In This Hospitable Land (45 page)

At an hour when she was usually long and fast asleep, Irene Bastide was a bundle of nerves not because she feared discovery (the local gendarmes rarely set foot in Le Salson and the Milice and Gestapo had never been seen there), nor because she was troubled by the close proximity of the other three families living in her tiny hamlet (each of those families had at least one man in the Resistance), but because her husband was not in the Resistance. A French soldier, he had been captured by the Germans in the first days of the lost war and imprisoned in northern France. Three years later Irene had no idea where her man was or even if he was still alive. The last letter she had had from him had arrived more than a year before and she had worried every day since. A young, recent bride when her husband went off to fight, she had been worn thin—or thinner, given how large she was to begin with and still remained. Now she appeared prematurely aged due to relentless emotional pain and anxiety.

Her accustomed apprehension was tinged tonight with as much excitement and hope as fear. The thought of those children—those two darling little girls and now a baby boy—thrilled her. They would be her special charge. She would care for them with unending delight.

Her mother Ernestine, widowed by the Great War as so many were, would gain renewed interest in life too. Irene suspected Ernestine would especially appreciate the company of another adult—especially one as worldly and sophisticated as Denise Sauverin.

But the children…oh! For Irene Bastide to have a hand in raising and comforting young ones in a house she had once hoped to fill with children of her own…

When the knock came, Irene jumped. Within seconds she was fumbling with the bolt.

“Come in,” she sang out gaily.

There was Denise—so much more slender, with a bundle of boy in her arms. There was Pastor Donadille carrying a suitcase and with a pack on his back. There were Ida and Christel holding small sacks. Once Irene set eyes on the two girls they were all she could see.

“The Sauverins,” the pastor announced.

“Of course,” Irene replied, hoping the big grin on her face didn’t make her look a simpleton. “Welcome to our humble home. I had hoped to see you again in different circumstances but Mother and I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

“This is Ernestine Roux,” Pastor Donadille said, waving his hand toward the older woman coming out of the back room.

Weary though she was, Denise accepted Irene and Ernestine’s warm embrace. Ida and Christel were so exhausted they swayed back and forth on feet they could barely keep.

Irene bent down to them and said, “You must be so tired after your long hike—but you should also be proud you made it. It’s late, though. Let’s get you to bed.”

Embracing both girls with her warm, ample arms, she alternately led and pushed them ahead, helping them mount the stairs to the small room at the back of the house. Days before, she had made up the bed with clean stiff sheets and a down quilt that covered the entire expanse.

“Here is your room,” Irene told them proudly, certain they would appreciate it in the morning. “Just put your things in that chest over there. And here’s the chamber pot for the middle of the night or any other time you just don’t want to go out. Tomorrow I’ll show you the outdoor place to go.”

Christel’s tired eyes opened wide. “You mean we really will be able to go outside?”

“Here in Le Salson,” Irene assured them both, “you can go out whenever you like.”

She chuckled, which made the folds of her stomach, slackened by worry, bounce up and down. Then she gave Ida and Christel another big hug, kissed each on the cheek, and prepared to leave them to adjust to the new room in private, recommending that Christel sleep crossways at the foot of the bed, leaving room for Denise.

“Where will Cristian sleep?” Ida asked, yawning.

“Here!” Irene cheerfully pulled out one of the drawers in a chest, already arrayed with a blanket and small pillow.

Downstairs Denise had plopped into one of the chairs in the front room, the center of farmhouse activity.

“May I hold him for you?” Irene asked, returning and removing Cristian from his mother’s arms before the too-tired woman could think to resist.

Ecstatic, Irene clasped the infant close and made soft cooing noises to him. She had practiced these sounds in anticipation of this moment.

Seated beside Denise, Donadille smiled at Irene. “It’s good of you to take them in.”

“Ah, but we wanted to,” Irene returned, reddening. “Ever since I saw Ida and Christel at our Quaker group’s veillée I wanted to be part of their lives. Now I will love this little one too and take care of their precious mother. Besides, my mother and I are grateful for a chance to do our part for the cause.” She asked the pastor solicitously, “You’ll stay the night, won’t you?”

“Oh no,” Pastor Donadille replied. “You don’t have room.”

“Unfortunately there’s just the settee over there for you to sleep on. But even that’s got to be better than hiking more tonight.”

The pastor nodded. “In that case, yes. And thank you.”

