In This Hospitable Land (53 page)

The paths were dry. The air was brisk. With no wind, they didn’t feel the cold. With little idle chatter and a steady pace, the small squad arrived in the hamlet sooner than expected. There was the typical handful of dwellings with smoke curling up from the chimneys of three. No one thought it would be difficult or time-consuming to find their quarry.

Coming down a far path a solitary farmer returned from one of his small fields. As Jacques advanced alone to ask if he knew the men they were looking for, the farmer slowed and looked about, confused and distressed. But Jacques swiftly put him at his ease and the laconic fellow nodded meaningfully toward the hamlet’s smallest house.

Jacques waved to André and the others to join him. The farmer, dismayed, put down his walking stick to show he wouldn’t put up a fight. He knew now that this was about the war but supported neither the Resistance nor the Vichy authorities. He just wanted to be left alone.

“Can I go?” he asked nervously.

Jacques nodded. The farmer scurried off.

“The men we’re after moved in just last week,” Jacques told André as the resisters followed him to the door in question. “The other fellow says they’re farmers but I don’t think he believes it—or cares.”

Jacques banged on the door and without waiting for a response walked into the house followed closely by André. The others stood guard outside.

“Who are you?” a man about André’s age asked as Jacques barreled past. Tall and thin the man was obviously, understandably, annoyed and discomfited by this intrusion. His hands were rough as a farmer’s, which stood in his favor, but his speech was not of the region. He cursed in Cévenol but even to André his accent sounded off—definitely from somewhere beyond the Lozère though possibly from within the Massif Central. Certainly from the south of France.

The second suspect entered from the back. He too was middle-aged but heftier than his companion. His soft, round stomach hung heavily over his belt. Maybe he’d done hard work in his life long ago. Impossible to picture him laboring in the fields today.

“New to the region?” André asked neutrally as Jacques looked on menacingly.

The fatter “farmer” answered yes, but sounded suspiciously tentative.

“Well, welcome,” André said.

Jacques smirked.

“Thank you,” the thinner man replied in a reserved tone.

“What brought you here?” André asked genially.

“The war.”

That response seemed surprisingly quick, even glib, as if well-rehearsed.

“It’s hard always having to search for food even when you have the right ration coupons,” the fatter one said. “It seemed easier to find a place and grow our own.”

His ample girth gave his answer the lie.
He’s never worried about food in his life,
André thought. Bearing down he inquired, “How long do you plan to stay?”

“Say, what is this?” the thinner man demanded irritably, sticking out his jaw defiantly. “You come in without so much as a ‘How do you do’ and don’t tell us who you are. What gives you the right to interrogate us?”

“What do you plan to grow?” André persisted calmly.

If anyone addressed me that way,
Jacques thought, impressed,
I’d sock him in the jaw.

“What a foolish question,” the fat one said. “We’ll grow whatever’s grown here.”

“So you’ll plant chestnuts,” André said cagily. “When?”

“In the spring of course,” the thinner one answered.

Now André knew they were lying. Imagine planting a tree in the spring and hoping to harvest from it that fall!

“What about wheat?”

“You can’t grow that here,” the same man answered speedily. “It’s too high and rocky.”

“Oh?” André said caustically. “Then why does the government demand to know the size of everyone’s wheat fields?”

“You can go now,” the thinner man told his uninvited guests, opening the door.

“After you,” Jacques said agreeably, gesturing to the armed men just past the threshold.

“You can’t make us go,” the fat man wailed. “We live here!”

“Get your coats on,” Jacques said, “unless you’d rather be cold.”

The two “farmers” looked at one another uncertainly. Jacques settled the matter by opening his coat and showing his revolver.

“Wait a minute,” the fat one said to Jacques, disappearing into the back room.

“Follow him quickly,” Jacques urged.

André raced to the door.

The fat man reappeared, saying flatly, “I’m ready now.”

André stood aside. The burly man hesitated then went back to the front room.

As Jacques delivered the suspects to the three other Maquisards, André slipped into the back room. Swiftly sizing it up he tugged aside a curtain uncovering a small paneled door set in the rear wall. Though he pulled at a knot in the wood panel beside it, the door remained shut. Then he pushed at the other side and the door swung open.

André looked in then put in his hands and felt around. He pulled something forward.

Jacques appeared in the doorway in time to catch a glimpse of glinting metal: a small radio receiver and, damningly, a transmitter.

“That seals it,” Jacques said. “Unless radio signals stimulate crop growth.”

Jacques brought out the radio equipment. Flanked by Maquisards, the thin captive opened his eyes wide, boring into his fat friend with hatred and rage.

The resistants started walking the suspects up the path. Jacques stayed in the rear but no one followed them. The man Jacques had spoken to first must have told the other residents something was up. Perhaps they didn’t care—or realized there was nothing to gain by interfering.

“Where are you taking us?” the thin captive complained. “You have no right.”

