Children of the Stars

by Mario Escobar

  “I’m sorry, but it just isn’t possible. You’ll stay in the Maison des Roches. Soon my cousin Daniel will be one of the caretakers there. He’ll be helping us with our school L’École Nouvelle Cévenol. All the other houses are full. Last year, your brother would’ve been able to stay at the Maison d’enfance, but there’s no more room in the boardinghouses. Many people have come our way in recent weeks, fleeing the violence in Paris.”

  A young man in an even simpler suit appeared just then. Other than a prominent forelock, his hair was very short. He stood next to Trocmé and smiled at the boys.

  “Here we have Jacob and Moses Stein,” Trocmé said.

  “Hello, boys. A few days from now we’re having a soccer game. Do you like to play ball?”

  “Oh yes!” Moses answered.

  “Wonderful. You’ll make a lot of friends here and will learn so much,” the young man said.

  Trocmé gestured toward the man. “This is my friend and colleague, Edouard Theis.”

  “I’m so pleased to meet you,” Theis said, shaking hands with the boys. Then, turning to Trocmé, he said, “Could we speak for a moment?”

  The two men stepped aside and spoke in low voices.

  “Regarding Lamirand and Bach’s visit tomorrow, the town council has appointed Pastor Marcel Jeannet to speak. Nobody wants more problems.”

  “The politicians are the ones who always cause the problems. At least the marshal isn’t coming. But I think Lamirand is a hard nut to crack,” Trocmé answered.

  “Will the youth stay in line?”

  “Who can say? People are understandably upset about what’s been happening in Paris.”

  “This isn’t the time or place, André. Until now, the prefect has turned a blind eye, but we don’t know for how much longer.”

  “You know all the pressures we’ve been dealing with, but we must always speak the truth and demand justice. It’s what we teach the children, so we can’t stop them if they believe it’s necessary to do just that.”

  “May God save us all,” Theis said with a short intake of breath, followed by a smile.

  “No one is guaranteed a future. Every action has a consequence. But so does inaction.”

  The young man clamped a hand on Trocmé’s shoulder, gave a nod to the boys, and left the office as quietly as he had entered. Trocmé turned back to the children and smiled again.

  “My wife, Magda, has lunch waiting for us. I presume you are hungry? Let’s go to my house. Mr. Arnaud will be by in a bit to pick up Moses, and one of the caretakers will come by this afternoon for you, Jacob.”

  They walked through the chapel, which was wider than the boys had imagined. Imposingly tall Ionic columns atop wide pedestals supported a barrel vault. Dark wooden pews lined each side of the central aisle, which led up to a raised platform. The back wall was paneled in dark wood, and jutting out from it was the main pulpit, covered with a curious overhanging roof. The great stones lining the floor absorbed the sound of their footsteps as they walked down the center aisle toward the back door. A narrow walk connected the chapel with the parsonage.

  Magda was in the kitchen with an older woman. Several children were reading and playing in the living room, taking advantage of what light the cloudy day let through.

  “These are my children—Nelly, Jean-Pierre, Jacques, and Daniel,” the pastor explained. Except for the girl, all of them were younger than Moses.

  The children greeted them with an unenthusiastic “Hello.” They were used to the daily carousel of newcomers.

  Just then a thin, darker-complexioned woman with a long braid of hair came out of the kitchen. “Hello there, you must be Jacob and Moses, right?” she said.

  The boys were impressed that she knew their names. The woman looked tired. Dark circles made her otherwise large eyes look smaller than they really were.

  “I’ll be going now,” said the other woman.

  “Thank you so much for everything,” Magda said to her, smiling.

  The family sat down at the table and began eating in silence. After a while, and to Jacob’s great surprise, Moses timidly raised his hand.

  “Sir, there’s something I don’t understand,” Moses said.

  Trocmé smiled. “What’s that?”

  “Everyone calls you ‘Pasture.’ Do you raise cows or sheep?”

  The whole table erupted in giggles, especially the Trocmé children. Moses scrunched his eyes up and hung his head.

