In This Hospitable Land (54 page)

“Not even if someone was shooting at you or me or Denise?” Alex loved his brother but was tired of this endless repetitive argument. When would André reconcile himself to the way people actually behaved? Given all that they had already seen and experienced, how could André still cling to his pacifistic notions? The world had never worked the way either of them wished, and it never would. “Believe me, André, not everyone’s as good as you are. I would far rather take the lives of those who would take ours than lose our own.” André stared off into the distance. Alex feared he had gone too far. “Of course it helps if the enemy’s far away. When you’ve never met the people you must kill, it must be easier.”

“I still wouldn’t want to do it.” André shook his head pitifully. “Near or far.”

A considerable commotion made them turn toward the big house. The door was open and Jacques stood on the top step. When he spotted the Sauverins, he hurried their way.

“You want to come with us?” he asked André excitedly. “Having gotten all he can out of them, the chief has decided to keep them from making their report—ever.” Jacques grinned but, sensing André’s mood, faltered. “You can come or not. That’s up to you.”

Two more Maquisards emerged from the house followed closely by the spies, who were followed in turn by the three young men who had accompanied Jacques and André on their mission. The chief came out last. All headed toward the back of the barn.

The thinner spy walked past André without giving him a glance, eyes fixed on the last of the setting sun. But the fatter one—shoulders sagging, large belly seeming to hang more pathetically over his belt with each step—stopped within inches, staring at André with watery, pleading eyes.

A young Maquisard leering maliciously prodded the fat man from behind, forcing out of him a cracked voice that formed one word: “Please!”

The parade passed by. Jacques gave André a quick salute and a little wave. André kept his eyes on the fat man, the back of his head rising and falling as he trod the rough path, his folds of fat compressing and stretching as he bobbed along, struggling to keep pace.

Alex kept his eyes on his brother.

“You can go in my place if you like,” André told him weakly.

“I wouldn’t take your place,” Alex replied softly. “No one could.”

The two brothers stood together silently, watching and waiting as the procession crossed the field and went down into a small ravine. All was quiet and eerily peaceful.

The camp’s residents had wordlessly gathered near the brothers. Neither seemed to have noticed the massing of this silent crowd.

Suddenly rifle fire crackled. Two distinct pistol shots followed.

Roger emerged from the ravine with the rest of the resistants.

“You three,” he said, pointing to men next to the Sauverins. “Get shovels and get to work. Executioners shouldn’t have to bury the results of their own efforts.” The deputed gravediggers raced to obey. The chief turned to André and Alex. “Had to be done,” he said coldly.

He returned to his office and the other Maquisards dispersed. But the Sauverins remained motionless. Alex listened closely to the bite of shovels plunged into the earth, staying faithfully by his brother’s side.

André stared into the sky until it was too dark to see anything at all.

Spring 1944 finally came to the high mountains of the Cévennes—an enormous relief to Irene Bastide. She always felt isolated in her remote hamlet but never more than when shut in by the deep snows of winter.

On the bright side, the forces of nature also prevented unwanted visitors—a great blessing during the snow of winter since Hitler had ordered the occupation of unoccupied France. With the façade of Pétain’s power shattered once and for all, even this obscure region no longer felt safe from search and seizure.

But with the softer weather everyone started going out almost every day. Irene found herself longing to attend Easter services in Vialas, unusual as this was for her. A staunch member of the Religious Society of Friends, Irene centered her practice of faith on Bible reading and direct personal communing with the highest power—the opposite of an Easter pageant. But what appealed to her now was the chance to spend time in the company of other Cévenols whose belief in God had helped them make it through yet another rough winter.

Nor would Irene mind being bathed in a minister’s words for a change, reassured in the midst of tumult by the steadiness of his Christian message. And Irene wanted to show her support not for Pastor Burnard’s interpretation of Christian principles so much as his embodiment of Christianity in his Resistance work.

“I can stay with some members of the congregation,” she assured her troubled mother.

“If anyone asks meddlesome questions along the way,” Ernestine said somberly, “say as little as possible.”

“Oh, it’s safe enough now,” Irene said lightly, bussing her mother on the cheek, “from what the mailman says—that the tide is finally turning against the Germans.”

“That’s what makes them dangerous,” Ernestine cautioned, “like cornered beasts.”

“Mother. They’re sticking to big cities like Mende, Nîmes, and Alès. They’re hardly ever seen in Génolhac anymore, let alone Vialas or the little places I’ll pass through along the way.”

“What does the mailman say about the Milice, eh?” the elderly woman asked fretfully.

“Thanks to the Resistance it may be less safe here for the Milice than the rest of us!”

