“Yes. But taking the children will only delay it.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do understand. What you don’t understand is I’m not in as much of a hurry as I was before.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Oradour. These children who have no one else to take them. You. Especially you….”
Élodie shakes her head, brushes a lock of hair from her forehead. I see her hand is trembling. “What if after these eleven, there are another eleven? And then after them, yet another eleven?”
“What about it?” I say, taking hold of her hand. “If you need the help, I’ll be there for you.”
“No, you still don’t understand. A few weeks for the first group. A few more weeks after that for the next group. A few more weeks after that. At what point do you turn from being missing-in-action, to becoming a deserter?”
“A deserter?” A squirrel scampers across our path and into the underbrush.
“It could be said you are fighting with a foreign force. The Resistance is not considered regular French Army. We may be allies, but you will still be fighting for a foreign force without permission from your superiors. If the American army is like most armies, that will count as desertion, and we both know what the penalty for that is in a time of war. A firing squad! You must give this serious thought. They will shoot you!”
I smile and shrug. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“I hate you! How can you be so—I don’t even know what the fucking, goddamned English word is—blasé?”
“I think it’s ‘blasé’.”
“It’s the same word?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I say. “I think we borrowed it from you French.”
“Seriously, Henry. They could execute you.”
“Of course, they could.”
“And that doesn’t worry you?”
“Sure, it does. But there’s nothing I can do about it now. We can’t leave the children to the Nazis. That’s simply out of the question. I’d have to turn in my membership card to the human race. So, I’ll just have to deal with it when the time comes. I’ll make up some story. Hell, it’s only a problem if I survive, anyway!”
Élodie stares at me but says nothing, and then we continue up the hill without a word. When we catch up to Odette, who has paused to recover her breath, I look behind me. In the distance, I see Saint-Barthélemy, and, beyond, the snow-draped Pyrénées. “Do the mountains ever lose their snow?” I ask.
“Not usually above three thousand meters,” says Élodie. “Even in July there’s snow.”
“And we’ll be crossing them?”
“Yes. But the passes should be clear unless there was more snow than usual.”
“How far are they from here?”
“To the other side? Spain? About a hundred kilometers.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes,” Élodie says with a grim sigh. “It’s a dreadful undertaking. Especially with your leg.”
“As the lady said, that can’t be helped.”
“Then you will do it?” Odette asks, looking back and forth at the two of us. “You have made your decision?”
“We have made our decision,” I say. “We’ll take the children.”
Élodie narrows her eyes at me, and I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze.
Odette nods, turns, and heads into the cave as she calls out. “It’s all right. You can all come and meet some very nice people.”
In small groups of two or three—and singly—eleven children move toward the mouth of the cave, squinting and shading their eyes from the harsh sunlight. They stare silently, suspiciously, at Élodie and me.
Odette says, “We have several nationalities here. Most of them speak no French and, of course, no English, except for Max Jäger, here, and another boy I’ll introduce you to.” She places a hand on the shoulder of a thin, blond boy. “He’s the oldest, at twelve. He’s German.”
Max looks at me and asks, “Are you taking us away?”
I nod. “Yes. Out of France. To safety.”
“Well, I shall help you with the other children and I shan’t permit myself to cry because my mum told me to be strong.”
“Your mum?” I ask.
Max squares his shoulders. “My mum was British. But she was put on the train to Drancy all the same.” His voice quavers but he does not cry.
I turn to Élodie. “The internment camp near Paris?”
“Yes. Really, a transit camp where they stay whilst waiting for a train to take them east to the other … camps.”
Odette steps forward. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the children. “This is Jerzy Godowsky and his sisters Elżbietá and Klará. He’s ten and they are eight and seven. They fled Poland after their parents were arrested. They have no idea what happened to them after that. They speak only Polish.” The three children stand close together. The boy, in the middle, has his arms around his sisters. All three children have blond hair.
