The Resistance

by Peter Steiner

  The man stopped and dismounted from his bicycle. He studied Jean for a long moment. He had a puzzled look on his face. “Do we know each other, monsieur?”

  “I saw you in town. I think you met my brother the other night,” said Jean. “With the count. We have our—”

  “You must have me mixed up with someone else, monsieur. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Good evening, monsieur.” The man touched the brim of his cap, swung his leg over his bicycle, and rode off.

  When Jean turned up the lane to his house, Simon was there waiting, leaning against a fence post. He was smoking a cigarette. Simon crushed out the cigarette and motioned with his head for Jean to follow. They left the lane. Simon carried his bicycle up the hill into the field. The sun was setting. The sky was overcast with low clouds, which turned orange then purple then gray. As it got dark, you could see the moon behind the clouds like a dim lamp behind a curtain.

  Simon did not speak. He did not turn around until they reached a tall hedge that concealed them from the road and the lane. “Don’t ever speak to me like that,” said Simon. “We are not friends. We are not companions. We do not know each other. I do not want to know you. I do not want you to know me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Jean looked shocked.

  “And do you understand why?”

  “No.”

  “You will,” said Simon. He added, “We are doing important work; remaining unknown is a necessary and important precaution. And,” he said, sensing what Jean was about to do, “do not tell me your name. Make up a name for yourself by which I and others will know you.”

  “A name?”

  “Any name.”

  “Franz,” said Jean. He laughed. He liked the idea of having a German name.

  “Why Franz?” said Simon.

  “Why not? I like the name. Is there anything wrong with it?”

  “No,” said Simon smiling slightly. “It’s perfect.”

  “We have three ideas,” said Jean. He was like an eager schoolboy.

  “Tell me.”

  Jean told Simon the three ideas—one, two, three.

  “And why blow up these things?” Simon wondered. “And how?”

  “There are live shells stored in my grandfather’s caves, and we could get to them.”

  “I will ask you to show me,” said Simon. “But why?”

  Beyond the spectacle of it, Jean could not think of a reason.

  “There will be a time to do it, but blowing up the cave now will bring the wrath of the Germans down on this village, and they will easily discover it was you. It is, after all, your grandfather’s cave, and you live next to it. If you can steal some arms from the cave without detection, well, that is another matter. We will need arms in the near future. Can that be done?”

  Simon continued without waiting for an answer. “Blowing up the police station or the German headquarters is also too much of an extravaganza. The railroad bridge makes a bit more sense, since it disrupts their transportation, although they mainly depend on trucks, from what I can tell.

  “We will want to do all these things at the proper moment, but for now they are far too extreme for our purposes. In fact, I have something else for you to do.”

  XIII.

  EVERY NIGHT JEAN AND ONESIME huddled over the radio and listened to the messages coming from England. Endless, odd, cryptic messages, spoken twice, in monotone, never repeated after that. They felt like their own pulse, like the murmuring undercurrent of history itself.

  Hope does not go on feathered wings; hope does not go on feathered wings.

  The peaks and valleys of anticipation; the peaks and valleys of anticipation.

  Tiger, tiger, burning bright; tiger, tiger, burning bright.

  And yet, Jean François must mount the scaffold; and yet, Jean François must mount the scaffold.

  The soup is hot and the bread is black; the soup is hot and the bread is black.

  Slings and arrows of outrageous fortune; slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

  Everyone listening—whether they were waiting for the phrase that would set them into motion or were trying to glean some piece of useful intelligence or were just listening with no other purpose in mind—was transported by the odd words. It was, in a very real sense, the greatest epic poem ever written, because everyone wrote it and everyone lived it.

  Onesime and Jean sat by the radio night after night. Then one rainy night they heard: Why do the bees not eat honey; why do the bees not eat honey.

  They had almost forgotten why they were listening. “That’s us,” said Jean. They tiptoed downstairs. There was no light under their mother’s door.

  “She’s asleep,” whispered Jean.

  “Good,” said Onesime. They laced on their boots and slipped into their coats and hats. Onesime took great care closing the door so the latch would not click in the lock. Anne Marie lay in the dark and listened to them go.

  The rain had fallen hard all afternoon. It had stopped earlier, but there were still rivulets running down to the lane. Their gurgling was the only sound to be heard. The two men set out quickly toward the south. They followed field roads to avoid encountering anyone or being seen. It was an unnecessary precaution. No one was out at this hour.

  A few leftover clouds rushed past the moon, casting the earth from brightness to darkness and back again. The temperature fell. After more than an hour of walking, they reached a broad, high pasture surrounded by tall hedges. They went to the easternmost corner and waited. They stepped from one foot to the other, patting their arms and breathing into their cupped hands to stay warm. They cocked their ears to the sky but heard nothing.

  “Are you seeing Marie Piano?” said Jean.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to marry her?”

  “Why are you asking all this stuff?”

  “You’re my little brother, Oni. I worry about you.”

  “Yes. I’m going to marry her. But not until the war is over and the Germans are gone.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “Not yet.”

