The rapid collapse of France in 1940 seemed mirrored by the German pullback now.

Though inundated and beleaguered, the hospital staff managed to acquire a radio someone was always listening to. News also reached them as new patients came in. Every day brought encouragement from the north and the south: the citadel at Saint-Malo surrendered to the Allies, Orléans and Châteaudun were freed from their German captors. Hitler ordered his troops out of the south of France. Marshal Pétain refused to move to an area dominated by the Wehrmacht, causing the Führer to give direct orders for him and his staff to be arrested and interned at Belfort. The entire Vichy government resigned.

In Paris, Resistance fighters began rebelling openly. American General Patton’s armored division crossed the Seine thirty miles northwest of the capital. The Germans petitioned for a short-lived truce, allowing some of their cornered troops to withdraw.

With stunning rapidity French Resistance forces claimed control of eight départements representing ten percent of the country. And in the south, Allied forces stretched from Cannes to Marseille and from Toulon to Arles, only seventy-five kilometers from Alès. Widespread rumors placed General de Gaulle on French soil. Then in the last week of August General Choltitz, commander of the German garrison in Paris, disobeyed orders that the city be razed and instead surrendered. Despite the last few German snipers, de Gaulle joined a ceremonial parade proclaiming the liberation of Paris and the establishment of a new Republic.