Odette stands behind two smaller children, a hand gently on each head. “This is Kamilá Brodny and her brother Józef. They, also, are Polish. She’s seven and he’s six. They, too, speak only Polish.”
The boy, Józef, approaches and wraps his arms around my right leg and says, “Tata?”
His sister reaches for her brother and pulls him back, shakes her head, and says, “Nie!”
Odette says to me, “He wanted to call you Papa, or Daddy. His sister said, ‘No.’”
I tousle the boy’s hair and let my hand rest on his head.
Odette places her hands on the shoulders of a boy and girl who are standing together. “This is Rebekka and Stephan Weiß. She is eight and he’s seven. They come from Vienna and have been on the run since their parents were arrested shortly after the Anschluss.46 Apparently, no one knows what happened to their parents.”
Élodie smiles, says, “Grüß Gött.”47
Apparently surprised she greeted them in their southern German dialect, they reply, “Grüß Gött.”
In a low voice, Odette says, “Rebekka went to a local, private school in Vienna where the headmaster arranged for a bonfire into which he threw all texts written by Jews. The man then tied Rebekka to a tree and ordered the other girls in the class to file past her and spit in her face. She won’t talk about it. Stephan told me.”
Élodie frowns, and I can see the muscles working in her cheeks as she tries not to cry—or scream.
“Son of a bitch!” I say under my breath.
Odette next introduces us to two sisters, Leni and Renata Gottfried from Dusseldorf who are five and six years old. She eases forward an older boy, Aron Klotz from Zitau in Saxony, who is ten. “Zitau is on the border with Poland, so Aron speaks Polish and English as well as his native German. That will help with the five Polish children.”
Suddenly, there comes a loud, metallic crash. Leni and Renata Gottfried, backing away from Élodie and me, have knocked two milk cans from a shelf. As the cans roll across the floor with repeated clangs, the smallest child runs away from them in circles, flailing her arms, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes wide with fear. Odette reaches down and takes the little girl’s hand. “No, no. It’s all right, Mitzi. Don’t be afraid,” she says soothingly. “Do not be afraid. N’ais pas peur.” She looks up at Élodie and me, and says, “Of course, she probably does not understand English, or French. We think she’s German.”
Élodie crouches before the girl and says, “Fürchte dich nicht.”48
The girl brings a finger to her mouth and stares at Élodie.
“Her name is Mitzi,” Odette says. “That’s why we think she is German, but that’s only a guess. We know nothing of her parents or where she comes from. She appears to have been adopted by other children as they traveled. It was Aron and Max who brought her to us. We are guessing she is about three. As you can see, she is afraid of loud sounds. I think she must have witnessed bombing. And she doesn’t talk, poor girl.”
Élodie bends down and
lifts the girl in her arms, but the girl struggles and reaches out to me. Élodie smiles and passes the child to me. “I guess she wants a man. She must have loved her papa.”
Odette points to a small pile of backpacks and canteens. “You’ll need these. There are just enough for you two, and the older children. They would be too heavy for the younger children in any case.”
“How did you collect all this?” Élodie asks.
“From dead maquisards. If they can no longer fight, their kit will. But for the littlest one, we must improvise.”
“Yes,” Élodie says. “It’s unimaginable she could walk all that way.”
“That will be no problem,” I say. “We’ll just take the largest rucksack and cut holes in the bottom for Mitzi’s legs.”
An hour later, we are gathered with the children in the Dupont’s roomy kitchen. Gaston has spread a large map out on the table and he, Élodie, and I study it while Odette cuts leg holes in one of the rucksacks and sews extra layers of cotton to the edges of the holes to guard against chaffing.
“Now for their protection against the weather,” says Odette. She shows us a scrap of material and says, “Pascal Bibaud, a house painter who lives in the next village, gave me des bâches. I don’t know what it is in English.”
“I think ‘tarpaulin’?” Élodie says, looking at me for confirmation.
