In the distance squats a small stone house surrounded by a low stone wall. The shadow of a hawk ripples across the rolling landscape. A bulge suddenly appears under the moist carpet of dead leaves and moves off like a wave—a critter scurrying for safety from the sharp-eyed hawk whose shadow suddenly slows and circles.
Élodie sits beside me with her violin case. “Comfortable?”
“Yes. I’m beginning to like this morphine stuff.”
“We must start to wean you from it. You shouldn’t keep taking it.”
“This journey over the mountains to Spain and Portugal, how long will it take?”
“Still eager to get back to your American friends?”
“I signed up to fight the Krauts alongside my buddies. I went through jump school side-by-side with them, and I shipped out with them. I belong with them. So, how long?”
“It depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Things.”
“Goddamn it! What things?”
“Germans, for one. Have you given them your schedule? Do they know you’re in a hurry?”
“Fuck!”
“And then there is the weather. Those mountains are high. There are many storms.”
“Great. Anything else?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“How much you can tolerate. Your strength. Your endurance.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Okey-Dokey.” She flashes a cherubic smile.
I chuckle. “Where did you learn a phrase like that?”
“I watched The Little Rascals to help learn colloquial American English. Porky says it.”
“Jesus!”
She removes the violin and a tuning fork which she hands to me. “Now, you can help me tune.”
“Swell. Action at last! It’s what I joined up for.”
Élodie gives me an acid smile and says, “When I give you the sign, hit the fork on your knee.”
“It will be my pleasure. I’ve always regretted not taking music lessons when I was a kid.”
“Well we can start now with a single note, an A.” She stands the base of the instrument on her thigh, presses her left hand hard against the scroll, and nods to me. I knock the tuning fork against my knee, like an uncle playing the spoons, and it rings out an A note. Élodie turns a peg and plucks the A string several times. Finally, she says, “These pegs are forever slipping. I need to get new ones fitted when the war is over.” She continues tuning the other strings by referencing the A string and when she is done, she starts to play scales up and down.
“And here I thought I was gonna get a recital,” I say.
Élodie shakes her head. “I need to practice.”
“She’s always doing this,” says Marcel. “Always practice, never a concert for her companions.”
“I need to practice,” Élodie says, “so I’ll be ready to give concerts again when the war is over.”
“The war seems very far from here,” I say. “Play something for us.”
Élodie gazes at me for a long moment and I’m afraid I upset her. Finally, she nods. “I’ll play a piece Pablo Casals taught me. He said it’s a prayer for peace. It’s called ‘Song of the Birds.’ In it, you’ll hear the urge for freedom. He wrote it because his homeland, Catalonia, was not, and is not, free.” She begins playing at a very slow tempo and as she plays, she gazes into the distance. It’s an empty stare, and when she finishes the piece, she continues to stare at the sky for long moments before putting the violin back in its case. “I think it’s going to rain,” she says, nodding to the west.
I shield my eyes from the dazzling sunlight and gaze toward the west where I see a line of pewter clouds with darker underbellies hanging like overfull udders.
“That’s not just ordinary rain,” says Marcel. “It’s a storm. We should keep going. Perhaps we can find shelter.”
We travel on for a short distance until we come to a stone house with blue shutters. The door is ajar and swings on a tight arc with a sudden gust of wind, its hinges creaking. The storm is quick-moving and passes to the east of us. There are blooms of lightening, distant thunder claps, but no rain where we are. And there is no sign of life, either in the house or in the adjoining barn.
“I don’t think it’s abandoned,” Élodie says. “I saw laundry hanging on a clothesline out back.”
“Let’s see if anyone is inside,” says Marcel, leveling his rifle toward the house. The other men also ready their weapons.
“Not wearing these uniforms, idiot!” says Élodie. “If somebody is there, we’ll either scare them to death, or they’ll see a chance to kill some Germans before we can explain who we are.”
“We need to get rid of these uniforms,” says Jean-Baptiste.
“Not until we’re past the main body of the Wehrmacht,” replies Élodie.
“But this far south we’re more likely to get shot at by our own comrades than by the Boche.”
Élodie shakes her head. “Not until we’re certain most of the Germans have left for Normandy.”
Suddenly, there is the simultaneous crack of a gunshot and a zing as something hits the stone wall and a chip of granite leaps into the air. I whirl. A bearded man is aiming a rifle at us. The gun seems to draw all the light of day to it. The barrel flashes sunlight. More men have weapons pointed at us. One of the men shouts something in German.
“He’s warning us not to move,” Élodie says to me.
The same man shouts again, “Lassen Sie Ihre Waffen auf der Boden.16”
Marcel and the others lay their weapons on the ground.
Élodie says, “Nous sommes des combattants de la résistance comme vous, et cet homme est un Américain.”17 She turns to me. “Confirm to them you are American.”
What can I say? I shout, “It’s true. I’m an American paratrooper. I know who Babe Ruth is! Viva de Gaulle! Viva Roosevelt!”
“What are you doing here?” the man asks in heavily accented English. “Why are you not with your comrades in Normandy?”
“I was wounded. These people helped me,” I reply.
