Chapter 28
Montpellier
August 11, 1943
They ate before leaving the outskirts of Montpellier. Besides some cheeses and a bit of fruit, Vipond had brought them one piece of chocolate cake each. Moses savored it to the last bite, then picked the crumbs off his shirt and the back seat and ate them all.
“We should keep going. I don’t want to get to Carcassonne too late,” the old man said.
Jacob considered staying up front but finally opted to stretch out in the back seat and try to sleep more, leaving the passenger seat to Moses.
Moses spent most of the ride studying the car’s gearshift and other features, touching everything and imitating Vipond’s driving. Vipond glanced at him frequently in amusement. He had always marveled at the power of a child’s imagination.
“Are you driving your own car, Moses?” he asked.
“Oh yes, I love driving.”
The old man smiled, then studied the surrounding country again. It had been years since he had ventured out of Valence and had hardly even left his apartment building in recent years. He had forgotten that he loved nature, the interminable forests, the beautiful prairies. He was anxious to see the Pyrenees again. He remembered how beautiful they were. He thought about his trip to Cuba and wondered how Buenos Aires would compare. He chuckled to think that here he was, as old as could be, making the longest trip of his life. Yet the even longer journey was yet to begin.
Vipond’s thoughts wandered back to his childhood, when he was a boy like Moses. He had been so afraid of hell, a childish notion he had since disabused himself of. He had not been overly concerned about his soul in recent years, nor about the fact that his body was old and sick. He had simply been carried along by the impetuous rush of life. One day followed the next, without giving the impression of leading anywhere in particular. He still had that impression, which worried him a bit. How was it possible that, being as close as he was to death, he gave it such little thought? Since childhood, Vipond had intuited that at a certain age people stop asking hard questions—not because they are no longer interested in the answers but rather because they are afraid of them.
“What’re you thinking about?” Moses asked.
Vipond was not sure how to answer. “I don’t think you’d be able to understand if I explained it. You’re still in the world of fantasy. You make reality fit with what you want to see . . .”
“Do adults not do that?” Moses said. At first Vipond chuckled at the boy’s innocence, but then he thought, perhaps, that is exactly what adults did. They lived in their imaginary worlds, worried about the problems that were never going to materialize, wishing for things they were unwilling to fight for, and ignoring the eternal question of the real meaning of life.
“Maybe we do,” the old man finally mused. “I’d just never thought of it like that.”
“You know what? Sometimes I imagine what South America and Buenos Aires are like,” Moses said, suddenly serious.
“And what are they like in your imagination?” Vipond asked, expecting a fantastical description.
“I imagine everything is new, which is why they call it the New World. The streets are clean and straight, the buildings look all shiny and pretty on the outside, like parts of Paris. The people are rich. The country’s so young the rich people won’t have had time to rob all the poor people. I heard that over there nobody asks you where you’re from because everybody’s from somewhere far away. The days will be really long, and I don’t think it’s as cold as here. And, best of all, my mother and father are there.” Moses finished his pronouncement with great satisfaction.
“Well, I think you’ve painted a pretty picture,” Vipond answered. He did not know much about Argentina either, other than the fact that it had been a Spanish colony, that the English had wanted it, and that it had vast tracts of virgin land.
“I think they speak Spanish, but in a different way than in Spain. They’re all really pale and they don’t hate Jews.”
Moses’s last prediction took Vipond by surprise. “And why do you say that?”
“The French hate Jews, like the Germans and Swiss, but the Argentines don’t. They let us come live with them,” was his naïve conclusion.
They were so wrapped up in the conversation that they did not notice a checkpoint of the paramilitary French militia, the Milice Français, some two hundred yards ahead.
One of the militiamen raised his hand for the vehicle to stop. For a brief moment, Vipond was tempted to speed up and run the fascists over, but he braked. They had nothing to fear; all their papers were in order.
“Documents for yourself and the children, please, sir,” the militiaman barked. He wore blue pants, a brown shirt, and a blue beret. His fellow militiamen kept their machine guns trained on the vehicle’s occupants.
Vipond reached for the identification papers and removed their three passports from the glove compartment, then handed them over.
Jacob woke and sat up in the back seat. Moses looked nervous, but he did not speak. He kept his eyes on the men’s guns.
“Where are you headed?” the militiaman asked.
“To Carcassonne,” Vipond said, volunteering no more information than what was required.
“For what purpose?”
Vipond ran his hand across his bald head, noting the sweat. It was very hot. It was late afternoon already, and the farther south they got, the hotter it became.
“I’m taking the children to see some family, then I’m heading back to Valence,” he said.
“Why have you come this way? These roads are dangerous, overrun by partisans.”
Vipond was tempted to say he was happy to hear that and hoped that very soon all the collaborationists would pay for their crimes, but he simply looked at the militiaman with the tired eyes of an old man who has seen too much. The militiaman frowned, opened the passports, and studied the faces of the three passengers. Then he walked to the makeshift guardhouse fashioned from decaying wood, said something to a superior, and returned with the passports.