I feel the material between thumb and forefinger and nod. “Tarpaulins, or painter’s drop cloths.”
“They will protect the children from the rain,” Odette says. “Ruth and Elsie Benjamin helped me make ponchos with … des capuches?”
“Rain hoods,” says Élodie. “Brilliant. Well done, you!”
“Pascal said nobody can afford to paint these days anyway,” Odette says. “It’s best the children stay warm and dry. But what about you two?”
“We have American army-issue ponchos,” Élodie replies. “Henry has his own and I have one I took from a dead paratrooper.”
“Good,” Odette says with a business-like nod. “You’ll probably need them because the escape route was designed mainly for British and American airmen. With the children, you won’t be able to move nearly as quickly. It’s likely the distance between the safe houses Gaston will be telling you about will be too great some of the time. You’ll be forced to make les bivouacs. Do you understand my meaning?”
“It’s the same word in English.” Élodie says.
“Good.” Odette hands me a dozen lengths of chord. “Gaston tells me soldiers can make small tents using this chord, the ponchos, and sticks planted in the ground.”
“Yes, we’ve all done it.”
“Bon!” Odette reaches on top of a cupboard and produces a large square of cotton. “For you, Monsieur Henry, since you will be carrying little Mitzi.”
“What is it?” I ask, bemused.
Odette smiles. “Une couche de bébé.”
I shrug, look at Élodie who has a broad grin on her face. “What’s goin’ on?” I ask. “You look like Odette’s put a bee in your bonnet.”
Still smiling, Élodie says, “That’s American slang. I don’t know what it means, but I can tell you that Une couche de bébé is a nappy.”
I shake my head. I’m still confused. Élodie continues. “In America, you call it a diaper. Since you will be carrying Mitzi, her needs become your responsibility.”
My eyes widen. “Well, that’s a lame-brained idea! What do I know about those things?”
Élodie laughs. “It will be alright. I’ll help.”
“You’re serious!”
“Of course.”
“Well doesn’t that beat all?” I shake my head, amazed at the idea of me changing diapers along an escape route across the Pyrénées.
Odette, who looks like she’s trying to suppress a fit of giggles, says, “Now you have all you need, Gaston will go over the route with you.”
We sit at the table and Gaston begins tracing a path with a pencil as Élodie translates for me. “He says if we follow this route, it will give us the best chance of getting past the Germans. It offers at least three caves where we could possibly hide overnight plus find protection from the weather. They are la Grotte du Mas d’Azil and maybe La Grotte de la Vache or La Grotte de Niaux. ‘Grotte’ is ‘cave’ in English.”
Gaston explains something to Élodie at length, after which she turns to me. “The first safe house is in a small commune called Lagrâce-Dieu, or Grace-of-God. It is the third house after the church, and a woman named Lombarda will be expecting us.” She places a finger on the map. “Gaston says it’s important to stay west of Foix, here, because he thinks there are German units stationed there. And, also, west of Ax-les-Thermes where he knows, for certain, German officers go to use the baths. But that should be no problem. Our route is never closer than thirty kilometers to those places.”
“And they are the only places he knows for certain where there are Germans?” I ask.
“As far as he knows. But he can’t be sure.”
“He doesn’t sound all that confident.”
“He’s just being realistic. In case you haven’t already realized it, this is a very dangerous proposition.”
“So, after this Grace of God, what is the rest of the route?”
“We’ll only know it a stage at a time. Lombarda, which by the way is a code name, will tell us about the next safe house when we see her. That way, if anyone is caught by the Nazis, they could only expose one link in the chain.
We decide to wait until evening before slipping out of Aquilac under cover of darkness. Our plan is to spend the first night in an abandoned barn two kilometers west of Aquilac from where we will start our journey early the following morning on paths well out of sight of the main roads. While we wait, Odette, defying all prohibitions and food rations, prepares a large pot of the cassoulet for which she and the area are, I’m told, famous. Normally it will contain white beans, duck confit, garlic, onions, carrots, ham hocks, white wine, and pork sausages, but she adds more duck and leaves out the ham hocks and pork sausages. When Gaston complains, she says, “Mais, les enfants sont juifs!”
