by Margi Preus
Like Jean-Paul, she was a little surprised to find herself in the congregation. Sometimes she and the other Jewish kids went to services just to find out what was going on in the outside world. But nobody tried to—or wanted to—convert them. The pastor said when the war ended, they should be returned to their Jewish parents as Jews.
Looking around at the congregation, Perdant had to admit this place had the look of pure innocence. The children with their freshly scrubbed faces glowing in the candlelight, the adults listening with rapt attention, all dressed in their very best. The simple farmers, hats off, heads bowed. Their sturdy wives with their white caps tied tightly beneath their chins.
What, Perdant wondered, was going on in all those heads right now?
The farmers were thinking, Pastor Autin is encouraging us to offer refuge to those who come to us when he says, God did not choose the wise or the intelligent, the rich or the powerful, to manifest himself to the people of Israel. God chose the illiterate and the humble, the poor and the weak.
What, Henni wondered, did the Nazis make of this Christian story about love for the weak and powerless? Hitler and the Nazis hated the poor and weak so much that they had begun systematically eliminating people with mental or physical disabilities, people they deemed “unworthy of life.”
There must be a lot of things wrong with Christianity if you are a Nazi, Henni thought. For one thing, Jesus had been a Jew. That must rankle the Nazis no end, she thought with a little shake of her head.
Inspector Perdant was not thinking about the story at all. He was staring at the teenagers. That girl, for instance. That odd little shake of her head. What was that about? That boy next to her, when he turned his head—a handsome boy, with a face full of pathos. Perdant hated him instantly. He felt in his bones: Jew.
He’d heard that they went to services sometimes—likely to try to disguise themselves as Protestants. He’d determined that there were dozens of children’s homes, some of them funded by aid organizations known to rescue Jewish children from the camps. Not all of them children, either, but old enough to be real troublemakers.
Like that row of teenagers. That redheaded kid, for one. He’d seen him once pulling his sled along in the middle of the night. What had he been doing out at that hour?
With his head bowed, Philippe unfolded the note he had been handed earlier. It read: Couple of Old Testaments for you. He put his mind to the farms in the area. Where might these “Old Testaments” go?
And in that region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night, the pastor was saying.
Jules looked up, thinking, I am a shepherd, and I was out in the fields the other night, although I wasn’t keeping watch over my flocks, I was delivering some fake papers. And while I was out there, suddenly, there was in the sky a multitude of winged angels. These actually turned out to be parachutes, drifting out of the heavens toward earth. This proved that Britain knew there were resistance groups forming in the mountains, and as far as Jules was concerned, that made for tidings of great joy. It meant that Britain, still living in freedom, hadn’t forgotten France and was sending tools for its liberation in the form of canisters full of, probably, submachine guns.
Jules looked up shyly at his pastor, whom he knew to be a pacifist, and decided he would not tell him about this. But he was so excited he couldn’t keep from squirming a little.
The younger children were thinking about far more innocent things. They had begun to seriously wonder about what was in the gift they would receive at the end of the service—candies and nuts? An orange or tangerine? Maybe a little puzzle, a book, or a game.
The story came to an end, and the congregation began to sing “Silent Night.”
Silent night, Holy night.
All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon Virgin, Mother and child.
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Henni’s French had improved enough that she understood all the words, but she couldn’t help but think of the last time she’d heard this carol—back in her hometown in Germany a few years earlier. By that time, Chancellor Hitler had proclaimed himself the savior of the people and had gone about changing everything, even the words of hymns. Henni had been hurrying home that Christmas Eve when she’d stopped to listen to the singing coming from the Protestant church. Then she made out the words:
Silent night, Holy night
All is calm, all is bright.
Only the Chancellor steadfast in fight,
Watches o’er Germany by day and by night,
Always caring for us.
Always caring for us.
»«
The service ended and people began filing out. Perdant joined the slow surge of people moving toward the big double doors, where the pastor stood shaking the hands of his parishioners. All headed home to cheery Christmas meals, no doubt. Perdant would spend his holiday having dinner at the hotel and taking notes about some of the people he had observed at the service.
“Inspector Perdant!” Pastor Autin clasped Perdant’s hand in both of his. “So nice to see you here. You are a long way from home, I think! Are you alone today? Would you like to join our family for dinner?”
Perdant rocked back on his heels for a moment. This was a completely unexpected invitation. He tried to quickly weigh the pros and cons. If he accepted the invitation, he could get into the pastor’s home and perhaps gather evidence of his illegal activies. On the other hand, the pastor would probably grill Perdant during dinner about his activities: What was he doing in Les Lauzes, what did he hope to accomplish, and so on. The pastor was probably just trying to get information out of him!
Not knowing what to say, Perdant said what he had earlier rehearsed: “I am well aware what’s going on around here, you know. I know that there are homes full of non-Aryans and anti-patriots.”
The pastor regarded the policeman for a moment. “So you are a spy,” he said. “Isn’t there more honorable work you could find to do?”
