Village of Scoundrels

by Margi Preus

  She grabbed his hand with her free hand. “Yes! I know exactly what you mean,” she said. Embarrassed, she started to pull her hand away, but he held on to it. So they continued to walk, hand in hand. “For a long time I watched you and others doing things, and I admired you,” Céleste said, “but I was too afraid. I didn’t think I could do it—I was sure I’d mess up. Then I went on a little mission. I was still afraid, but I was doing something. I had a little power. I could actually do something to resist. To fight back. And the oddest thing happened. That huge dark fear of what could happen—it went away.” She let go of his hand to demonstrate how her fear had wafted away into the night. “I guess I had to do the thing I dreaded most in order to lose my fear of doing it.”

  Philippe nodded.

  “But . . . ” she went on. “But today, it feels like everything is unraveling, coming apart. We’re losing. They’re winning. They’re closing in. We’re not safe anymore. Nobody’s safe.”

  Philippe tried to think of something to say. He couldn’t say she was wrong, because she wasn’t. How do you live day in, day out with the danger of just living? Maybe he’d been able to do what he did because his danger had been temporary. As soon as he got back to Sunnyside, he fell asleep, confident in his own safety. Was that no longer true? How would they live with this new fear?

  “They’re not winning, though,” he said to console her—and maybe himself. “The Allies are making progress. The Germans have lost Stalingrad; they’re losing in Russia. The Allies are beating Rommel in Tunisia. The Greek liberation army has taken back a city in Greece . . .”

  “That’s all so far away!” Céleste cried. “It’s as if we’re fighting our own little war, all by ourselves. And, I don’t know. I did something, but was it important? Shirts and soap and bandages? Not exactly saving any lives!”

  “It’s all important,” Philippe said, taking her hand again. “You never know how important the little things turn out to be. I mean, the shirts! That’s a little miracle right there!” He flashed her a brilliant smile. “Those shirts are going to get those boys to Switzerland!”

  They followed the small trail that led along the rocky hill behind the château, then came around the front, where the guard stopped them. Recognizing them, he let them pass.

  The windows had been shuttered so no light shone out, and everything seemed quiet. But when the two friends stepped inside, it was almost as if there’d been a party. Someone was playing a guitar. The heel of a loaf of bread, crumbs of cheese, and dirty glasses rested along the windowsills. The maquisards were shouldering their rucksacks and donning their caps and berets, getting ready to go.

  Coming from one room, there was a whirring sound like a bicycle and the crackling of static. Céleste peeked in to see a young man pedaling a bicycle missing its wheels, a bicycle that was hooked up to a generator that was connected to a radio transmitter inside a suitcase. Hunched over the transmitter, her eyes narrowed in concentration, was a sharp-featured woman Céleste had never seen before.

  The woman slid off her headset and said in bad French with a thick American accent, “Could everyone please be quiet for a moment?”

  The place went silent.

  Who is that? Céleste mouthed to Philippe.

  He shook his head. Maybe better if we don’t know, he mouthed back.

  They tiptoed to another room, where Max and the other young men were resting on blankets rolled out on the floor, playing cards or reading magazines.

  “Here are your Scouts, Monsieur,” Céleste said by way of introduction.

  The suitcase was opened, and shirts and shorts were tried on. Céleste, now beyond fatigue, took out her scissors, a spool of thread, pins, and a sewing needle, and set to work making alterations.

  JULES TAKES A STAND

  Light was starting to show along the eastern horizon, the crickets had fallen silent, and the breeze had completely died. It was as still as it ever was. The only sound was the crunch of Perdant’s and Jules’s footsteps, the raspy crowing of a very far-off rooster, and the lowing of cows, even farther away.

  For a time Perdant thought he heard voices—like a boy and a girl having a conversation—but then he noticed there was a stream nearby, and the sound must have been water running over stones.

  And then there was that strange, yet familiar, jingling—a sound like that of the ghostly dragoon astride a running horse, his spurs jingling. He could have sworn the sound was moving toward him, growing closer and closer. Of course he knew it wasn’t, but he looked around anyway, seeing nothing.