Without ceremony the minister crossed the room, took off his shoes, stretched out on the thin cushion covering the long wooden settee, and immediately fell asleep.

“Come,” Ernestine Roux said, rising and leaning over their other guest. “You look exhau
th
ted. Le
th
get you to bed too. Irene?”

Assisting Denise to the stairs, Irene tried not to feel embarrassed by her mother’s slight lisp. After all, it wasn’t the older woman’s fault she had lost most of her teeth. In earlier times Le Salson had been a thriving village, but over a long period almost every family had moved away in search of easier livings to be made in the towns and cities of the lower, flatter country to the south. The local dentist—primitive as he and his practice were—had long since decamped, leaving Ernestine Roux’s strong rectangular face to cave in at the lips. What a sight she was, her strange face topped by what remained of her long gray hair piled up in an unflattering bun.

Irene continued on as Denise happily, sleepily, made her way up the narrow staircase.

Waiting at the top, Irene pointed and said, “In here. Little Cristian is all settled in, still asleep and dreaming.”

“I’ll gladly follow him,” Denise said, too done in to bother with further niceties.

Heading back downstairs to help settle her mother in for the night, Irene couldn’t keep from smiling or from feeling warmed by satisfaction. She had put Cristian down without waking him up: a very good sign.

Every day there seemed to be more work—preparing the fields for planting then broadcasting or drilling seeds into the soil. The Guins and Sauverins worked from dawn to dusk.

Desperate to break the monotony, Alex asked Léon, “What is there to hunt here?”

“Wild boar, Monsieur.” Léon winked and sneered—his version of a smile. “You want meat to eat? Wild boar is good—not like a well-fed pet pig but…”

Monsieur Guin supplied Alex with a rusty old single-action carbine. Alex hardly had more than an hour or two to use it any given week and he never had much success. But the very act of hunting enlivened his otherwise tedious existence.

Sunday was no day of rest on the Guins’ farm. It was a day of hard work like any other. But on the first Sunday of June, work stopped for a visit by Max Maurel, whose reason wasn’t immediately apparent.

The most noticeable thing about him—besides his bright shining eyes, big eyebrows, ready smile, and fine white teeth—was his bulging biceps. Max had always had strong legs from hiking, mountain climbing, and skiing, but his life in the Resistance had made him powerful overall. And his speech was considerably more expansive than before.

He told the Guins and Sauverins about Le Crespin, the nearby camp of the Resistance. It was also close to the
Route des Crêtes
, the Route on the Crest of the lower mountains, making the location easier for the Maquis to keep watch on the Milice and Gestapo, who frequently used the road.

“How does the Resistance know so much about the movement and activities of the enemy?” Alex asked.

“Some of those the Milice believe are their sympathizers are really for us,” Max said. “They bring us information at great danger to themselves, for if they’re ever discovered not to be true collaborators they’ll be arrested and sent to Germany or put on show trial and quickly executed. There’s another risk for them too: those who have infiltrated the Milice on our behalf may be mistaken for actual collaborators after the Germans are defeated. Then our people who have suffered at the hands of the Fascists and their friends may seek retribution. It could be hard to protect these true patriots from those more anxious to exact vengeance than to await the facts.”

“You’re confident of victory,” André remarked.

“I know we will win. Then reprisals will begin. It has happened in this region many times before. Of course those of us in the know will do all we can to prevent miscarriages of justice.”

Max stared into his mug of pseudo-tea. When he looked up again, Léon and Yvonne were nodding knowingly.

Standing to stretch his legs, Max intimated that he had a few matters to discuss with the Sauverins. The Guins discreetly suggested they themselves had much to attend to but insisted that Max and the brothers feel free to stroll about.

Striding out into the fields, André asked Max about his family. Hesitantly Max said, “My father died in March.” The brothers were stunned. Max explained, “I didn’t know until I visited Alès a few weeks ago for the first time since New Year’s.”

“Didn’t your mother let you know?” Alex demanded. “Didn’t Fela?”

“They wouldn’t know where to write him,” André said. “I’m sure Max protects them by concealing his whereabouts.”

“And have you heard about what happened in Nîmes?” Max asked. “In late April two twenty-year-old Resistance members were stopped and arrested coming out of their house. The French government in service to the Nazis ordered and carried out their executions in the old Roman arena. By guillotine.”