  “They call me ‘Pastor’ because I’m like a shepherd for people, and I lead them to safe pasture in God’s good earth. It’s a very good question, Moses.”

  Jean-Pierre looked at the new boy sitting beside him and showed him some marbles in his pocket. It did not go unnoticed by his mother.

  “What’s that? You know very well: No toys at the table!”

  “Mother, it’s just some marbles.”

  “But they’re filthy from having been on the floor, I daresay.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Then the child returned to his soup.

  Just as they finished eating, they heard a car drive up, and Trocmé got to his feet. They all gathered at the door of the house. A van even older and more beat-up than the one that had brought Jacob and Moses was idling right in front of the door. A dark-complexioned man with dark eyes and a wrinkled face greeted Trocmé.

  “This is Mr. Arnaud. Moses, we’ll see you on Saturday,” he said, trying to calm the boy. Moses had run to Jacob and was clinging to him in tears.

  Jacob wrestled to master himself and, hoping to soothe his brother, said, “It’s all right. You can go with him. You’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t leave me, please!” Moses begged.

  “I’m never going to leave you. Even if the world caves in all around us, I’m not leaving you, brother.” They hugged and kissed each other’s cheeks. It was the first time they had ever been truly separated in their lives. Jacob had existed before his brother was born but could remember nothing of import that did not involve Moses. All they had was each other. When the small figure of his brother drew away and entered the vehicle, Jacob felt a ripping sensation in his heart. He forced the tears back and waved goodbye. Moments later, the van was gone.

  Trocmé put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. Jacob allowed himself to be embraced, and all the pent-up tears came gushing forth.

  “You’ll see him in just a few days. He’ll be all right. You’ve been living in hell for several weeks, but you’re here now, and nothing bad will happen to you. I give you my word.”

  The sincerity of André Trocmé’s words calmed Jacob. There was something in the man’s eyes, a depth of goodness Jacob had never seen before. His soul was hovering just beyond the pupils.

  Jacob thought about Anna and what she had said. For her, Le Chambon-sur-Lignon was much more than an out-of-the-way French village. It was a secret mountain, the last place in Europe where people could carry on as people—the last place human beings could live together in harmony.

  Chapter 21

  Le Chambon-sur-Lignon

  August 10, 1942

  The sun was out in full force to greet the prefect, Robert Bach, and the minister of youth, Georges Lamirand. Yet the sun was the only thing to receive with open arms the two men and their entourage of officials and collaborators.

  Villagers did not turn out in droves in anticipation of the visit. The Vichy regime had enjoyed early success among many conservative peasants who were not aligned with the excesses of the Republic, but it had not taken Pétain’s supporters long to realize that the old marshal was nothing but a puppet in Nazi hands. André Trocmé, Edouard Theis, Charles Guillon, Louis Comte, and most of the region’s leaders had systematically opposed the measures imposed from Vichy. Prefect Bach had warned them several times, but neither civil nor religious leaders were willing to submit to Nazi authority, nor that of their French collaborators.

  Some of the schools and children’s homes had come out to attend the celebration so as not to cause offense to the authori
ties. Jacob was in the first row next to Edouard, who rested his right hand on the boy’s shoulder. Jacob was nervous. It was his first time to attend a public event since fleeing Paris. The number of people made him feel jittery. Being surrounded by even a moderate crowd recalled the multitudes crammed into the velodrome a few weeks prior.

  Lamirand showed up in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon wearing his blue uniform and black leather boots, and beside him the prefect Robert Bach wore a stern frown and crossed his arms. Before lunch at the YMCA’s Camp Joubert, the Vichy’s minister of youth stood before the few residents gathered to receive him. He began to speak:

  “Dear citizens and residents of the commune of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, it is my great pleasure to greet you on behalf of our president, his excellency Philippe Pétain, marshal of France and hero of the Great War. Our illustrious leader saved us from the disasters of the First World War through his military acumen, and now he has saved the nation from all those who treacherously ensnared her in war against Germany. The values of the Republic had been undermined. The immoral government run by Masons, Jews, and communists had driven our motto of liberty, equality, and fraternity into the ground. Thus, our esteemed leader has forged more solid principles based on deeper values, values that arise from our Christian beliefs and our tradition of freedom. Work, family, and homeland are now the backbone of our nation. Those who do not love France, who are not keeping anxious watch for her impending renewal, have no place in this new country.”