  After a while they heard the growl of a small airplane. Onesime pointed his flashlight into the sky and turned it on, then off, then on, then off.

  The plane turned and went back the way it had come. Everything was silent. Jean and Onesime stared up into the darkness.

  “There!”

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  A pale form appeared above them drifting downward, then a second one just above it, then a third. Onesime flashed his light once more. They ran toward the center of the field where the first parachute had already landed with a dull thud. It was attached to a wooden crate. Onesime and Jean rushed to gather up the billowing white silk and its ropes.

  Two parachutists landed nearby and pulled in their parachutes, like pulling in fishing nets. When Onesime and Jean reached them, the men were stepping out of the harnesses. Onesime and Jean had never seen such marvelous creatures, with their leather boots, heavy overcoats, and stocking caps. One of the men stepped forward, grinned, and stuck out his hand. “Here we are then,” he said in English. Then: “Bonjour.” Jean gave the man his hand. “Speak English?” said the other man. “No, I s’pose not.”

  Jean shrugged. The four men slapped one another on the arms and shoulders and laughed. One of the Englishmen pried open the lid of the crate. Onesime shined his light inside. It contained small arms and ammunition and several two-way radios. “All right, mate?” said the Englishman with a grin.

  “Lead on, Macduff,” said the other one, with a dramatic gesture, and the four men laughed again.

  They stuffed the parachutes into their knapsacks. After two hours they arrived at the Josquin house. They put the crate in the back of the chicken coop and then went into the house. They removed their shoes and moved as silently as they could.

  Madame Josquin came out of her
room. “Mother,” said Onesime. He had known this moment would come, but he had not thought about how he would explain himself. “These men are passing through,” he said. “They’ll sleep here today. In our rooms. Tonight they leave.”

  “Give them something to eat,” she said, cinching her robe around her. “Are they English?”

  “Yes,” said Onesime, “they’re English.”

  Onesime made eating motions in their direction. The two men held up their hands in protest. “No, no, don’t worry about us.”

  “You must be hungry. Are you hungry?” said Anne Marie in English.

  The two men grinned at her. “Well. Maybe just a cup of tea?” said the taller of the two. He had red hair and freckles. “Some tea would be lovely.”

  “But only if it’s no trouble, ma’am,” said the other.

  “It is no trouble,” said Madame Josquin. Onesime stared at his mother. Where had she learned to speak English? And when?

  “If it’s no trouble, ma’am, tea would be lovely.”

  “My Oni is a tea drinker,” she said, looking toward Onesime.

  “Is he now?” said the tall redhead with a grin and wink at Onesime. “Then he’s half English, isn’t he?”

  They all sat around the kitchen table while Anne Marie poured tea for the Englishmen and for her sons. Even Jean had a cup. She brought out a loaf of dark bread and crocks of jam and honey. “Wait a sec,” said the tall redhead. He went into his pack and brought out some coffee and chocolate. “Pour vous, madame,” he said, and grinned again.

  Onesime and Jean took the men upstairs. They fell deeply asleep as soon as they lay down.

  “You speak English?” said Jean to his mother.

  “Ah,” she said, with a smile of fond recollection. But she did not say anything more.

  It was eight o’clock. Onesime put on his coat and his boots. He got his bicycle from the shed and rode off to cut firewood for the count. Jean left for Melun’s shop. By the time they got home that evening, the Englishmen were gone.

  * * *

  It was early December. The mornings were dark and frosty. When the sun finally rose around eight, it hung low and pale in the southern sky. It had rained a lot in November, and the fields of wheat and barley were vivid green. Smoke curled up from the chimneys and hung in the chilly air. Eighteen months had passed since the Germans had arrived.

  Though few had imagined that it ever could, life in Saint-Léon had resumed a kind of normalcy. Even the execution of the hostages had receded into memory, hastened in that direction by everyone’s fervent desire to think about other things. Besides, the necessities of life required their fullest attention. Everyone, even the families of the dead, had to struggle to keep food on the table. The surviving three Duquesne children were being cared for by uncles and aunts, who had already found life difficult enough without the extra mouths to feed.

  Several local shops had cut back their hours, while others struggled just to stay open at all. Even the grocery had closed briefly—unable to put anything on the shelves, overwhelmed by all the shortages—and then reopened under new ownership. The bakery had a new owner. The old baker had committed suicide. The rumor was that he was a Jew. Was he? No one knew. The new baker was doing very well supplying everyone—French and German—with bread and baked goods. He seemed to have no trouble getting whatever supplies he needed.

  Le Pêcheur—The Trout—was busy, as was the bar at the Cheval Blanc. The Hôtel de France had become a residential hotel, putting up visiting strangers—mostly Germans, but also French vendors and suppliers—while they conducted their business in town. Their bar was always busy too.

  Claude Melun had taken on another employee in his mechanic’s shop, a man named Piet Chabrille. Piet had an inclination to recite Bible verses from time to time, but Claude didn’t care what he recited. Piet Chabrille was a good mechanic and a hard worker. Claude had figured out how to retrofit automobiles and tractors to run on other fuels besides petrol, and people from all over the region who could afford it were lining up to get the conversions done.

