In This Hospitable Land (17 page)

The departmental governor at Mende proved as thoughtful and decent as Lucien had said. He was impressed by the story André told of the Sauverins and even more by the formal but warm and sincere commendation the mayor of Bédouès provided praising André, “chief of work at the Free University of Brussels,” and Alex, “exporter of postage stamps,” for having pitched in to till a field in the “commune.” And the solution of the plum problem was serious business for which André deserved no end of praise and gratitude.

“I must tell you, Monsieur Sauverin,” the departmental governor said, “these are difficult times and yours is a ticklish situation. I know my ‘responsibility’ but I am not always in agreement with the new government of Marshal Pétain. You see, I did my duty in the Great War. I fought the Germans so I know who they are and what they are. And as long as I am the governor here I will protect this region and its people. So.”

André looked at the governor expectantly, hopefully.

“It is my judgment,” the good man concluded, “that we need you as much as you need us. Therefore my secretary will give you the written authorization you require. Take care of it and present it when you register in Vialas.”

In shock André returned to Bédouès the same way he had gone to Mende: by bus to Florac and then on the old red bus the rest of the way. Relieved by André’s success the Sauverins quickly decided that André, his family, Louis, and Rose would go to Vialas first to seek out a new place for them all to stay. Alex, Geneviève, and their children would remain behind to harvest the last of the family’s crops.

All too soon it was time to pack again.

Friday morning André wasn’t certain how to get to Vialas or how long it might take to find a farm suitable for the duration of the family’s exile. Everyone was sad to leave Alex and the others behind even temporarily. But that provided incentive for the search.

André drove carefully along the narrow road of gravel and sometimes just dirt, leveled in some places but not all. The occasional hairpin turns twisting around the mountain ridges threatened a plunge down the steep slope. The ride provided spectacular views but when the trailer wobbled wildly over loose stones it was all too easy to picture it crashing into the rugged valley below.

As the Buick wound along the hilly road the vegetation became increasingly sparse and the trees smaller. Streams chased down the mountainside, careening off of rocks, settling into clear, cold pools before leaping over boulders and plummeting to the next resting place.

As André pulled off of the road to study the map, the others got out to stretch amidst the scattered chestnut trees. A warm wind blew through the valley, rustling the dangling bunches of foliage and fruit, filling their ears with whispering music while simultaneously dazzling their eyes with shadows dancing to the tune.

“The chestnut tree is the real emblem of this region,” André said as they got back underway. “It’s also called the ‘bread tree’ because the nuts can be ground for baking.”

Minutes later the Sauverins entered tiny Le Pont-de-Montvert, a village that had been a significant Huguenot stronghold. The only road through town curved along the Tarn, smaller and shallower here than in Millau but spanned by an ancient arched bridge, narrow and constructed of stones now splotched and gray from lichen, rough after three centuries of weathering. The crystal-clear river ran green, then white as it coursed around the abutments of the bridge.

André pulled the car and trailer to a stop under trees close by the bridge. Shops lined one side of the road overlooking the water. Several old men in similar black coats sat on benches across the way, berets pulled down over notably round heads.

Ida and Christel scrambled up onto the bridge to watch the water flow by beneath while André and Denise entered one of few open shops.

All the bread was gone, but a striking middle-aged woman with a severe expression offered encouragement. The local Cévenol dialect was stronger than in Bédouès or Florac—some words distinct from classic French, the accent hard to penetrate—but the shopkeeper gave them directions and encouraged their hopes of finding a new home.

“There are plenty of abandoned places,” she said sadly, “with all the men off slaving away for the Germans. Even mine.”

Louis and the children drowsed lightly in the car, heads bobbing. The mountainsides were covered with heather now—purple, green, gray—gathered among rock outcroppings. The sun was high in the sky, yet despite the height of the mountains the rays of the sun pouring through the Buick’s open windows brought a welcome warmth.

As they negotiated the narrow, twisting road downhill, Denise waved her hand excitedly. “That must be Vialas,” she said, indicating a small village far away in the valley.

Nestled amidst the seemingly endless greenery of vast, tumbling mountains, a small cluster of old stone buildings glistened gray in the late-day sun, red tile and gray slate roofs seeming to wink at the Sauverins, appearing and disappearing as the car made its curving way. Coming into Vialas, the Hotel Guin, perched alongside the main road with its stone walls rising three stories to a severely peaked roof and anchored into the slope of the mountain, offered simple lodging.

“Amazing,” André said, pointing to the date-stone set at the highest point of the hotel’s gable: 1687. “The style hasn’t changed since the seventeenth century.”

The hotel was surrounded by smaller stone buildings, mostly houses, several featuring shops at street level. Farther down the slope the only structure to challenge the prominence of the hotel was the Protestant temple with walls of heavy granite stones, large and solid. The roof, constructed of dark, flat stones, featured a rounded apse and a bell-adorned steeple.