On Saturday, April eighth, Irene put on her heavy coat and tied on a scarf to protect her hair from breezes blowing off the mountain.

“Come here, little one,” she called in the special gentle voice she reserved for Cristian as he manfully demonstrated his mastery of walking by striding back and forth in front of the stove. Sweeping him up into her arms as he squealed with delight, she gave him a great big kiss on the cheek. “Now don’t you fall down and cause your mother concern while I’m not here.”

She cuddled him close and set him down again, making sure he regained his balance before loosening her grip. Then she squeezed Denise’s hand before giving her mother’s hands an even bigger squeeze, picked up the little sack with her comb and changes of clothes, called good-bye to Ida and Christel playing upstairs, gave a short final wave, and stepped out briskly into the bright day and fresh spring air.

Her cares fell away as she marched toward the Route des Crêtes, marveling at the renewed face of the world as it awoke from its long winter sleep. The bushes were just beginning to show a little color as new buds emerged from the brown branches springing back to life.

Irene knew this ground well and felt utterly safe. Her neighbors were perfectly aware of her houseguests and in complete sympathy with her efforts to keep them safe.

She hiked with joyful anticipation for an hour but as she approached Vialas sensed something odd. Then she heard the rumbling of distant motors. That gave her pause since gasoline was only available to Germans, Vichy government functionaries, and the Milice.

Coming within sight of the town she saw trucks rolling slowly up the road from Génolhac, rounding the bends, hewing closely to the thinly covered sides of the mountain slopes. Her heart started pounding. Her breath grew short and shallow. She felt cold then hot then cold again. Her tightly clenched hands became moist with sweat.

Now she could clearly discern the German cross on the side door of the small open car facing her—the lead vehicle speeding ahead of two loud trucks. The little convoy left a faint trail of smoke in its wake, heading straight for the center of town.

Irene’s heart thumped more heavily as she forced her fists open to stop her fingernails from biting into her palms. Should she turn tail and run or continue on into the belly of the beast? Disgusted with herself for hesitating, she went on.

After traversing the stone bridge across a stream, she stayed close to the stone walls bordering the path. The temple of gray stone rose straight and true before her and somehow gave her strength. The temple’s small belfry enclosed the single bell that rang Sunday mornings to call the worshippers together and at other times to announce important news such as France’s surrender to the Germans—or, as now, that the Germans were driving into town.

A group of old men shuffled down side streets to the town square. Women wrapped tightly against the cold came too but stood back to acknowledge this was man’s business and to keep as far as possible from the Germans without losing sight of what was really going on.

Irene joined these other women as the German command car rolled to a screeching halt in the heart of the square. The German officer in the open front seat stood up and an accompanying soldier jumped from the rear, ran around, and opened the door for him.

As the officer stepped down onto the plaza’s cobblestones and looked about imperiously, the mayor rushed along one side of the square, having raced down from his home on the outskirts when he heard the temple bell. German troops jumped from the backs of the trucks that lurched to a stop opposite.

The German officer watched the mayor run right into the small city hall. Less than a minute later the mayor reappeared with a blue, white, and red sash—the official badge of his office—tied around his waist. He pulled himself up to his full middling height, made his way around his townspeople, and stood at attention to confront the representatives of the German war machine with a dignified silence.

The German officer looked vaguely bored. Nearby soldiers formed ranks behind him. On the far side others unloaded a large machine gun and set it up with unnerving efficiency.

Irene felt the women around her tense. All had heard stories of indiscriminate German cruelty—the needless and pointless machine-gunning of whole towns’ citizenries. No one could deny their fear.

Having settled a good distance from the command car, Irene hadn’t anticipated ending up a few feet from uniformed men with rifles nor a machine gun. As if against her will she watched the machine gunners unload ammunition from the truck and place the long ribbons of bullets alongside the fearsome weapon.

She stumbled back a step and a soldier swiveled his eyes her way—brown eyes that looked almost black beneath his helmet’s rim. Was his soul that black? He stared at Irene for an agonizingly long time, making her heart race so quickly she might have been having a heart attack.

The soldier didn’t avert his gaze until the officer placed one booted foot slightly ahead of the other and announced aggressively, “We are here to keep order.” His formal stilted French had a stiff, studied accent utterly devoid of the soft warmth of the Cévenol. “We will not tolerate the slightest deviation from the orders of your government. Do you understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer but finished off his effort to intimidate by bearing down upon the mayor.

Nervously adjusting his sash then bravely jutting out his chin and stepping forward a couple of paces, the mayor swallowed hard and proclaimed, “The people of Vialas are well aware of orders, Sir.”