“One finds work where one can,” Perdant mumbled before plunging out the door into the cold. Why he should be made to feel guilty for keeping law and order in this town, he didn’t know.
As he struck off toward his hotel, head down, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, he thought of what he should have said to the pastor. He should have said, “Take care, Monsieur Autin. If you aren’t careful, it may be you whom I will have to arrest—holy day or not!”
4.
DEEP WINTER,
1942–43
LA BURLE
Snow cascaded down in torrents or drifted down one flake at a time. It draped like lace curtains or was driven sideways by wind. It fell all day, flake by quivering flake, or belligerently, in downpours, piling up into small mountains or making tall, snowy hats on stumps and fence posts.
Then came the wind, howling across the plateau, a wind so familiar it had been given a name: La Burle. La Burle breathed icy blasts of frigid air and pushed the ever-falling snow into congères, snowdrifts. Mighty snowdrifts. A farmer might emerge to find great, sparkling heaps of snow piled against his door or his hayfield sculpted into the white cliffs of Dover. Perhaps you’d wake to the Alps in your backyard or the Himalayas stretching across the main road out of town. These were the congères.
The congères closed roads. The congères sometimes blocked train tracks. And the congères kept the police and the gendarmes stuck in the valley.
The weather tried Perdant’s patience. There was little he could do without orders—and support from police headquarters in the valley—so he continued to snoop, to gather names, to ask questions, to wonder: How did Jews get here?
It was known that there were children pulled out of the camps and brought to the boardinghomes here. But they weren’t the only ones. There were plenty of others. Undocumented Jews were hiding here. They were being smuggled into Switzerland, so there had to be
a forgery operation. Who was running that? And where? He knew there were parachute drops—you’d have to be blind not to notice the new silk shirts on some of the children, the pretty white dress with its telltale “French fell” seams on the hotelier’s daughter. That meant the resistance must be organizing in this area. Where were they hiding? Perdant meant to find out.
And who was behind all this illegal activity? Perdant suspected the pastors—all of them, but especially the two in this town. They were the ringleaders, and something must be done about that.
THE KING SURVEYS HIS KINGDOM—FEBRUARY 1943
In February, there was a little break in the weather. The wind stopped. The blowing snow settled. The trees stood still, every branch and twig motionless.
The villagers caught themselves whispering. Practically tiptoeing around town. Barely breathing.
The first rumble of trouble came from the snowplow, grumbling up the road from the valley. It burst triumphantly into town, growled around the streets and town square, and trundled off in the other direction, and for the moment, stillness returned to the village streets.
»«
Outside of town, in the countryside, Jules stooped now and then to pick up twigs and sticks and even large branches that had fallen during the winter’s frequent storms. His dog got into the spirit of it by dragging along a stick as big as himself.
Jules stopped at a spot just off the road and dumped his armload of wood behind a large boulder, which would act as a windbreak for any breeze that might start up. Then he carefully laid a little campfire, leaving enough room so he could use the boulder as a backrest. One match—that was all he allowed himself, because matches, like everything else, were hard to come by these days. So he took the time to lay the twigs and sticks carefully over a scrap of birch bark he’d found.
Earlier in the evening, Jules had dropped off some papers at a farm and had been rewarded with a small sack of potatoes, a few onions, and a chunk of thickly cut bacon. He was delighted, for he’d carried in his rucksack a small saucepan and matches, just in case something like this might happen.
He piled on the sticks until the flames leaped up orange and bright—warming his face as he bent over the fire, gently adding bigger and then bigger sticks and branches.
Once the fire was sending sparks and smoke straight up into the darkening sky, he cut off a small piece of bacon, then sliced a couple of potatoes and one of the onions. The rest would go home to his mother to feed his siblings and a couple of “cousins” who were staying with them.
The flames subsided, revealing glowing coals beneath. He plunked the bacon into the pan and set the pan over the fire. As soon as the bacon had produced some grease, he threw the onions and potatoes into it, holding the handle with his mitten, which doubled as a hot pad.
By this time, the sun was gone. Beyond the circle of light his fire provided, the sky was the color of the blackest ink in the blackest bottle of Jean-Paul’s collection. But Jules was not afraid of the dark. For one thing, it was rarely as dark as you expected. In winter, the snow was like an enormous, luminous blanket—as if someone had buried lanterns under it, making it glow. Often there was a moon, sometimes bright enough to cast shadows. And even if there wasn’t, there were stars. Like tonight, when the stars were shining with a special fierceness.
If it was cloudy, it could be dark, but he knew his way around so well he thought he could do it blindfolded. Seeing was only one of the senses, after all. You could tell where you were by the breeze on your face, the smell of sheep nearby, the peculiar creaking of the weather vane on a certain barn, the rattle of a particular gate, or the feel of the ground under your feet.
But until you were frying bacon on a fire, the air scented with woodsmoke, you didn’t think about how deprived of the sense of smell you were all winter when most smells were frozen or buried under three feet of snow.