  The town council had not missed a meeting since the Germans had come. There was plenty of town business to deal with, war or no war. Mayor Schneider always worked through the agenda quickly and efficiently. Yves Renard attended the meetings as he was required to, although he rarely spoke.

  Colonel Hollinger held occasional meetings with the mayor. But neither the colonel nor the lieutenant nor any other German official attended town meetings unless it was absolutely necessary. Once when the colonel was present, road repair was being discussed and the town’s woodlots in the Forêt de Bercé came under discussion. Jean Charles Arnaud remarked that a recently cut lot was an exceptional resource for wild mushrooms.

  After the meeting Colonel Hollinger approached Jean Charles. “Monsieur Arnaud, may I have a word with you?” Jean Charles had almost forgotten his old terror. “There is no cause for alarm, monsieur,” said the colonel. “I was only hoping that you might tell me where you hunt for mushrooms. I myself am a mushroom enthusiast.”

  “Of course, Monsieur Colonel,” said Jean Charles. “As you wish.”

  The citizens of Saint-Léon may not have liked having the Germans there, but they had come to terms with their presence, as one comes to terms with inclement weather or a sick cow or a poor crop. Soldiers crossing the square no longer caused people to stop and stare. Convoys passing on the roads, construction work at the German storage and depot facilities, the improvement of rail facilities—all of these things proceeded as a matter of course.

  In fact, the German presence had its good aspects. German construction projects employed French workers who might otherwise have been without work. Improvements to the railroad station had been in the works for ten years and more, but there had never been enough money. Now there was.

  Liberation still appeared from time to time. It still had the same alarmist tone. It still called the Germans and the Third Reich and the collaborators vile names. But the citizens of Saint-Léon read it mainly for those morsels of news that were of use to them, and they ignored the rest.

  No one knew who put out the paper. There was a lot of speculation about it. But by now no one seemed to care. Not even the Germans. It was as General Wallenstein had said: Rebellious tracts were the least of their problems. In the cities there was a growing resistance to German rule, including the occasional sabotage of German facilities and the assassination of German soldiers.

  Assassinations especially were met with reprisals, including the execution of hostages. But these executions did nothing to stop the assassinations. In fact, it was often the resisters’ purpose to provoke harsh reprisals. The communists especially reckoned that the executions would cause the population to rise up against the Germans.

  Liberation..….….….….…… January 1, 1942. Issue 12

  “The Americans do not have the will, they do not have the stomach, and they do not have the means.” So says Adolf Hitler, that military genius. And of course when the Führer speaks, all his generals goose-step into formation right behind him. Now we shall see. The Americans have entered the war, which can only mean that the days of the Third Reich and Vichy France are numbered.

  We can see how well the Führer’s military genius has already served him in Russia. He decided it wise to delay his attack until June. He chose to penetrate swiftly and deeply into the Russian countryside. Now the mighty German army—millions of men, thousands of tanks—are frozen solid. Their supply lines are too long to sustain. The few generals who have the courage to advise a strategic retreat are branded traitors and shot. The Führer has commanded his soldiers to die where they stand. And that is what they are doing. German soldiers are starving. They are freezing to death. They are dying by the thousands. Stalin and the brave Russian army have mounted a resistance Hitler could never imagine. The German army will fare even worse against the Americans.

  Colonel Hollinger recently announced that hostages will no longer be taken. Is th
is not good news? No, not if you know the rest of the order that comes from Germany and that Hollinger has concealed. The policy of holding and executing hostages when there are actions against the Third Reich has been replaced by a policy the Führer calls Nacht und Nebel—“Night and Fog.” Those arrested by the Third Reich will no longer be imprisoned or tried. Now they will be transported directly to German concentration camps to be tortured for whatever information they may reveal and then to disappear forever. Night and Fog. That is what the Third Reich and its French minions have in store for you.

  Vive la France! Vive la Libération!

  The effect of reading that last paragraph was devastating for the citizens of Saint-Léon. Those few who still entertained hope of fair treatment at the hands of the Germans could no longer do so. The last vestige of the face of the reasonable collaborator, a partner with whom one could compromise, had been peeled away once and for all.

  “But how do we even know it’s true?” said Guy Pettier. He leaned against the wall in Melun’s shop waiting for his bicycle to be fixed. The front wheel needed straightening.

  “That paper is just trying to stir things up,” said Melun. “They just want to make trouble.”

  Jean looked up from the wheel he was working on. “They want to make trouble,” he said. “But I think it’s true, the Night and Fog thing.”

  Piet Chabrille said, “The English radio says it’s true.” Everyone looked at Piet. He never joined in conversations. And it was dangerous to listen to the English radio and more dangerous to admit it. But Piet’s assertion made the men incautious, and they began to ply him with questions. Just then the mayor crossed the square to the Cheval Blanc.

  “Look,” said Jean. Everyone fell silent. A moment later they saw a German sergeant emerge from the gendarme’s office with Yves Renard. They too went into the Cheval Blanc. Piet Chabrille repeated his assertion about what the English radio had said, but this time no one was listening.

  * * *