A young Maquis pushed the butt of his rifle into the spy’s ribs as if to say,
This is all the right I need.

There was a good deal of grunting and groaning from the duo as they were hurried along. Then they began to stumble now and again, slowing the little procession.

Finally the fat man stopped. “My legs are giving out.” With no more warning he struggled toward a big flat rock at the side of the path and collapsed onto it.

Though angered by the delay, Jacques realized it had been a long day for his men too. “Okay,” he called out regretfully. “Everyone rest.”

The Maquis unslung their rifles and sat on the ground. Jacques remained standing but unbuttoned his coat to keep his pistol handy.

“Hey you,” the slender spy said, pointing at Jacques. “This your operation?” Jacques nodded. “Then why all the mystery? You can tell us now. We’re out of the village.”

“We can’t go much farther,” the portly one said, cocking his head at a quizzical angle. “You want to carry us? Heh?”

The thinner man spotted André standing apart. “And what do you do? I can tell by your glasses you don’t belong here.”

Before more taunting occurred, Jacques ordered, “Let’s not waste any more time.”

“You heard the man,” the young Maquisard gleefully told the fat spy, prodding him again with his rifle butt. “On your feet. Move.” Then he jabbed his boot into the other one’s shoe.

The spies rose reluctantly, suddenly fearful of violence. Jacques just wanted to get on with it. He hoped to get back to camp before sunset because in the dark his charges would have to be bound, slowing progress and further endangering his men.

“Keep moving,” he barked.

For the remainder of the forced march, Jacques kept pushing the pace though the suspects flagged and their breathing came harder. But what difference did that make?

Time for them to meet their fate.

The light began to fade as the thin captive caught sight of Les Bouzedes. In a way he was as glad to be there as his captors. He too could use water and a rest. And he would soon know whether his worst fears were justified. Either way he would be glad when this was over.

But then the man in charge held up his hand bringing them all to an abrupt halt.

“Wait here,” he commanded, marching off to the main house with the man in glasses.

Roger Boudon stood and stretched his fingers, trying to ease the cramping that came from writing too much. André considered the irony: here was he, an academic, engaged in “manly” endeavors, and there was Roger, a habitué of the outdoor physical life, spending most of his time chained to a desk and a mound of papers.

“So how did it go?” the chief asked. Jacques deferred to André, who told his tale. “In other words,” the chief concluded for him, “they’re spies.”

Warily André said, “So it seems. But there’s no guarantee.”

“They don’t belong here!” the chief exploded. “They’re not
from
here and they’re certainly not here to grow their own food no matter how much they insist. That radio transmitter bears out the intelligence we received. What other conclusion could a reasonable man reach?”

“Agreed,” André said grimly.

“I’m positive too,” Jacques put in.

Roger sat back down to address his paperwork. “Bring the spies to me.”

Jacques left. André felt foolish and agitated just standing there.

Roger came out from behind his desk to shake André’s hand and pat his shoulder. “Good job,” he said. “Thanks.” He hesitated. “Do you want to be here for this?” André shook his head no. “That’s fine. You’ve done what we needed. We can take care of the rest.”

The chief went back behind his desk. Going out André ran into the spies, who looked pale and shaken. The fat one almost had to be carried in by the Maquisard guards who held each of his arms. The thinner man gave André a look that, quick as it was, he would never forget: the cold glare of a man who has looked into his grave and accepted that he would soon lie at the bottom of it.

André hastened away, not wanting to see or hear more or to think about what would happen next. It was a great relief to see his brother coming toward him. Alex would understand.

Although he had already heard all about André’s mission, Alex still asked if he’d been successful for his brother’s opinion was the only one that mattered to him.

“Successful?” André seemed puzzled by the word. “If you mean successful in finding the men we were sent for—yes we succeeded.”

“Then they aren’t…”

“Yes, they are. I’m sure they were sent to spy on the Resistance.”

Having wandered behind the big barn, the brothers stopped side by side to study the sunset, so stark and luminous in the clear cold air of the Cévennes.

“It’s good to have found them out,” Alex said flatly. “They’re a danger to us all, including our loved ones. And when I think of our family—well, I don’t care a rap about what happens to anyone who puts their lives in jeopardy.”

“I know,” André said, weary and sad. “This war is a tragedy—all war is.” He shaded his eyes against the bright glare of a corona caused by a passing cloud. “I know we must do what we have to. But when I look deeply into the faces of people who in other times and circumstances might have been as good as anyone else—selfish perhaps, possibly foolish and probably with opinions quite different from yours and mine, yet on the whole
decent
—then I despise this war not just for what it is but for what it’s doing to us all.” André put the butt of his rifle down on the ground, leaned the barrel up against his leg, and rubbed his shoulder where the strap had cut into his trim frame’s flesh. “I don’t think I can ever watch another killing no matter how necessary. And I could never do the deed myself—point the gun and pull the trigger.”