  But wait, he thought. Not nothing. In the distance, rising out of the early-morning mist, a steep-pitched roof sprouting multiple chimneys, and on one side, a vine-covered turret. Unless what he was seeing was an illusion created by the Triangle de la Burle, it was a château. The château.

  He laughed and said, “Finally.”

  Jules’s head snapped up. Zut alors! he almost said out loud. He hadn’t been paying enough attention! Somehow they’d gotten on the road leading straight to the château. Now how was he going to prevent the man from getting there?

  “I don’t think you should go,” he said, putting his hand on Perdant’s arm.

  “Well, that’s been obvious from the beginning,” Perdant said, continuing on.

  Jules ran after him, grabbed his arm, and tugged. “What if the place is full of maquisards?” he pleaded. If Perdant went to the château, the maquisards would have to kill him, wouldn’t they? What other option was there? Perdant would have seen them all and would know exactly who was involved. They wouldn’t be able to just let him go! “It’s not—” Jules hesitated. “It might not be safe!”

  “You’re right,” Perdant said. “So you stay here. Or better yet, go home.” The policeman kept walking, picking up speed while Jules stayed where he was.

  “Stop!” Jules cried.

  But the policeman did not stop, not even glancing back when he yelled, “Go home!”

  But then Jules shouted, “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Perdant stopped and slowly turned around to see the boy holding his service pistol with both hands. “Doucement,” Perdant said, taking a stumbling step back. “Take it easy.” Recovering, he said in his policeman voice, “You’ve got no business with that weapon.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know how to use this,” Jules said, flipping back the safety on the gun. It wasn’t so dark that Perdant couldn’t tell what he was doing.

  “I know, I know. You’re a farm kid.” Perdant took a hesitant step toward Jules. “Maybe you hunted rabbits with your dad. But this is different.”

  Jules resisted the temptation to tell Perdant that his dad was probably sorting through canisters of submachine guns about now.

  Perdant tried taking another step closer, and Jules took a step back. Emboldened, Perdant moved toward Jules. “Come on, kid,” he said in a cajoling tone. “You’re not going to shoot me. At least not on purpose.”

  Perdant was right, but Jules was not about to let him know that, so he held his ground, pointing the pistol with both hands at the policeman’s chest. Perdant stopped his approach, and the two of them stood face-to-face for what seemed like an eternity. If that’s what it takes, Jules thought, that’s what I’ll do: hold the man here all day. By then, the maquisards will surely be gone, or someone will come by, or something will happen.

  But already his arms were tired—the gun was heavy! His wrists wanted to droop.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on in the château?” Perdant said.

  “I’m the one with the gun. I’ll be asking the questions,” Jules answered. He’d heard that line on a radio show, but never in his life thought he’d ever get to say it. Nor did he think he would ever say Stop or I’ll shoot in real life. But he didn’t like it as much as he would have thought. He would have given anything not to be in this predicament right now, but he didn’t know how to get out of it.

  He waved the gun a little bit and said, “You should be
giving me some answers. How about you tell me why you want to go to the château? Why there?”

  “Why anywhere?” Perdant said.

  “Yeah, why anywhere? Why don’t you just leave it alone? What do you think you’re accomplishing with your spying and hunting and prying and arresting people? Why do you want to do that?”

  Why? Perdant wondered. He had posed the same question to himself just the day before. Now he tried to rouse himself to answer with his usual patriotic fervor—to save France for the Frenchmen, save the country from anti-patriots, communists, immigrants, the Jews who had been working to undermine the civilized nations of Europe . . .

  The problem was, he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore. He slumped against a tree, exhausted by it all. He felt a thought starting at the back of his mind, an idea. As if a lamp had been lit in the far reaches, but its light had not yet penetrated the mass of his brain. He squeezed his forehead between his hands, trying to open a pathway for it. When he looked up, Jules was adjusting his hands on the pistol, his eyes cast down, the gun lowered.