  There was a long silence, then Lamirand raised his right hand and saluted those gathered before him.

  “Youth are the future of France. Le Chambon-sur-Lignon is doing admirable work with her youth. For years they have been taught Christian values, the love of nature, and the greatness of our beautiful nation. Today I want to recognize your efforts and encourage all organizations and associations to join with the government in a united effort to fight for a new France: all united through the youth work camps of France, Les Chantiers de la Jeunesse, for the good of our nation and the glory of the marshal.”

  Half-hearted, obligatory applause could be heard from one or two spots in the paltry gathering. The minister pursed his lips, and the prefect took the floor to quickly pass over the awkwardness.

  “Beloved citizens of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon: the long tradition of aid, protection, and refuge of your beautiful lands brings honor to France. The love of your leaders for peace and nonviolence is an example for the entire country. Yet we are at a crossroads in history. Each and every one of us must decide which side we are on. We cannot remain neutral or be silent before those who seek the complete destruction of France or those who, from outside our country, strut alongside our enemies. Friends and citizens, the marshal is the only cure for the moral disease of our beloved land. I beg you, as Christians and Frenchmen, to join the great work to rebuild our dear country.”

  “La Marseillaise” started playing, but the swell of voices joined in unison could not quiet the awkwardness of the village’s palpable rejection of the Vichy invitation.

  “Now let’s eat!” cried one of the women who had been tasked with preparing the food.

  The authorities were led to the main table. Pastor Trocmé was seated next to the prefect, with Edouard Theis at his side. As a matter of protocol, Theis’s wife, an American, was seated as far from the officials as possible. Lamirand was on the other side of Bach, and beside him was the Swiss pastor Marcel Jeannet, who would preach at the religious service following the meal.

  Jacob took several plates and headed to the lead table. His legs shook as he approached the minister, who was dressed in a fascist uniform.

  “Thank you for the food, lad,” Lamirand said. He then turned to shout at both sides of the table: “Here are French youth at their finest, the purity of our race and the strength of our Christian beliefs.”

  Jacob’s face burned red like a tomato. He withdrew, even more nervous than before, and tried to make himself scarce.

  “Pastor Trocmé, what I said moments ago was in earnest,” Bach said quietly to Trocmé. “The Germans are pressuring us. We can no longer look the other way. You must give me a list with all the foreign refugees of Jewish descent.”

  Trocmé opted for the path of evasion. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Oh, I think you do. You’ve been sheltering hundreds of foreign Jews for a couple of years now. We’ve received several anonymous reports of how you and the other pastors are inciting the population to civil disobedience. This is unacceptable. If you supply us the list of foreign Jews, you can continue serving the others without further interference.” The prefect’s threatening tone had the effect of transforming Trocmé’s peaceful semblance into one of indignant anger. The pastor took a deep breath and allowed Bach to continue.

  “You have forty-eight hours to give me that list. These people aren’t your church members; they aren’t even Christians. I can appreciate your zeal, but to save a few, you’re putting all at risk.”

  “I don’t differentiate between foreigners and French nationals, nor do I concern myself with their beliefs. To me, they are refugees, people fleeing from war and death. My parish is the world, and each person is my neighbor. I am sorry, but I will not be giving you any list,” Trocmé said, mastering his tone.

  “Very well. You’ll be hearing from us soon. We will alert your superiors of your position, which compromises the safety of all French Protestants. Do not forget that your first duty is to protect your own. They have suffered enough throughout history.”