“Barbarians,” Alex wailed.

“Nîmes is only an hour south of Alès,” André remarked.

“Right after that,” Max added, “there was a noticeable surge in the number of young men fleeing into Resistance camps. They said these public beheadings scared them more than anything before.” Max stared at his feet for several long moments then said, “There’s a reason for my visit today besides friendship. As you might have guessed.”

“What is it?” André asked anxiously.

“The leaders you hosted at La Font think you both could be useful to our cause.”

“Doing what?” Alex demanded.

“Many things,” Max said evenly, “that will be necessary.”

“Involving guns?” André asked apprehensively.

“Not necessarily.”

“When?” Alex asked impatiently.

“‘Soon’ is as much as I can say. You need to be prepared on a moment’s notice.”

“We’ve been in that position before.” Alex spoke with irony, seethed with anger.

André resettled his glasses on his nose and stared into the middle distance. “Alex and I have talked of it before,” he said contemplatively, “long certain the time would come.”

“I’ll understand if you say no,” Max allowed, “given your devotion to pacifism.”

“‘To everything there is a season,’” André said slowly, dreamily. “No, we won’t say no. Ever since we were forced to flee La Font there has been no question that given the chance, we would help those who have helped us.” Gazing meaningfully into Max’s lustrous eyes, he concluded, “You may depend on us. We’re ready whenever you say.”

Three days later Max came strolling down the path to Le Tronc again. Awash in sweat in the narrow garden of a terrace formed by a great stone wall several generations of Cévenols had taken several centuries to build, André and Alex momentarily stopped planting potatoes.

“That man has a purpose,” Léon insisted, holding his ground and continuing to work.

The brothers returned to their labor until their friend reached them. His striking dark eyes flashed brightly from his sun-browned face. A sly smiled appeared as he asked, “Are you ready to help?”

“What do you want us to do?” Alex asked bluntly.

“Leave Le Tronc for a time,” Max said simply, mysteriously. “We have…certain plans.”

“Which we’re not to ask about?”

“Oh, you can ask,” Max replied, still smiling, “but I can’t tell you.”

“Let’s go,” André said, giving his brother a sharp look. Then he turned to Léon. “We hate leaving you in the lurch.”

“You think I can’t plant potatoes without you?” Léon groused. “I’ve managed on my own almost longer than you’ve been alive.”

“We’ll be back soon,” André said soothingly. “Won’t we, Max? To help with the turnips?”

“I should think so,” Max answered.

“Just go,” Léon said sharply.

André didn’t take that personally. Even Alex understood that years of war had taken a toll on Léon, making him progressively more short-tempered than he was to begin with.

“You won’t need much.” Max glanced at André mischievously. “We hardly ever change clothes. Not exactly like a well-dressed professor.”

“Teaching is one thing,” André retorted. “Surviving is another.” He gestured to his laundry-free work clothes. “And it has nothing to do with clean clothing.”

“We would rather dress in rags and live to tell the tale,” Alex snapped, “than be victims of murderous oppressors.”

Max peered up the path toward the crest of the mountain. “I don’t think the Milice are out today. We’ve had no information suggesting otherwise.” Then he said, “Get your things. No more than you can carry easily. For hours.”

In the barn he’d called home for three months, André wondered how much less comfortable a Resistance camp would be.

When André and Alex got back, Max and Léon were engaged in heated debate.

“The Resistance is made up of more than just Communists,” Max insisted, exasperated. “There are Socialists and Republicans and for a long time more and more unaffiliated Frenchmen have come into the camps. Politics may have been a problem once but no one cares about that anymore. You don’t have to be a Communist to fight to get your country back.”

“But the Communists were first,” Léon asserted coolly, “and they’re still the strongest in standing up for the people. The others only came when they saw the problems we Communists
fore
saw.”

Max struggled to match Léon’s infuriatingly even tone. “I have been with the anti-Vichy forces from the first. I have been in the mountains with Les Chantiers de la Jeunesse. Now I’m in the mountains with the Maquisards and I can assure you very few Frenchmen look to Russia and its Communist government to save them. We look to ourselves. Together we fight for a free France.”

It was a fine speech and a strong argument but it had no effect on Léon, who remained unshakable in his beliefs. Not that he was about to waste any more breath arguing.

“Get on with you,” he said dismissively, bending to continue seeding the ground.

