Lilla looked away discreetly. In the ensuing silence she was struck by the contrast of the peaceful scene presenting itself to her eyes and the prison in which she vividly pictured her husband suffering that very moment. And now she knew she had to prepare herself for the loss of the Sauverins too.
At lunch that afternoon Alex reported that Menen, Belgium, had been taken, that the British garrison of Calais was under siege, and that the French had found their efforts faltering so completely fifteen generals had been relieved of their commands. Rumor had it that Allied forces were being trapped at Dunkirk, freeing the Germans for their inevitable drive on Paris.
Clearly Pouilly was no longer as safe as it had been just the week before. Everyone including Lilla and the Thierns agreed reluctantly that it would be best for the Sauverins to leave right away—but not Geneviève. Did they really need to go, she wanted to know—and if so, where?
After lunch Lilla took Geneviève aside. “My dear, dear friend,” she said, trembling as she spoke, her eyes red, her face white, her hands folding over one another in a constant struggle of left with right, “you must go farther south, where you stand a better chance of remaining undetected and unmolested.”
Within the hour the Sauverins, Lilla, and the Thierns stood in the courtyard in front of the big black Buick and its trailer, smiling wanly while the women fought back tears.
“‘Thank you so much’ is such an inadequate way to express our appreciation for all your kindness,” Geneviève said, clutching Lilla’s hands and speaking for the whole Sauverin family. “Especially when you are suffering your own concerns and losses.”
“We all fear for the future,” Monsieur Thiern said wistfully but gallantly.
Geneviève gave Lilla a kiss on each cheek and then a warm embrace filled with such intensity the two old friends instantly dissolved into uncontrollable weeping. They might have stood that way forever had not several members of the household staff appeared at the top of the steps to the château carrying out baskets of food.
“We still have plenty,” Madame Thiern assured the Sauverins as André and Denise attempted politely to protest. “And the farm remains exceptionally productive.”
“Maybe it’s producing too much,” Monsieur Thiern added anxiously. “I’m afraid we might prove a tempting target for any army that happens along.”
Too soon for all concerned, the Sauverins had crammed themselves back into their car with a smoked ham, a roasted chicken, various cheeses, bread, marmalade, and fruit. Like the dining room at Bourras L’Abbaye, the Buick instantly became a redolent reminder of times past—of grand meals with family and friends in Brussels and Antwerp and now Pouilly.
“We wish you well!” Lilla cried out. Then she leaned in through the car window to give Geneviève a final hug.
The Sauverins rolled slowly, gloomily, down the long driveway. When the Buick reached the gates of the estate, Geneviève turned back for one last glimpse of Lilla’s château. Then she could see it no more.
The Sauverins were truly on their own, headed straight for the unknown.
CHAPTER FIVE
EN ROUTE
MAY 27, 1940
Skirting the highest points of the Massif Central the road was substantial except when it passed through the narrow centers of medieval villages where the ways had been laid out in centuries past for animals and carriages, not cars and trucks. Alex was aggravated whenever he had to negotiate the Buick and trailer through one of the fearsomely sharp turns designed to accommodate the shifting boundary lines of earlier times. But the picturesque quality of those age-old villages remained remarkably intact despite years of diesel fumes spewed by passing trucks against the stucco fronts of close-laid houses, their walls turned first chocolate-brown then gray.
Finally, in the late afternoon a lengthy sweep of road led into Millau where the Tarn River rushed out of a dramatic gorge that cut through a limestone plateau rising high above this northernmost outpost of Aveyron.
As the family made its way toward the center of town and crossed the bridge under which the Tarn flowed, traffic became tighter and tighter until the Buick barely crawled. The farther into the city they went the more chaotic, even dangerous, the crush of refugees became.
“Unbelievable,” Alex breathed, feeling he would burst a vessel in his brain if he didn’t release his tension with speech. “Why would the French keep directing us here when there’s already an impossible mass of people? I just hope there’s a place to stay.”
At every hotel, even the meanest, Alex hopped out to inquire about room availability. Each time he arrived too late: all rooms had been filled far earlier that day or week, often by as many as ten people. Alex couldn’t imagine sharing a single room with his family even if he could bargain his way into one. But the alternative taken by other roomless refugees was more disagreeable: lying on the floor in lobbies and corridors.
André tried to project calm. “I thought we’d have missed these throngs after our stay at Bourras L’Abbaye.”
Great crowds pressed back and forth, on and off side streets and the main thoroughfare. Exasperated, Alex angled into an open space: the small forecourt of a little church.
“Protestant,” André said excitedly. “See? No Virgin Mary at the entrance. We have entered the territory of the Huguenots—the remote and demanding land they settled and sheltered in during their centuries of persecution at the hands of the Catholic majority.”
Geneviève impulsively stepped out of the car. Buffeted by the horde of people, she grew concerned and then alarmed by the mindlessness of its movement.
“I don’t like this,” she declared fearfully, reaching back to clutch Denise’s arm as if to defend against getting drawn into a whirlpool.