“So,” André asked as the sun began to sink behind the mountain and the Sauverins tried to absorb the nature of Vialas. “Should we try to stay here?”

They looked out across the valley so quiet and peaceful, its small fields still green, with fruit trees growing along the terraced slopes of hillsides. No sign yet of the war.

“It seems agreeable,” Denise replied as sunset bathed the mountain with a vibrant orange.

“Father?” André inquired solicitously.

Louis looked to Rose for approval. She nodded and that was that.

Alex consulted Lucien Mauriac about a new place to stay in Bédouès. One day after the others left for Vialas, Alex and his family moved—just in time to honor de Montfort’s demand that they vacate his premises by month’s end—using their cart to carry what little they had to their new abode.

An older house, it would be theirs exclusively and it had the additional benefit of being closer to the center of the village. Though no château, it was one of the larger houses around and belonged to the well-regarded Porfile family. Divided between inheritors, one end of the house had fallen into a ruinous state. But the Sauverins’ side was quite livable because Maximilian Porfile was determined to keep his legacy intact.

“My brothers and sister don’t care about their heritage,” Maximilian told Alex and Geneviève, “but this means a great deal to me.”

Monsieur Porfile never mentioned any rent.

The old stone house had a spooky feel when sunlight left the valley and wind blew around and between the walls. Katie told Philippe the rush of wind was a ghost’s whisper, which frightened him, prompting Alex to secure the two rooms each night.

The place lacked indoor plumbing. Fresh water came from an old-fashioned pump. Since there was no outhouse one either had to use a pail inside and then go out to dump it or find a private spot outside.

The children didn’t like it. Geneviève was appalled.

“We’ll just have to get used to it,” Alex told them. But he couldn’t keep his own nose from wrinkling at the thought.

During the first week of the search André drove up and down and all around. “The shopkeeper in Le Pont-de-Montvert was right,” he told his wife and parents at dinner one night. “So many places abandoned and not just in the last few months.”

A peculiar, oddly charming gentleman they kept meeting in the hotel dining room told them of the sad economic history of the region—a silkworm industry periodically decimated by a disease of the formerly abundant mulberry trees, the exhaustion of most mines, the depletion of the population by abandonment after the Great War. A confirmed bachelor in his mid-forties, Alphonse Elizière had never recovered from the trauma of serving in the trenches during the last war. Returning from the front he had come into a small family sum on which he had lived frugally in a one-room apartment in Alès, home to his sister and her family.

“You must meet her!” he repeatedly told André. “She’s a teacher too—a high school teacher as her husband used to be—and she’s starved for intellectual company!”

The return of war had brought back Monsieur Elizière’s battle anxiety. Seeking a more remote situation he had taken up residence at the Hotel Guin, near his sister’s summer place at La Planche. With the proprietor’s indulgence he grew winter vegetables in a small plot out back.

Reaching into his coat pocket wordlessly one day he presented Christel a small but perfect turnip. After that the Sauverins called him
Monsieur Navet.
And it was “Mr. Turnip” who told André that the village notary had the most detailed knowledge of the area hamlet by hamlet.

In his early sixties, the notary seemed pleased by André’s clean white shirt, tasteful tie, somber suit, and agreeable manners, all quite different from those of the farmers and laborers who typically entered his modest office.

André explained his need of a serviceable farm and farmhouse and the notary confirmed, “No difficulty there. The countryside has emptied rapidly. Even without fighting proper, war is pressing its punishing effect into our remote hills and villages.” Then he brightened. “But you are here so things are looking up! We’ve already seen some refugees. No other Belgians before you. The others are mostly Spanish fleeing Franco and a couple of Germans fleeing Hitler. What a pleasure to hear your urbane accent—so measured and precise. But have you ever farmed before?”

André fished Lucien’s commendation and the mayor of Mende’s letter from his jacket.

Admiringly the notary said, “We will do what we can for you and yours, Monsieur.”

All went smoothly filling out forms until the question of religious affiliation arose.

“Monsieur Sauverin,” the notary said, “we Cévenols are an understanding people. We don’t have much experience with Jews. Before the war we accommodated a few Jewish families who came here to vacation from the north of France, Germany, Belgium…”

André told about the mayor of Florac. The notary laughed uproariously.

“I’m certainly not laughing at your predicament, Monsieur,” the notary swiftly explained, “but what the mayor of Florac called you. ‘Israelite refugees.’ A neat evasion, eh? Why don’t I do the same? That way your official profile will be consistent throughout the south of France.”

The notary dipped his pen ceremoniously into his inkwell. André reached out to stop him.

“Don’t worry, Monsieur,” the notary counseled soberly. “The people of Vialas would sooner die than betray those they have taken under their protective wing.”

Completing his entry, the notary closed the ledger and pulled out another large book.

“Now let us see if we can’t find you a useful property.”