  Perdant’s mind shifted to the moment at hand. Now! was the thought that muscled past the slow-moving one and propelled Perdant forward. He leaped on Jules, his intention being to wrest the weapon out of the boy’s hands before something stupid happened. But it was harder than he thought it would be. The kid struggled, kicked, lashed out—and did not let go of the gun. If the gun went off, Perdant wondered, which one of them would be hit?

  THE GUNSHOT

  Philippe was mentally hiking the route he planned to take with his new troop of Scouts: Into the forest behind the château, across the fields, down the mountain until connecting with the road through—when his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a gunshot.

  At the sound, Céleste froze, her hand extended to receive the note Max was about to give her. Max’s hand stayed outstretched, too, the note for Henni still in it. It was as if a spell had been cast and everyone in the castle had been turned to stone.

  But only for an instant. Then the note was passed, the boys began to whisper, and Philippe crossed to the window and opened the wooden shutters. In the thin light of predawn there was little to see except the shimmering of hundreds of dewwet spiderwebs draped over the fields.

  “Keep away from the window,” someone whispered.

  “The shot wasn’t that close,” he said, then added “Shh,” trying to listen.

  The sound of a suitcase snapping shut in the other room seemed as loud as gunfire.

  “We should get going,” Philippe said, turning away from the window.

  “What about our papers?” Max said. “We shouldn’t go without papers.”

  Philippe tapped his foot, trying to decide what to do. His immediate response was the urge to get out. To move away from whatever was happening outside. On the other hand, for these young men to travel without false papers could be even more dangerous. It was probably inevitable that they’d be asked to produce identification, especially once they were on the train.

  »«

  Jean-Paul had been pedaling up to the château when he heard the gunshot. He leaped off his bicycle, hoisted it onto his shoulder, and climbed the steps as fast as he could.

  Inside, he leaned the bike against a pillar and barely had a moment to take a look around the foyer before Céleste appeared with a sewing basket over her arm. “You’ve shown up in the nick of time,” she said. “They’re on hot coals waiting for you.”

  He followed her while craning his neck to look at everything they passed. “I’ve never been inside before,” he murmured, ogling the high ceiling with its thick wood beams, the marble pillars, the still-graceful archways and tall windows. “Even under the ruin, it’s still pretty elegant.”

  “Kind of like France?” Céleste said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said, still trying to take it all in. “I wonder what it would take to fix it up.”

  A woman with a suitcase strapped to her back emerged from another room. “You young people are going to have to do it,” she said, “when the time comes.” With her long skirt swishing, she turned and walked, limping slightly, down the corridor toward the back entrance.

  “Who was that?” Jean-Paul wondered.

  Céleste watched the woman’s form dissolving into the shadowy corridor. “I don’t know, but I think we should soon follow her out. The maquisards left earlier.”

  “We all need to get out as soon as we can,” Jean-Paul agreed.

  “But first,” Céleste gestured down the corridor as she said, “your presence is desired in here.”

  He followed her, marveling at the way she strode along—as if she had shed her shy girlhood in a single evening. She disappeared around a corner . . . and into adulthood, Jean-Paul mused.

  When Jean-Paul stepped into the room after her, he almost burst out laughing. Dressed in khaki shorts and shirts, each with a beret on his head and a kerchief tied around his neck, the young men looked every inch like a Scout troop ready for a hike across the plateau. No doubt that was exactly what they were about to do just as soon as he gave them their new documents.

  Jean-Paul passed these out while Philippe waited at the window, mentally finishing the route. Once Philippe had seen the Scouts off on the train with their next guide, he’d board La Tortue back to Les Lauzes and sleep all the way home. Then he planned to pay a call on Céleste, gathering a bouquet of daisies and periwinkles as he went. There were many different kinds of thrills in this life, he thought. And perhaps it would not be so boring after all to spend a little more time in the village.