Élodie turns to the man. “You speak better English than German. It’s auf DEN Boden, not auf DER Boden.”
The man shrugs. “Why is the American with you?”
Élodie says, “We couldn’t return him to his unit because we had to come south quickly to help prevent German reinforcements going to the beaches.”
“Why those uniforms?”
“We took them from some Boche we killed. A medical unit. They allow us to pass as German to get through the lines.”
“What do you call yourself?”
“My nom-de-guerre is Azalais.”
“Your real name?”
“Élodie Bedier.”
“The violinist?” the man asks, glancing at the violin case that hangs from a strap looped over her shoulder like a rifle.
“Yes. You are very observant.” I can hear the sarcasm dripping from her voice. I can almost hear it today.
“I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“But how do we know it is really you?”
One of the man’s companions says, “It’s her. I saw her perform in Paris before the war.” This man looks at Élodie. “Mozart’s Third Violin Concerto. You were wonderful.”
Élodie smiles. “Thank you. It’s one of my favorites.”
The first man says, “I am Auguste Pauly. Your admirer is Isaac Benjamin. He’s a doctor. And these are my men,” he says waving his arm. “We are Maquis d’Aquilac.”
“I know of you,” says Élodie. “One of your leaders is the pianist Aliénor Breasiac with whom I have performed chamber music.”
“Yes. But now tell me where you are headed.”
“South to join the Resistance around Toulouse.”
“What about the American?”
“Perhaps the doctor can examine his wound and predict when he’ll be recovered enough to travel on his own two feet
. And, when we can, we’ll take him through the Ariège and over the Pyrénées, and out of France, so he can get back to his American unit.”
“But first you will kill Boche?”
“First we will kill Boche.”
I stare at her. Had her voice faltered a little?
“In that case, we must find other clothes for you. Also, we must give you different weapons. After yesterday, it would go very badly for you if people thought you, yourself, were Boche.”
“What do you mean? What happened yesterday?”
“We’ll tell you, but first we will find clothes for you there,” says August Pauly nodding toward the house.
“Shouldn’t we ask the people who live there?” asks Élodie. “We can’t just walk in and take what we want.”
August frowns. “I’m afraid Monsieur and Madame Argoud and their two sons won’t be back.”
“Why won’t they be back?”
“Between them, there should be clothes that will fit all of you.”
“Why won’t they be back?”
August frowns, says nothing.
In an irked voice, Élodie says, “I ask you one more time, August: Why won’t they be back?”
August’s shoulders slump. He gestures for a young boy, who is standing with the others, to come to him. The boy walks shyly toward August and Élodie. “This is Gabriel Bazin,” says August. “He will tell you what happened yesterday in Oradour-sur-Glane, which is only a kilometer from here, then you will understand. Unfortunately, Gabriel does not speak English, so you must translate for your American friend.” He turns to the boy and says, “Dites-leur ce que tu a vu.”18
The boy begins in a small, shy voice to tell us what he had seen. He talks haltingly. Élodie interrupts a few times to ask questions. Finally, she turns to me. “He says the Germans came at two in the afternoon. The day was sunny, and he remembers hearing birds singing.” She turns back to the boy, asks another question. When the boy answers, she says to me, “It was the second SS Panzer Division. That’s the one they call ‘Das Reich.’ It’s an elite division of the Wehrmacht.”
The boy continues to talk, and Élodie translates. “They came into the town marching people from outlying farms before them.”
“Including Monsieur and Madame Argoud and their two sons,” says August.
The boy starts to tremble. “Le bruit de leurs bottes … Le bruit de leurs bottes ….” Tears slide down his cheeks.
Élodie puts a hand on his shoulder. Turning to me, she says, “The sound of their boots. He’s talking about the sound of their hobnailed boots. It must have been terrifying.” She takes young Gabriel into her arms and speaks soothingly to him, encouraging him to go on.
He continues in a quavering voice, and Élodie translates. “They forced everybody to stand in the fairground.”
Gabriel seems to be steeling himself to tell the story. He starts to speak rapidly and Élodie translates as quickly as he speaks.
“The men, including Gabriel’s father, were taken to the garages and barns and the women and children were marched into the church. His mother was among them. They took more children from the school, including his two older sisters—even children from the school for toddlers where Gabriel’s youngest sister was—and forced them into the church.”
“Ils ont crié, ‘Raus! Raus!’”
“They screamed in German, ‘Out! Out!’”
Gabriel speaks. Élodie translates. “That’s when Gabriel escaped. He slipped out the back door and hid behind some trees.”
“Puis j’ai entendu les coups de feu ….”
“Then he heard the gunshots …”
“Et je savais … je savais dans mon cœur que papa … était mort.”
“And he knew … Dear God! … He knew in his heart his father was dead.” Again, she takes the boy into her arms and holds him. His entire body trembles. Élodie’s shoulders shake.
Through sobs, Gabriel mumbles something.
In a trembling voice, Élodie says, “Then there was a great explosion. Much black smoke.”
“Ma mère … et mes sœurs ….”
“His mother and his sisters ….”