“Your papers are in order, but these boys are the children of Spaniards.”
“Yes,” Vipond answered, puzzled. That was the identity he and Perrot had chosen in order to cross the border more easily.
“All Spaniards must be registered at the Gurs camp. You’ll have to come with me,” the militiaman said, handing the passports back.
“I think there’s been a mistake. The boys are French. Their parents have been in France for over twenty years. They aren’t Republican immigrants,” Vipond said.
“We’ll need to confirm that with the records. If it’s true, you can continue on your journey.”
Vipond’s mind raced. He had to react, had to do something. He looked around wildly and noticed no cars or motorcycles in sight. Could the militia possibly be there with no means of transportation?
Without thinking more, he pressed the accelerator and the old motor roared to life. He swerved around the large drums blocking the way and drove straight toward one of the militiamen, who dove into the neighboring field.
“Get down!” Vipond barked, and he himself ducked, keeping his eyes just level with the steering wheel.
They heard rounds of machine-gun fire, and Vipond swerved violently to protect the tires. Then he sped up and tried to clear his head. Traveling to Carcassonne was now out of the question, as he had given that information to the militiaman. Plus, German military force would be waiting there. The militiamen would send a description of the car and its passengers. They had to switch routes, go by some other road. It would not be very hard to find two boys and an old man in an old Renault. But could he drive without stopping to the border before their description reached it? He had no choice but to try.
The shots followed them until they rounded the first curve. Vipond drove as fast as he could along the back roads while Moses wept in the front seat. Jacob eventually reached and pulled him into the back and climbed clumsily into the front.
> “What are we going to do?” His voice shook.
“Head straight for the border,” Vipond said, his eyes glued to the road.
“But how far is that?”
Vipond tried to calculate the distance in his head. Unsure of a definite route, he did not know exactly how many miles it would be.
“I think it’s around two hundred miles. There’s a pass at Molló. If they don’t have a telephone, our description won’t have reached them,” Vipond said. He was shaken by the turn of events.
“Can the car make it that far? It’s a long way,” Jacob said.
The old man thought it over and finally nodded. His legs and back ached, but he could rest once they got to Spain.
For hours the old Renault raced along the winding roads of southern France, as Vipond eschewed towns and main roads. He and Perrot had foreseen the need to travel without stopping even at gas stations and had filled the trunk with extra cans of gasoline. It was almost night by the time they approached the Pyrenees. They would not reach the border during daylight. His body felt weaker as the time dragged on. His left leg was cramped and sore. He touched it and felt wetness. One of the bullets had found him, draining him of strength and blood. Cold sweat prickled at his spine, and he could barely resist the urge to close his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Jacob asked. In the dying light, Jacob could see beads of sweat running down their chauffeur’s face.
“Yes, don’t worry. We’ll be at the border before long.”
“Will they let us through at night?”
“I suppose. I’ve never driven a car across a border,” Vipond mused.
Moses was asleep again. He had exhausted himself crying after the fright at the checkpoint and had fallen into a fitful rest.
Jacob’s eyes went back and forth between Vipond and the road. Jacob held his breath every time it seemed they would veer off the narrow streets, but Vipond always straightened at the last moment.
“The papers are in the glove compartment,” Vipond began. “The suitcases are in the back. The boat passage is in my wallet. You’d better get the tickets out.”
Jacob reached his hand into the inside pocket of Vipond’s jacket and gingerly pulled out the tickets.
Vipond grimaced in pain but remained calm and resolute, as if seeing the end of a long journey.
“Why are you telling me all this? You’re coming with us. You’re going to South America. My parents will be so happy to see you.” The quivering words rushed out of Jacob.
The old man turned his head slightly and touched his hand to Jacob’s hair. “You’re a good boy, Jacob. Don’t ever change. Sometimes this world can turn us into something we shouldn’t be. Take care of your brother and your parents.”
They could not see more than a few yards in front of the car. Vipond thought of how he would not, after all, see the Pyrenees again. He thought of all the things he had left undone and how many places he would never get to see. He regretted his many years of apathy, closed up in his Valence boardinghouse, licking the wounds of old age. He told himself he really should have lived more, and he understood clearly that the only true reason to go out into the world was to love. His heart, withered by bitterness and selfishness, had undermined his ability to give of himself to others. Jana and Eleazar had managed to penetrate his apathy. Now, their children had provided him a grand adventure, and he was profoundly grateful. True love welled up in his heart for the two boys. He would live on somehow in their memory. The boys had to get out of there and start all over with their parents.
Vipond started crying when the dim Renault lights showed a sign indicating five miles to the border. He had to hold on. Just a little longer now and they would make it.
“I won’t be crossing the border,” he told Jacob at last.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t make it far. You’d have to take care of me, and you’d miss the boat. The police would question you about my wound. I’m going to leave you at the border.”
