In This Hospitable Land (6 page)

Late in the summer of 1939, gregarious, generous Jack Freedman had summoned his daughters and sons-in-law unexpectedly from Brussels to his house at 204 Avenue Jan Van Rijswijcklaan. They had happily ridden to Antwerp on the new, clean electric train, knowing Jack loved to surround himself with family and friends, taking pride in seeing that a magnificent meal was served with a different correct wine for each course and that after dinner all retired to the library for coffee, cognac for the men, and sherry for the women.

But all pleasure was replaced by anxiety when Jack announced he would not return from his annual visit to the south of France until the nasty business with the Nazis was finished. Poland hadn’t been invaded yet. But Jack, like André and Alex, knew…

The men cut and lit fat cigars. André spoke of his plan to retreat to Le Coq—a plan Jack heartily approved. Though he would have felt easier if his children had chosen Great Britain, Jack Freedman believed Le Coq an excellent backup and insisted on giving them his large black 1938 Buick 57, in superb working order, to help them make the move and, when the time came, to move farther still.

“I’m going to take some diamonds with me,” Jack said, referring to the immensely valuable cache he had kept after he and his father, Samuel, the founder of the family diamond business, had retired very comfortably many years before. “The rest I’m giving to you.” The announcement stunned the Sauverins but Jack explained, “It’s just a little security against the unknown. Hilde will take care of the house while I’m gone. That way she has a place to stay and the house will be ready for me when I come back.”

Jack had cases of wine carried out to the car. “Wine may help you while away the hours on the shore. And I’d far rather you drink it than Hilde!” Then he reached through the open passenger-side window and handed Alex a velvet pouch containing some three dozen diamonds of various grades and sizes.

By August Jack Freedman had decamped for the Bay of Biscay. On the first of September Germany had invaded Poland, the very day André had rented a villa on the coast. On the third André had driven Denise and their children to Le Coq, the small turn-of-the-century village with cottage-style dwellings rich in Belle Époque charm where they had spent several summers, including part of that summer of 1939. The adults were glad to be well-positioned to escape in whichever direction might seem best: east toward the Netherlands, north toward England, west toward France.

But it had been difficult for Denise not to spend much of each day with her sister. Geneviève had refused to leave her few good friends and her afternoon teas in Brussels for a shore so windy and cold in fall and winter. Even the invasion of Poland hadn’t swayed her.

“Why are you all so worried?’ Geneviève had asked. “Hasn’t Hitler already gotten almost everything he wants? He won’t come after Belgium. It’s the British and French who’ve declared war on Germany!”

Two and a half years wasn’t that great an age difference, but Denise had felt responsible for Geneviève since the beginning of their mother’s long, losing battle with breast cancer. Ida had been gone for a dozen years now.

Only sixteen at their mother’s demise, Geneviève had always been more fussed-over than Denise and not just because she was the young one until their baby brother Francis came along. Geneviève was the more striking Freedman sister. Denise was attractive and nicely built too, with the muscular arms and legs as well as the confidence and ease in social circumstances developed by playing field hockey for Belgium’s national ladies’ team. But there could be no question which of the two was more stylish: Denise tended toward well-tailored serviceable clothes and practical low-heeled shoes; Geneviève affected Parisian fashions and steered clear of the homely arts of sewing, knitting, and needlepoint Denise had mastered at their mother’s knee.

Denise loved her sister and had convinced their father to let her go to Saint-Cyr-l’Ecole, arguing that finishing school was not college and that respectable nuns could be counted on to foster a proper appreciation of decorum.

Geneviève had returned from finishing school as spoiled as ever. Why not? After Ida’s passing Denise had taken charge of the household staff, but maids had always done all the cooking and cleaning for Geneviève and had even laid out her clothes. Geneviève simply expected to be served and actually enjoyed having their father’s chauffeur drive her everywhere. Denise, on the other hand, wished she could learn to drive herself but Jack Freedman believed a woman behind the wheel was as wrong as a woman doctor.

Whatever their differences, the empathy between Denise and Geneviève had remained deep and abiding, and Denise had been unutterably pleased and relieved when, after Germany invaded Norway and Denmark in April, Geneviève had finally agreed to come to Le Coq.

Then Geneviève, Alex, Katie, and Philippe had come down with scarlet fever. Alex and the children, using one of the homeopathic remedies Alex favored, recovered quickly and moved to Le Coq at the beginning of May. Geneviève, who almost always sided with her husband but derided his interest in homeopathy, was too sick to travel and had had to stay with André on the Chaussée Vleurgat until this very week.