  Lamirand turned toward Trocmé and Bach. He had overheard part of the exchange and was preparing his remarks when Magda, carrying a pot of soup, accidently sloshed some onto the minister’s back. The broth burned the man and stained his recently pressed uniform jacket. Furious, he turned a raging look on Magda but checked the ire and forced a smile. It was nothing, not to worry.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, do forgive me,” she apologized profusely.

  The meal drew to a close, and Trocmé was first to get up from the table. He could not abide another second at the prefect’s side. He ran into one of the teachers from the school, who grabbed his arm. “The students are going to do it,” the teacher said in a low voice.

  “May it be as God desires. We cannot deny our consciences,” Trocmé answered, searching for Magda.

  The group of officials stood up from the table and started making their way toward the church, but they had hardly taken ten steps when a group of students placed themselves before the minister and the prefect.

  “Mr. Minister of Youth, we would like to give you this letter of protest.”

  The bodyguards stepped in the way, but Lamirand waved them aside.

  “A letter of protest?” he asked.

  “Yes. In light of recent events in Paris and in other cities of our great country, regarding the illegal detention of people due to their religion. Our laws and tradition prohibit persecuting people for their beliefs,” the youth said. His voice grew in confidence as he spoke, losing its initial tremble.

  Other young people dressed in blue shirts began to boo the group of students. Lamirand cut in. “Policy toward the Jews is not my area. I’m the minister of youth.”

  “Sir, you are a member of the government and, as such, are responsible for the government’s decisions,” the student answered.

  “That was in the occupied zone,” Bach cut in, attempting to end the conversation.

  “But there are raids in the unoccupied zone as well. Plus, your government should have protested the inhuman treatment inflicted on hundreds of children that share our nationality. Not to speak of human rights.”

  Lamirand stretched out his gloved hand and snatched the letter. He gave a perfunctory smile and kept walking. The event had become such a public disaster that Bach was tempted to call off the final ceremony of the day, but he thought a bit of calm would perhaps improve the bitter taste sure to be left in the minister’s mouth.

  They traversed the tree-lined av
enue and went straight for the church, passing the crowded aisles toward the platform at the front. The Swiss pastor, Marcel Jeannet, waited impatiently in the pulpit.

  Jacob sat in the second row with the other students, directly behind the government officials. Despite the crowd, a deathly silence reigned. Then Jeannet invited the congregation to stand. They said a brief prayer and then sang a hymn.

  “Please take your seats,” Jeannet said. The young Swiss pastor looked around at all those gathered. It seems no one wants to miss this sermon, he thought, nervously arranging his notes.

  “Dear brothers, sisters, and friends, what gathers us here today is much more than our ideologies, beliefs, or opinions. We are in the house of God with one purpose: for his truth to inspire us, as it has done up until now, in the task of serving the youth of France. We are pleased to hear of the government’s interest in the youth. Each generation of young people fashions its own destiny, and this new generation has suffered the sting of war and violence.

  “Therefore, I would like to congratulate the teachers, educators, and pedagogues who day in, day out seek to shape the youth that have joined us this afternoon.”

  The church remained quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Latecomers stood at the back of the chapel and spilled into the side aisles, standing.

  “Christians and all men of goodwill always find themselves facing the same predicament: Should we obey men rather than God? The Bible certainly exhorts us to respect those in authority, because they have been established by God. Yet when the state passes laws that go against the laws of God and human rights, our duty is to say, ‘No.’”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. The prefect buried his head in his hands. The final ceremony had turned out far worse than he had imagined.

  “The state is not nor can it be above the laws of God, nor above human rights. The state’s duty is to protect its citizens, regardless of their faith, ideology, or origins. Here today, we are all French; we are all free; we are all brothers. Perhaps outside this valley, on the other side of these forests, men kill each other over these matters. But not in our towns. We Protestants were persecuted and nearly wiped out by the enemies of our faith. We fought against them, but today we know that our weapons are of the Spirit. Peace, harmony, and coexisting in community will always be the identifying marks of this valley. As long as we have life and breath, we will love our neighbors as ourselves. In this house, there are no Jews or Gentiles, no slaves or freemen. There are only children of God.”