The unornamented church door swung open slowly, noiselessly, blinding the young man leaving the dark interior for the glare of day. With smooth, fair skin, fine hair growing over his ears, and deep-set eyes burning with earnest intensity, he was dressed in a somber suit and a white shirt buttoned at the neck without a tie, his gray and wrinkled collar points curling up. Dust clung stubbornly to his suit. Dirt from Millau’s paved and cobbled ill-swept streets had worn the shine from the black leather of his brown-soled shoes.
Recovering his sight the young man stared at the Sauverins, who had emerged from the car in support of Geneviève. With neither surprise, concern, nor chagrin at the intrusion, he approached André and Alex, who stood side by side.
“May I help you?” he asked, thoughtfully taking their measure. “New arrivals?”
“Not the first you’ve seen I’d guess,” André replied.
The young man smiled ruefully. “I’m the pastor of this church. Obviously we have many more people in town than normal, even at the height of market season.”
“We’re Belgians,” André informed him.
“That much I surmised. So many of our recent arrivals are. Besides,” he added nodding at their car, “your license plate advertises your origin.”
“We were told to come here,” Alex said heatedly. “We’re looking for a place to stay. And we can pay.”
“Even so,” the pastor cautioned after counting the Sauverins, “it won’t be easy.” He nodded to André and Alex. “Follow me please.” He led them into the crowded street. Out of earshot of the others he asked, “Twins?”
“Just brothers,” Alex answered peevishly.
“Often mistaken for twins,” André said more congenially.
Turning the nearest corner they entered the town plaza where a fountain sparkled in the sun, gentle streams of water washing down the stone nymphs frolicking on its pedestal. The pastor led them to a small hotel they hadn’t spotted themselves, the best in Millau. Potted flowers framed the elegant entranceway. The sign hanging above it spelled out the name in elaborate gold letters.
Alex went in and soon returned to announce, “It’s all right. They have rooms for us.”
“You are most fortunate,” the pastor observed.
“That’s the advantage of money,” Alex said coldly. “They’re happy to have customers who can afford their price.”
The threesome pushed back toward the church through the ever-changing scene of refugees and the townspeople who came out to observe them as a curious entertainment.
“Few are as fortunate as you,” the pastor said sadly. “I’m afraid I have to let some sleep on the floor of our church. All the houses of worship have been turned into temporary shelters. Even the schools have been shut down and turned over to the displaced.” He shrugged his sagging shoulders with weariness and resignation. “We have already used every bed, pad, and pallet available. Yet you keep coming!”
Sitting alone at the window of his bedchamber Tuesday morning, André enjoyed room service’s coffee and a croissant while looking down into the town square. With the struggle for life intensifying, it seemed longer than it had actually been since Germany’s attack upended their lives—especially when André contemplated the depleted spirits of the refugees he had encountered throughout the hotel. Some of these guests and temporary lobby residents were Frenchmen from the north, but most were his fellow Belgians. He used to think he knew his people well. How little these individuals reminded him of those he had known all his life. Many were so testy they made Alexandre Sauverin appear a gentle, genial soul.
To them nothing the French had done, were doing, or ever would do was sufficient let alone right. They were particularly bitter that so little mercy and even less love was being shown by the citizens of Millau for the strangers in their midst.
André’s experience had been different. The Protestant pastor had been kind and helpful. André would have enjoyed discussing spiritual matters with him, learning something of his church’s history and its stance on war today.
Such a conversation could yet take place if the Sauverins stayed a while. Since the journey had already taken a toll on them all, especially Louis and Rose, André thought it best that they rest where they were another day or two.
Insistent knocking called him to the door. Alex entered like a whirlwind.
“Have you heard? King Leopold has capitulated and fled in the middle of the night. As of eleven this morning our forces will surrender unconditionally and Belgium will belong to ‘the Fatherland!’”
“How do you know? How can that be?”
“The town is awash with the news!” Alex shouted. André gestured him to keep his voice down, hoping not to trouble the family members next door and across the hall. “If you thought the townspeople were angry at the Belgian refugees yesterday, you should see them now.”
André turned on the radio and the bad news was confirmed. Worse, as of that moment Belgians in France were forbidden to move from wherever they were.
“How fortunate that we left Bourras L’Abbaye when we did,” André sighed.
“Once again,” Alex fumed, “one step ahead of disaster.”
The brothers were further taken aback when the radio announcer proclaimed a single exception to the “stay-put” order. Every adult Belgian male below the age of forty-five was to report immediately to French police authorities to be sent to dig trenches in defense of Paris.
André and Alex faltered momentarily. André was thirty-nine and Alex thirty-seven. Duty in the Ruhr Valley no longer seemed so onerous.
“I heard from refugees in the square that the national gendarmes stationed here have a reputation for aggressiveness and vindictiveness,” Alex said, “and the locals won’t shield us since what little sympathy they had vanished overnight. They want retribution from anyone associated with the little country that gave up so abruptly while France struggles on.”
The brothers drifted to the window. Across the square three Belgian soldiers were being shouted at, poked, and spat upon by enraged Frenchmen.
“How can they blame the soldiers?” Alex asked angrily. “Leopold sold all of us down the river, surrendering without one word to his allies.”