Now the onions and potatoes were really starting to sizzle, and the aroma was so mouthwatering, he couldn’t sit still. It set him to humming and doing a little jig. Partly to stay warm, partly to keep himself from eating the potatoes before they were done, and partly out of sheer excitement of the deliciousness to come.
When he tired of that, he leaned back against the boulder while the dog earnestly gnawed on a stick. He could no longer see it but still sensed the old, abandoned château that loomed not very far away. He imagined its shape—its turret and elegant roofline, tall and regal against its mountain backdrop. He imagined himself as king of that castle and that he’d been out hunting with his hounds—here he reached over and patted the wriggly little mutt next to him, still chewing up and spitting out bits of wood—and he pretended he had stopped to survey his kingdom.
But, Jules thought, not even a king could be as pleased with a meal as he was with the one he was about to consume.
Jules was deep into this reverie when he sat up with a start, realizing someone was nearby. Perhaps the crackling of the fire had prevented him from hearing the approaching footsteps.
Philippe’s face appeared, illuminated by firelight. With a smile, the older boy said, “I could smell your banquet a mile away. Smells divine. Are you expecting the king?”
“I am the king!” Jules crowed.
“I should have recognized you, Your Majesty,” Philippe said, bowing deeply.
“Would you care to join me?” Jules said. The tiny pang of regret he felt about having to share his repast was compensated by hosting the daring and dashing Philippe. Also, Philippe had a sled to sit on and a canteen of not completely frozen water. These things assured his status as an ideal dinner guest.
Once they were situated, Jules announced, “Dinner is served!”
The two of them plucked warm potatoes and onions coated with salty bacon grease from the pan with their fingers, licking their fingers between each bite. At last there was only the chunk of bacon left.
“That’s yours,” said Philippe.
Jules took a bite he judged to be about half and handed the uneaten part to Philippe.
“Sure?” Philippe said.
“Bon appétit!” Jules said, setting the cooled pan on the ground for the dog to lick clean.
Jules and Philippe settled back against the boulder, and Philippe said, “That was a feast fit for a king.”
“Well, like I said . . .” Jules said, “I am the king. And that”—he pointed to the barely visible outline of the château—“is my castle.”
“And where is your crown?” Philippe asked.
Jules pointed up at the sky. They both tilted their heads to gaze at the brilliantly shimmering stars.
After a moment, Jules’s gaze returned to the dark outline of the old château. “I used to play in there when I was a kid,” he said, as if he were now an old man.
Philippe raised an eyebrow. “When was that?”
“Back when I had fewer responsibilities,” Jules said. Then he leaned toward Philippe and whispered, as if there might be someone listening, “I know the château’s secret.”
“Oh?” Philippe whispered back. “What’s that?”
“Well, it’s a secret,” Jules said. “But maybe I’ll show you sometime.”
They sat for a moment, and then Philippe said, “I have bad news. The pastors and the director of the school were arrested.”
“What?” Jules sat up, sending the dog skittering away.
“Today,” Philippe continued. “Five police cars came to arrest the three of them.”
Jules stared into the fire, as if there might be an explanation in the flames.
“Word got out,” Philippe said. “People came and brought them little gifts: a tin of sardines, a jar of jam, a package of coffee, a candle. When Pastor Autin said he didn’t have any matches, one of the gendarmes fished a box of matches from his pocket. ‘A gift,’ he said.”
Finally, Jules asked, “What will happen to them?”
“They’re to be taken to a kind of internment camp for political prisoners.”
Jules wi
shed he would have been there. He could have given Pastor Autin his matches. The bacon, or the potatoes, the onion. Nobody ever got enough to eat in those camps.
He poked at the glowing coals with a stick, getting that prickly feeling in his head that meant he was about to cry. Trying not to by clamping his mouth tight and squeezing his eyes shut just made it worse, and when Philippe put his hand on the younger boy’s shoulder, the tears rolled down and his nose began to run. He couldn’t have said why he was crying: because the most admired men in the community were the ones who were arrested? How could that make any sense at all? Sometimes it seemed as if the world had gotten turned upside down, and Jules didn’t know if it would ever get turned right side up again.
He hoped Philippe couldn’t tell he was crying. Then he heard Philippe sniff and, taking a shy glance, saw bright tears sparkling in his friend’s eyes, too.
“Why?” Jules managed to choke out.
Philippe sighed. “I suppose the authorities want to silence them because they speak out against the Nazis and the Vichy regime. And we listen to what they say.”
“The Nazis are afraid of the pastors because the pastors are right and they are wrong,” Jules said. “And they know it.”
Philippe nodded. “You speak truth. We need more kings like you.”
The fire had died to small flames, and though it still warmed the front of him, Jules felt the cold sneaking down his neck and creeping up under the back of his jacket. He felt his heart thudding away, really realizing that what he had gotten involved in was not a game, not a lark. It was serious, dangerous business.
“Perhaps it’s not so safe anymore, what you’ve been doing,” Philippe said softly.
Jules shot him a glance. Firelight reflected in Philippe’s eyes. Or maybe, Jules thought, he was catching a glimpse of the fire that seemed to burn within the older boy.