I look to Élodie when everyone laughs. She says, “Gaston complained because she left out the ham and pork and she reminded him that the children are all Jewish.”
Finally, when everybody is fed, and daylight is seeping from the sky, we prepare to leave for the abandoned barn. Odette lifts Mitzi and places the toddler on my back with her legs through the holes of the rucksack. Mitzi wraps her arms around my neck and puts her cheek against mine. I reach back and pat her on the head. After a few rounds of cheek kisses, Élodie and I slip out of the house, edge round to the back, and set out along an ancient, barely perceptible track toward the abandoned barn. We are surrounded by the younger children, some of whom want their hands held, while Max, Jerzy and Aron—the ten- and twelve-year-olds—lead the way.
Though the sun has disappeared, it has left footprints in the sky, splotches of pink-rimmed clouds, and, in the distance, sunlight still sits on the snowfields of the Pyrénées. Once we arrive at the barn, we find the excitement has left many of the children sleepless and cranky, and it is several hours before Élodie and I can sleep. Also, the presence of several bats keeps everyone on edge. But finally, everyone is asleep. And Élodie and I soon follow.
After a fitful night, we rise long before light, step outside and study the night sky. To the west, Jupiter and Mars are low on the horizon. The “W” of Cassiopeia is in the north, and in the northeast the arms of the Northern Cross hover over us.
Élodie folds her arms across her chest, shivering, and I put my arms around her and pull her close. “I’ve been watching Mars the last few nights,” I say. “I think it’s in retrograde.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It seems to be closer to Cassiopeia than it was. Like it’s moved eastward.”
“Perhaps,” she says. “All I know is it’s a good thing there’s moonlight. We can be on the trail south before dawn, a
nd well out of sight of the roads.”
I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll wake the children.”
In the first, fragile moments of morning, with moonlight still pawing the ground and before the day has gathered strength, we begin our journey southward toward the Pyrénées.
New York City sits beneath a bright and sunny afternoon when the doorman at the Waldorf-Astoria waves down a taxi for me. “Brooklyn Cruise Terminal,” I tell the driver. The people at Cunard suggested I arrive at the terminal by two in the afternoon for the five o’clock sailing. A half hour later we pull up to the cruise terminal. I pay the driver, step from the cab, look up at the bow of Queen Mary 2 towering above me, and smile. It takes me over an hour to go through the check-in process. Finally, I cross the gangplank, find my cabin, and unpack. I sit for a while in a lounge chair on the balcony of my cabin to catch my breath. It’s been a little more strenuous than I’d anticipated.
There is an emergency drill at 4 o’clock during which I find my way to my assigned muster station. But after that, I am free to stroll the observation deck and watch the departure.
A deep-throated rumble from the ship’s horn—a characteristic bass A as if tuning an orchestra of giants—signals our departure. With the band playing, Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade,” we pass the Statue of Liberty, and soon travel under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and into the open Atlantic. My back aches and my legs are beyond tired, but I don’t want to miss the departure.
At last, an hour later, in the Todd English restaurant, aft on Deck 7, I settle into a comfortable chair. I choose the “Crispy Duck with a ginger sesame glaze served over root vegetables & sweet and sour cabbage” plus a half bottle of Beaujolais—far better than the hospital food that was part of my life the last several weeks. The duck makes me think of Odette Dupont and her cassoulet. Perhaps that’s why I ordered it. No doubt she and Gaston are long dead. They had to be at least twenty years older than I. So many of the people I knew then are dead, I’m sure. I wonder about the children and I draw a sharp breath when I realize the youngest among them, Mitzi, would now be about 75. I shiver at the thought.
The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon Page 17