Jacob was speechless. He squeezed Vipond’s arm, soaked in sweat, then studied his pale, sick, fragile face as best he could in the dark.
“I thank heaven I had the chance to know you two. You’ve made me remember the sweet taste of happiness, and I’m satisfied. Now you mean more to me than my own life. This old bag of bones doesn’t have any more fight in it. Maybe we’ll see each other in eternity.”
The car swerved dangerously. Vipond lost consciousness momentarily but awoke with a jerk. Jacob grabbed and steadied the wheel to keep them from plummeting over the edge of the cliffs.
Then they saw the border checkpoint. Vipond rolled the car off the road and hid it as best he could among some trees, about three hundred yards from the guardhouse.
“We can’t leave you like this,” Jacob said.
Vipond turned on the car’s interior light and looked at Moses’s sleeping body. Then he turned his tear-filled eyes to Jacob.
“It’s been a true pleasure to know you. Don’t ever grow up. And if you do, don’t ever forget the boy you were. Kiss your mother for me and give your father a big hug.”
“We won’t leave you.”
Vipond put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. He was so pale the light bounced off his face. Moses sat up suddenly, confused about where they were and what was happening. Vipond smiled at him, then closed his eyes. He was so tired. Whatever strength remained was quickly vanishing. He thought about saying something else, but it was too hard. He leaned back and let himself go.
“What’s happening?” Moses asked.
Jacob wiped the tears from his face and said in a dry voice, “Mr. Vipond is just really tired. He’s going to stay here and rest for a bit.”
Jacob got out of the car and took their suitcases, passports, letter of safe conduct and authorization for travel, and the money. Then he turned off the car lights and the motor.
“Come on, Moses.”
The boys walked slowly toward the guard station, Jacob carrying their suitcases. A half-asleep gendarme sat in the guardhouse, and he jumped when he saw the boys. This particular border point got little traffic, and there were no Germans there at night. Most fugitives avoided the roads in their attempts to cross over, and the Nazis concentrated their efforts on the surrounding countryside. If the Spanish caught the fugitives who managed to slip through and they did not have their papers in order, they would be shipped back to France.
“Where are you going at this hour of the night?” The guard had not recovered from the shock. He turned the flashlight on them.
“We need to cross the border. We have family waiting for us in Spain,” Jacob said with as much confidence as he could muster.
“Are you Spaniards?” he asked, checking their passports.
“We aren’t, but our parents are. They’re sending us to stay with family for a while.”
“Makes sense. Things have gotten pretty ugly here. Who wouldn’t send their kids away?” the gendarme muttered.
Jacob and Moses stayed quiet. The gendarme studied the rest of their papers, then looked down the road and was surprised to see no car anywhere.
“Who brought you?” he asked.
“A friend dropped us off a couple miles back and we walked the rest of the way.”
The gendarme stamped their passports, stood up, and raised the barrier. When the guards on the other side saw the French barrier raised, they raised the Spanish barrier and turned on the lights.
The boys walked calmly through the short stretch of land that belonged to no country. Though they walked away from danger, sadness gripped them. They were also leaving so many other things behind: people who had helped them and who, while the war lasted, would still be in danger. But mostly they thought of Vipond. They had once more been abandoned—they were on their own again—yet they knew it was not really like that. The old man had left this world with a smile on his lips. Love was the only thing that kept people from suffering the eternal disappointment of life.
The boys reached the Sp
anish side. Officers wearing capes stood with their hands on their hips and watched them approach. They were annoyed at having been wakened from their post.
“Stop there,” the customs officer said in Spanish.
Jacob held out their papers. The man scrutinized their documents, then looked up at the sad, exhausted faces of the boys. “Spanish family. Fine. Go on.”
Jacob stepped forward and his right foot came down on Spanish soil. He breathed out a long sigh of relief. Moses followed and, before they knew it, they were walking in the outskirts of Molló, a picturesque stone village that reminded them of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. This was the beginning of safety.
Chapter 29
Molló
August 12, 1943
Though it was summer, the night was cool. Jacob and Moses huddled together in the doorway of a church. There was nothing they could do until the next day. Moses soon nodded off on Jacob’s shoulder, but Jacob was alert all night. Guilt for what had happened weighed on him. Vipond’s corpse now lay in an abandoned car on the other side of the border. It would not take the authorities long to find him, but Jacob would have preferred to bury him in a beautiful cemetery in the Pyrenees, where Vipond could rest under the care of the mountains. Had Vipond not driven them across France, he would still be alive.
Jacob could not stop asking himself how they had managed to escape. Countless Jewish children and adults had ended up in Germany or Poland, enduring humiliating work, the deathly winter climate, and the cruelty of the Nazis. Who or what sent some to an unjust death but saved others against all odds? The fact that this question had no answer brought no comfort. He wept silently for a while. As dawn approached, Jacob gently lowered Moses’s head onto one of the suitcases and stood up to greet the colorful changing of the guard.
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