Max led the brothers up the path, stopping frequently to survey the valley slopes and the ridgeline ahead. “You never know who’s going to come down that road,” he cautioned, pointing toward the Route des Crêtes.

He stopped abruptly. After confirming his location, he worked himself into a thick stand of oak trees, their thin, brittle branches bent heavily beneath fresh green leaves.

“Crouch down here,” he called to André and Alex, who had followed him into the stand.

The brothers quickly did. Hidden from the road, all three listened intently. There it was again: the sound of an engine.

A small truck came up the road from the south, laboring mightily at that altitude. The driver created a grinding noise shifting down to first gear then back up again when the road leveled out enough. Peering through leaves and branches, the men could make out first the color and then the make: a Citroën.

“It’s okay,” Max told the brothers, breathing more easily. “That’s our ride.”

He stepped out onto the road almost jauntily and waved. The truck slowed to a stop as the grim-faced driver who wore a beret and smoked a Galois rolled down his window. The driver puffed away and studied the scene carefully as André and Alex edged cautiously toward Max. Then the driver motioned them into the back and flicked off a long ash.

Max and company wordlessly, hurriedly, climbed in and shut the door behind them. The back of the truck was full of logs and bags of chestnuts, which they moved to make space. Max piled some of the bags between them and the rear door.

“If we’re stopped,” he explained, “we’ll just pull the chestnuts over us for cover. Of course if they start to pull things apart they’ll find us anyway.”

“What’s that burning smell?” Alex asked worriedly.

“This truck is fitted out with a gasogene?” André speculated.

“Right,” Max confirmed.

Alex looked puzzled so André explained, “An older technology that gas rationing and shortages have brought back, I suppose. It requires modifications in standard vehicles—a gas generator, a gas reservoir, changes to the carburetor, and extra plumbing and filtering to get the gas into the engine. After that you have options for fuel: coal, charcoal, wood.”

“That’s why we’re stuck with all this lumber,” Alex grumped.

Max nodded. “These days gasoline is reserved exclusively for Germans and Vichy functionaries. We resisters must make do. And yes, the smell is dreadful.”

For a while they said nothing, breathing only as deeply as they dared. Max shifted awkwardly and spoke through a little window opening onto the driver’s compartment.

“All right?”

“All right,” the driver replied. “And on time.”

“Germans?”

“Haven’t seen any and hope not to.”

Max turned back to the Sauverins. “It’s safe for you to know now: we’re heading to one of the main camps in the Cévennes. Past Le Pont-de-Montvert. Hidden away.”

“And then what?” André asked as lightly and genially as he could. Some of the smaller logs kept pushing up against him in all the wrong places. Each time he moved slightly to get away from an offending branch another chunk slipped and pressed against him.

“It takes a lot of food to feed everyone,” Max said, “and with more men coming to us we’re setting up additional locations. We need more to eat than ever.

“The farmers in the next valley have had an annual spring roundup for centuries, driving their sheep across to Le Pont-de-Montvert and greener pastures. This year we have learned the Germans intend to make sure all the sheep end up feeding German soldiers instead of the French people. So it’s our job to divert the sheep—and for that we need help. We chose you for your sheepherding experience.”

“Too bad we don’t have Touté,” André said wistfully, “the family’s real sheepherder.”

“When will this take place?” Alex asked.

“It starts the day after tomorrow,” Max replied, “when the farmers collect the sheep and newborn lambs and begin driving them over the fields toward town.”

“And what is our job exactly?” Alex persisted.

“That I can’t tell you,” Max admitted. “The chief gives us our assignments and he hasn’t told anyone specifics yet. It’s smart that he keeps them to himself.”

The next two hours passed mostly in silence. Each man was profoundly engaged with his own thoughts and the struggle to get comfortable and breathe.

Finally Max felt the truck rumble over the ancient arched stone bridge that crossed the headwaters of the Tarn and gave the town its name. Soon the driver slowed to a prearranged stop by a small alley to pick up a compatriot. Then he quickly started off again.

The truck wound up along the hills surrounding Le Pont-de-Montvert, crossing little streams and passing occasional gatherings of homes until it entered an ancient village close by the mountain pass leading into another valley. Skirting the fountain in the town square that pulsed water beneath a metal cross commemorating all the wars fought and sacrifices made since the village had been established, it turned into a side street which devolved into an old farm path—nothing but rocks, ruts, gravel, and dirt.