Even then the warmth Denise could feel right through her clothes suggested Geneviève still wasn’t well and probably should have stayed in Brussels a little longer. But how glad Denise was now that Geneviève hadn’t waited one minute more!

Finally feeling compelled to slip from the bed, Denise tiptoed into the living room. Shortly afterward, André woke with a start. The sun was barely above the horizon when he put on his maroon cotton bathrobe, found his slippers under the bed, and strode out to greet his already gathered family. Denise grasped his hands. Her forced smile masked nothing.

Seated close to the radio Alex looked up and said, “You look better than last night.”

“What news?” André asked.

“None good.”

Alex brought his brother out onto the deck overlooking the sea for a much-needed smoke.

“Are you all right?” Alex probed.

“Just tired,” André assured him.

With the sky so clear and the sun shining brightly on glistening waves it was hard to think of the previous day’s horrors or consider clearly the troubles ahead. If only all of the Sauverins’ worries could wash out to sea as easily as thoughts.

The brothers smoked without speaking, staring out across the North Sea in silent sympathy. André dropped his cigarette into the sand and watched it smolder, imagining it a miniature dropped bomb about to explode.

“Can she travel?” André asked Alex in a confidentially low tone.

“Geneviève? Of course. If necessary.”

“If?”

The adults sat down to breakfast while the children, who had eaten earlier, played quietly nearby. Raising and lowering their cups of coffee and tea the Sauverins listened carefully as André provided enough details of his experiences Friday to satisfy without upsetting them unnecessarily. Then he said what he knew would be badly received.

“I must return to Brussels now.”

“What?” Denise erupted, leaping to her feet, voice trembling. “But there’s no need! It’s not safe!” She grabbed her husband’s hand and held on tight.

Slowly and gently releasing himself, André answered softly but precisely, “It’s my duty. To the university, my colleagues, and my students.”

“What about your family?” Geneviève demanded hotly.

“It is my duty and I promised.”

“Surely you don’t think school will be in session!” Denise quailed.

André stirred and drank the last of his coffee. “We haven’t heard that it won’t.”

“Let me drive you to the Ostend station,” Alex said as he and the others realized the depth of André’s determination.

Scant minutes later Denise stopped André long enough to hug him tightly and straighten his tie.

“Must you go?” she asked warmly, longingly. “Won’t it be terribly dangerous?”

André kissed her brow with fervor. “Nothing could stop me from coming home to you.”

“Then why go at all?”

He kissed her again. “Because I’m the professor!”

Alex steered the big Buick out of the driveway. The usually quiet road west teemed with oversized army transports heading the other way. André would have suggested turning back since taking the tram could have been faster, but once they had entered the stream of vehicles, reversing direction would have been as difficult as forging ahead. Besides, Alex wanted to talk.

“Don’t worry about anything here.” Alex braked for the stop-and-go traffic. “I’ll convince them all to pack so we can be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. After I drop you off I’m going to the bank to get as much cash as possible: Belgian and French francs of course, but also British pound notes just in case. By the way, where did you put the diamonds? I assume you brought them home last night.”

The diamonds: still locked in the basement safe on the Avenue Émile Duray. On moving out Alex had taken everything but the diamonds, which he felt would be safest there.

“Oh dear,” André admitted. “I never gave the diamonds a thought.”

“Then I guess it’s good you’re going back to Brussels.”

André sighed. “I’ll get them. But warn everyone I might not be back tonight. With all I’ve got to do I’ll probably have to stay on the Chaussée Vleurgat.”

No one in his right mind would go to Brussels this morning without a rifle on his shoulder,
Alex thought after dropping his brother at the station.

Alex did his business at the bank, filled the Buick’s tank, and started back toward the villa. He turned on the car radio just in time to hear the announcer say that the “impregnable” fortress of Eben-Emael had been captured by a detachment of glider-borne German paratroopers.

Even after hearing of that disaster, the rest of the family remained indecisive about leaving. At this stage of her life, Rose said, she really didn’t care who was in charge of the country as long as the street she lived on was quiet and safe. Louis questioned the French nation, their most accessible haven, as a way station, given its history of anti-Semitism.

“I know they’re not as bad as the Germans,” he acknowledged as lunch hour approached and his stomach rumbled, “but these problems run deep. The French have been known to turn on the Jews like that.” He snapped his fingers.

The Sauverins had limited experience of anti-Semitism. In Belgium there was far less stress between the Jews and the Christians than between the Walloons and the Flemish. But Alexandre Sauverin wasn’t about to sit on his hands.

“I don’t know about the rest of you. I’m going to pack.”