August rushes forward. “Stop! This is too painful for him. I will tell you the rest. I am an idiot for asking him to tell you about it!” He stares at Élodie and me. His nostrils flare. He draws in a sharp breath, and says, through clenched teeth, “The fuckers blew up the church with everybody inside! It was a mistake to ask the boy to tell you what happened. The poor boy has suffered enough.” He puts an arm around the boy’s shoulders and hugs him close.
He turns back to Élodie and me. His eyes glisten. “There was one survivor from the church. This is what she told me. As the children were marched to the church, there was a great clatter of the people’s sabots,19 and the German boots. The church was filled with mothers, many with babies in their arms, some with babies in prams. There were several hundred people in the church. Then came the explosion Gabriel mentioned. Thick, black smoke. Women and children screaming. One door gave way under the pressure of … les gens paniqués.” He looks to Élodie for help.
“Panicked people,” she says.
He nods. “Some people escaped the church only to be mowed down by machine guns. Women and their babies. And then the Boche threw straw, firewood, chairs, anything that would burn, on top of the bodies. Then they lit the whole place on fire. The fuckers!”
“Mon dieu!” Élodie murmurs.
“I arrived in Oradour the following day. That was yesterday. The stench of burnt flesh was unbelievable. Dogs roamed the place with tails between their legs and whining and yipping as they sniffed around looking for their owners. The fuckers returned yesterday morning and tried to cover up what they’d done, but it was impossible. They couldn’t bury the evidence, so they simply gave up. I saw a man who had been incompletely buried, his hand was sticking out of the ground like he was reaching for something. There were between six and seven hundred bodies! Six to seven hundred! How, by all that is holy, do you hide something like that?”
“Jesus Christ!” I mutter.
Élodie shakes her head and puts her arms around Gabriel. Tears fall freely from her eyes wetting the boy’s cheeks. She looks up at me, bitterness in her eyes. “Do you want to know what the word ‘oradour’ means?”
“What?” I ask.
“It comes from an Occitan word, oradores—a place of prayer.”
That is one image of Élodie I can coax from my memory with some precision: the way sunlight glistened in the tears under her eyes. The wet, sunlit trails of her tears on Gabriel’s cheek. The lines of her face twisted in grief and anger. It’s all burned into my memory.
My face must have been clouded with the same hatred and outrage. And I saw it in the faces of Jean-Baptiste. And Marcel. And Claude.
I once read, on the internet, how a new village had been built after the war, but only on a nearby site. The original site was established as a permanent memorial and museum on the orders of Charles de Gaulle. I promise myself I will visit the site when I go to France. I know in my heart it will hold a memory of Élodie. I believe there are only a few places in the world that could arouse living memories of her, and Oradour-sur-Glane is, sadly, one of them. The cave at Lascaux is another. The home of Pablo Casals in Prades in the Pyrénées-Orientales, where she was as happy as I had ever seen her—that is another. And, of course, there are the Pyrénées themselves where we risked our lives together. These are the places I will revisit when I return to France.
With the help of August Pauly, we exchange the ambulance and motorcycle for a less conspicuous Citroën confiscated from a farmer. It is fitted with a cylindrical wood gasifier that hangs over the rear bumper which will allow us to run the car without relying on hard-to-find gasoline.
“This will be safer than the truck and motorcycle,” August says. “The further south you go, the more likely you are to run into resistance fighters rather than Boche.”
“You also said s
omething about exchanging our weapons,” Élodie says.
“Yes. We’ll give you all Sten guns20 we’ve taken from dead comrades.”
“You’ve been an immense help, August,” says Élodie. “And we all thank you for the new clothes and weapons.”
August gives a sad smile. “Madame Argoud’s dress does not flatter you, but I suppose it will do.”
Isaac Benjamin steps forward. “I have examined the American’s wound. The shrapnel hit nothing vital. Only muscle. You have done a very good job. He should recover very quickly.”
“When will he be able to walk?”
“With a limp? Now. Freely? Quite soon. There’ll be some pain, but he should be able to manage,” says Benjamin. “And there is no need keep him wrapped in bandages.”
Élodie looks at me. “They are a disguise only.”
“He should wear regular clothes,” says Benjamin. “The open air will help the wound to heal.”
I could have kissed the man right then and there!
“Is it true you are heading for the Ariège?” Benjamin asks.
“Yes.”
“Then you will pass close by Aquilac. Perhaps you will deliver a message to my wife and daughter. Please say I am alive and well. Their names are Ruth and Elsie and they are in hiding there.”
“Hiding?”
“We are Jews.”
“Benjamin! Of course,” Élodie says. “I know many of the people in Aquilac. Who are they with?”
“Gaston and Odette Dupont.”
“I know them well. I’ll be pleased to deliver your message.”
After I change into ordinary clothes, we exchange a round of kisses, one on each cheek, and leave. We drive slowly through the drifting smoke coming from the direction of Oradour-sur-Glane, a thick smoke that slides shadows along the ground, hunches over boulders, stumbles into ruts, brushes the trunks of trees, marking them with the stench of something hideous smoldering around the next bend, or on the next stretch of road, or in the next few kilometers.21
The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon Page 6