“But are you aware it is necessary to
follow
those orders?”

“We are good Frenchmen.”

“And a good Frenchman does as he’s told, eh?” Towering over the hapless mayor, the German officer raised his voice enough to ensure that even the women standing at the farthest edge of the crowd could hear his threat. “If there is any disobedience at all or if there are any further attacks on authorities or government property, I will take hostages. Innocent or not, they will pay the ultimate price.” The officer jerked his thumb toward the armed soldiers ranged in a phalanx behind him. The machine gun rolled forward for additional emphasis. “You in this village and throughout this area will comply.” The officer glared at the mayor and grinned maliciously. “From now on I expect the mayor to set a proper example you will all follow. If not we can always
make
someone an example.” He turned to the lower-ranked officer by his side. “Deploy the men. House them where you will.” Then he turned back to the mayor. “You will work with my sergeant to find appropriate housing for my men. And no stinting. Treat them with the honor due soldiers of the Third Reich.”

“For how long, Sir?” the mayor asked hoarsely.

“For as long as it takes every one of your fine citizens to realize their responsibilities and to cease any further support of those damned Maquis.”

The townspeople dispersed rapidly and Irene escaped into the temple. Others had already gathered there—a small group discussing what had happened in voices hushed as if the walls might give them away.

“Vialas is so much more dangerous now.”

“It used to be easy to get rid of collaborators in the wrong place at the wrong time. But as of today…”

“A whole troop of Germans. This is new.”

“Where do you think the mayor stands?”

“I hear he’s part of the Resistance.”

“No. He cooperates with those fools in Vichy and with the Milice. We can’t trust him.”

“Of course we can. He only pretends to work with Vichy. That’s what protects him.”

Pastor Burnard entered the chapel from his study. Had he watched the incident in the square from the assumed safety of the temple? Not that anyone imagined the Nazis respected such niceties as the sanctity and sanctuary of the church.

All fell silent. Many of the women reflexively sat down. Most of the men stayed standing near the door to the street as if to protect the rest from any evil that might enter.

“Easter services will go on as always,” the pastor announced steadily, levelly, comfortingly. “We will hold our Holy Saturday service this evening as usual and tomorrow we will celebrate the Resurrection.” He clasped his hands and held them out in front of him. “The rebirth of Jesus is our faith in the past and our hope for the future. Let us abide in this knowledge and understanding. Let the mayor settle this business with the Germans. In the meantime, please go home. We shall gather this evening to worship in the proper way as our persecuted forebears did for centuries preceding us and as our descendants will do for centuries to come.”

Some parishioners left immediately. Others peppered the pastor with questions. Was the faith of the congregants as great as that of the pastor? Irene determined to take her strength from him.

Within moments everyone except the pastor and Irene had departed. Deep in thought, Pastor Burnard turned and hurried back toward his office without noticing her. Was he anxious to inform his network of resistants of the latest? Irene didn’t wish to delay his good and important work but had need of him and felt certain word was already spreading rapidly.

“Pastor,” she said feebly at his door.

“Ah, Madame Bastide. What a pleasant surprise to see you. How fare the Sauverins and that precious, precocious Ida. I wish you’d brought her with you.”

Irene made a short report then placed her hand gently on the pastor’s wrist.

“Father, do you think there’s a bed in which I can spend the night?”

“Always,” Pastor Burnard replied with reassuring speed. “Unfortunately, we will have fewer available beds than usual this evening.” He pressed his free hand on top of hers. “But come. We will find you one, and welcome.”

Easter Sunday broke bright and clear as Pastor Burnard hoped it would. This day was important not just because of its place in the theological calendar but for the town’s ability to survive and thrive despite the present assault. To resurrect itself.

The previous night’s service had been sparsely attended but now the faithful arrived in full force. Even churchgoers with two-hour walks through the mountains had come.

With enormous satisfaction and gratitude he thought,
This is still a tightly knit community in which each looks out for all the others.

Then he saw Irene, whom he had missed the night before. Even this poor woman, forced to suffer by two great wars and who now risked her life for others, had found the requisite strength. She had braided her hair and carefully folded it on top of her head like a crown not of thorns but of pigtails.

For her and all the others like her, the pastor began the sanctified service using all the familiar consoling Bible readings for Easter—the sorrowful story of the last days of Jesus from his journey to Jerusalem to his trial, crucifixion, and resurrection. Pastor Burnard wasn’t saying anything the congregants couldn’t have repeated in their sleep as easily as he, yet was immediately rewarded by their fervent attention and participation. He had worried his flock would fear the soldiers listening just a short distance away, but their singing was stronger, more bell-toned, and more joyous than he had ever heard it.