  As he looked around at the apprehensive yet hopeful faces of the young men he would soon be guiding, he couldn’t help but sing a bit of the Swiss hiking song he intended to teach them along the way.

  It’s so simple to love

  To smile at life . . .

  To allow our hearts

  To crack the window

  To the sun coming in . . .

  THE CHTEAU’S SECRET

  “Hang on, hang on, hang on . . .” Perdant mumbled, staggering under the weight of the boy in his arms. The château loomed ahead, rising out of the mist.

  The boy’s face was ashen, but he didn’t cry. He pressed his hands over the wound in his chest, but blood oozed through his fingers, soaked both their shirts, ran onto the ground. So much blood, Perdant thought. Too much.

  What if no one is there? he wondered. Then again, what if the place is full of maquisards? Then again, wasn’t that what he was counting on—that there might be someone with medical training? Maybe they would miraculously have medical supplies, even though the Germans requisitioned that sort of thing for themselves.

  Perdant pushed open the gate, stumbled down the gravel drive, and paused at the bottom of the wide stairs, gasping. He’d been running, and now he was spent. His legs ached; his heart felt sodden and heavy.

  Still, he managed to heave both himself and the boy up the first step. Then the next.

  On the third Perdant heard the distant growl of cars and the rumble of motorcycles winding their way up to the plateau from the valley. He had forgotten about his earlier call to police headquarters. He glanced at the boy, whose eyes were squeezed shut against the pain.

  “Hang on,” he said, taking another step.

  At last he reached the top and stopped in front of the doors, breathing heavily.

  Beyond his own and Jules’s labored breaths, it seemed silent. Yet there was something. A whisper of movement, of doors opening and closing, hushed footfalls, quiet voices.

  He no longer knew what he did or didn’t hear. What he believed or didn’t believe. He only knew what he had to do now at this moment, and so he reached for the iron ring that served as a door handle.

  “Don’t,” Jules said, or perhaps the word only lingered in his mind.

  But Perdant did.

  »«

  Perdant had not expected Scouts, but there they were—a whole troop of them, lifting Jules from Perdant’s arms, laying him on a
table, fetching water, ripping up old shirts. One of them—the redheaded kid—was using the torn shirts to compress the wound in Jules’s chest, and another lad—Jean-Paul Filon, whom Perdant had once given a ticket—was assessing the damage.

  “Heart wasn’t hit,” he was saying. “Luckily the bullet penetrated the right side of his chest.” Jean-Paul listened through a rolled up magazine to Jules’s chest and said, “He seems to be breathing all right, so I don’t think the lung has collapsed. Probably broke a rib, though . . .”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” Céleste whispered.

  “He should be stitched up by a doctor,” Jean-Paul said. “But first we need to clean the wound and try to control the bleeding. I don’t suppose there’s any soap or clean bandages or anything useful like that to be had.”

  Céleste squeaked and ran for the suitcase.

  “As it happens . . .” Philippe began, but he was interrupted when a bowl of clean water was carried in by one of the Scouts.

  Céleste returned with the suitcase, threw it down, flung it open, and emerged triumphantly with a bar of soap, antiseptic, and rolls of sterile bandages.

  Philippe caught her eye. “Turns out that suitcase was pretty important,” he said.

  She was just so grateful, she couldn’t reply. Soapy water, a clean cloth, Jean-Paul’s steady hands and strong nerves. Everything so strangely perfect. There was something almost holy going on.

  “There wasn’t any suture thread or anything like that in the suitcase,” she said to Jean-Paul, “but when it comes to it, I have silk thread and needle. You can sew him up, can’t you?”

  Jean-Paul didn’t have time for the bitterness he might have felt at this moment. Had he been attending medical school as he’d wished, he’d be much better prepared for a situation like this. He’d know for sure if Jules’s lung had been hit, probably. But he thought he could stitch him up if he had to. “When it comes to it,” he said.

  Céleste wet a cloth and pressed it to Jules’s forehead. “Hey, Superman,” she whispered, remembering what he’d called himself. “You’re stronger than steel, remember?”