André agreed but said, “I can’t blame the French either. With the evacuation of Dunkirk they no longer have the British Expeditionary Force behind them and now can’t even count on our little Belgian army. They’re on their own against the Luftwaffe and the Panzers and…”
Alex pressed a forefinger to his lips to silence André as the door handle to the adjoining room turned. Denise stepped in and André quickly apprised her of all—except the call to join a trench-digging brigade.
“Orders are orders, so I suppose we must stay,” Denise said softly. “We’re incredibly lucky to have three rooms when so many haven’t any.”
In the square the crowd became more hostile, forcing the poor Belgian soldiers back and back and back.
Alex exploded. “We can’t stay here no matter what our orders may be!”
“With all this commotion,” André said, pointing to the throng abusing the Belgian soldiers, “it might be possible to slip off unnoticed.”
“We must leave immediately,” Alex declared.
In a very few minutes the ten Sauverins had packed up, settled the bill, and gone out the service door to the side of the hotel where they had parked their car and trailer. Unnerved by the engine noise, wincing at each squeak and creak of the awkward trailer, Alex maneuvered around to the front of the hotel and turned onto a street leading away from the square and the still-growing, ever-growling crowd.
Looking back André saw an elderly Frenchman who wore a Great War uniform festooned with medals interpose his person between the mob and the visibly terrified Belgians. The old warrior shouted and waved his arms, turning red in the face.
“What is he doing?” Denise asked André.
“Perhaps berating his fellow Gauls for their incivility and irrationality, telling them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for their herdlike behavior, that they must know no Belgian in Millau can be blamed for the actions of their king. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s working.”
Step by step the mob made way for the Belgian soldiers, giving them just enough space to escape rapidly down a side street and out of sight.
Alex made his way between parked trucks, shifted into second gear, then upshifted into third, heading toward the open road leading up the Gorge du Tarn. At the outskirts of town several policemen stood alongside the road and Alex reflexively slowed.
“Here we go again. Where are our passports?”
“They’re going to send us back,” Geneviève predicted bitterly.
Everyone was astonished when the police waved them on without checking their papers.
“Keep going!” an officer shouted, waving vigorously. “Go ahead!”
Alex stamped down on the accelerator, speeding away from the dangers of Millau. “What was that about?” he asked querulously, rounding a bend. “As the Protestant minister pointed out, even our license plate gives us away as Belgians.”
“Millau is at the far end of Aveyron,” André said pondering. “Maybe it takes time for orders to reach there.”
Alex barked a laugh. “Lucky for us they don’t listen to the radio.”
Puzzled and concerned, Louis asked, “Where are we headed now?”
“Into the Lozère,” Alex announced. Everyone was startled by his certainty until he explained, “While I walked around the town square this morning I heard that the departments of Lot and Aveyron are filled to capacity with Belgians. The Lozère is the last department where the French have been instructed to make us welcome.”
Digging into the store of religious history he had developed over the previous decade, André detailed that the Lozère was the stronghold of the Protestant Huguenots after the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and its aftermath, when they were slaughtered by the thousands. Most of the survivors who hadn’t fled to other countries moved up into the higher reaches of this remote region. Their life was almost unendurably hard and not just because of the stony soil. War against them raged for the next quarter century, until Henri IV issued the Edict of Nantes granting freedom of religion for Protestant
s, and then again almost a century later, when Louis XIV revoked it.
“Hence the old rhyming adage,” he concluded, “‘Lozère, pays de misère’—‘land of misery.’”
Sunlight played against the cliffs overlooking the constantly changing course of the mighty Tarn, casting shadows interwoven with bright spots of color. The growth along the river’s edge stood out darkly green against the luminescent browns, tans, and rusts of the valley walls. Here and there a little bridge connected the road to one of the small stone farmhouses perched against the far side of the river, structures built centuries before by rugged farmers who managed to scratch a meager living from the small plots of earth along the alluvial floodplains.
“Have we left Aveyron?” Denise asked.
“There are no signposts to mark the borders between départements but I would guess so,” responded Andre. “Since we left Millau there’ve been fewer and fewer gendarmes more and more widely scattered.” They pored over the map, tracing the Tarn to its headwaters in the mountains of the Cévennes, as the Lozère was also known.
“What do you think about that?” Alex asked, finger pointing to a place called Florac.
“Florac must mean ‘flowing water,’” André said, “if it’s Latin as I suspect.”
“The Romans certainly knew where to put a town,” Denise said hopefully.
“I like the idea of an ever-flowing fountain splashing cheerfully in the center of town,” Geneviève put in.
“At least we’d be still farther away from the authorities in Millau,” André added.
Alex drummed his fingers on the dashboard then folded the map. As simply as that the decision had been made.
A ribbon of road led the Sauverins through village after village of clustered black-roofed houses. They passed an old castle, what must once have been a battlemented monastery, and vineyards, meadows, and orchards thick with spring blossoms. They could hear the Tarn bubbling and rumbling, pummeling its way down the gorge.
Veering off along one branch of the river they entered Florac, an aged city with an ancient castle and streets lined with plane trees. As Geneviève had hoped, a live fountain welled at the heart of the old ville.
In This Hospitable Land Page 8
