In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

André declared the time had come to find land to cultivate to grow food. It was the only positive step they could take.

  Denise agreed enthusiastically. “That way we’ll have fresher, better food to eat than we can buy. We’ll save money too and prove we really care about Bédouès.”

  The brothers set off at once to see the mayor.

  Lucien Mauriac ran the small shop where André and Alex had purchased lime for whitewash on their first day at the château and almost everything else since. Lucien was thoughtful enough always to put aside a newspaper for Alex so that he could get it even late in the day.

  He reacted cautiously when the Sauverins revealed their present mission. A middle-aged man with a full head of hair that curled over his ears and neck and large hands with fingers roughened from sorting the stock and constantly cleaning the premises with strong soap, Lucien looked over the two brothers as if seeing and appraising them for the first time. Dressed as always in rough work clothes and the blue duster he wore in the store, he eyed the brothers’ usual dark suits, clothes locals would only wear for church, weddings, and funerals. They were not typical farming outfits.

  “So yours wasn’t just idle curiosity,” Lucien said to André and gently asked, “Are you sure you can handle farmwork even in a small way? I’d guess you haven’t done any before.”

  “We don’t have much choice,” André explained.

  “If we don’t learn now,” Alex added, “I bet we’ll end up hungry.”

  The mayor peered at them as if trying to divine their souls. Then he slapped his meaty hands onto the counter. “I have a little land that might get you started. Hasn’t been worked for some years but it’s good earth.”

  No cash changed hands. Instead the mayor and the Sauverins agreed to the region’s traditional arrangement: he provided the land and they would give him half their crop.

  “I can give you some seeds to get you started.” Lucien put several packets onto the counter—tomatoes, squash, lettuce, pepper, beans, melons—and smiled warmly.

  “We may need these,” Alex said, buying two spades, a hoe, and a heavy rake.

  In the bright clear morning the whole family headed down the lane toward their new plot of land on the edge of town, near the spot where the hill began to rise toward the mountain beyond. The field was a badly overgrown, unpromising mess.

  “I don’t understand,” winded Louis said perplexedly. “How will you ever get it tilled?”

  Just then Lucien appeared, rolling along the narrow path from the village on a small tractor with a big plow attached to the rear. The mothers sheltered their nervous children as the tractor growled and its plow bit into the grasses and weeds, turning over rich earth.

  With the land properly prepared, the Sauverin brothers loosened their ties. Without removing them or their suit jackets they commenced this new phase of their lives.

  They started with carrots, which hadn’t been grown in Bédouès in memory. But Lucien had extolled their simplicity, so why not try?

  André applied his studies of when to plant various crops, the soil type and fertilizer each preferred, and how to store them after harvesting. He kept meticulous records in his notebook, making a line drawing of the plot’s layout and keeping charts of the plantings, including the beans he and Alex soon added to the carrots, and pea seeds André bought in Florac. In Florac’s more numerous stores André had also found and acquired a small supply of chemical fertilizers to supplement the natural fertilizers from stabled and penned animals.

  It was warm and sometimes stifling in the valley, particularly since the brothers persisted in wearing their wool suit jackets and ties. André tended to take short breaks to analyze operations but Alex soldiered on ceaselessly, overcoming obstacles with physical aggression, pouring into the job his many frustrations—including that of working in dirt, which offended his fastidious nature.

  Yet Alex wished he could do this all himself. He was proud of his older brother and hated to see him “reduced” to working with his hands.

  “You’ve met Einstein,” he said. “Talked with Einstein.”

  “Yes,” André replied. “And he’s a man like any other.”

  “Not like any other.”

  “Perhaps with a bit more imagination. But remember Einstein produced his major advances through ‘thought experiments.’ He says his needs are simple: paper and pencil and time. Well I’ve got plenty of time here, not to mention my notebook and pen. Why shouldn’t I do some of my own best thinking while we labor together in this field?”

  With the garden fully planted in neat rows there was little to do except weed and apply more fertilizer now and again. Unfortunately that left more time for fretting about the relentless German advance. Cherbourg, Brest, Le Mans, Dijon, and Lyons fell.

  By the twenty-first of June, Hitler declared the war in the west at an end. The next day a Franco-German armistice was signed with the French forced to accept all German terms: the return of Alsace-Lorraine to German sovereignty and the occupation of the Channel and Atlantic coastlines as well as all major industrial areas.

  Fortunately most of southern France would remain unoccupied, under the jurisdiction of a French administrative center at Vichy. But the French army and navy were demobilized and disarmed and France had to bear the entire cost of the occupation. Worse still, all French prisoners of war were to remain in Germany until the completion of a full peace treaty.

  In London, de Gaulle formed a French National Committee and the British recognized him as head of the newly established Free French army. Then Hitler appeared in Paris.

  The sight of the Führer driven triumphantly through the nearly empty streets of the capital—visiting Napoleon’s Tomb and touring the Eiffel Tower—dealt another devastating blow to French pride. A British blockade of war matériel and food to the whole of France threatened real hardships ahead—making the Sauverins exceptionally glad they had found and planted their plot when they had.

  June turned into July. The Sauverins could see and admire the preliminary results of André and Alex’s hard work: the first plant shoots poking through carefully graded earth. But with Pétain’s government starting to incarcerate “Jews and dissidents” at a prison camp called Gurs and young Frenchmen being conscripted into German labor battalions, complacency wasn’t possible.

  At André’s prompting the family began thinking about leaving Bédouès for a place farther up in the mountains, away from any real town. Sooner or later they feared some unhappy person who had lost a husband or son would tell the authorities of their presence and then they might be sent away to who knew what horrible fate?

  “But the mayors of Florac and Bédouès know we’re here,” Geneviève declared, aghast.

  “I mean other authorities,” André explained patiently. “I mean the police.”

  Still the people of Bédouès—apart from the de Montforts—treated the Sauverins with ever-growing kindness. Some even expressed hope that the Sauverins would remain at least through the summer.

  As the crops began to mature a number of farmers stopped by to offer advice and praise. Denise and Geneviève started lending a hand. Even the children helped as best they could.

  “If we have to head off again,” Geneviève declared, “it better not be before we enjoy the fruits of our labors.”

  In mid-July Pétain was overwhelmingly elected president by the French parliament. Within a week Vichy France banned the employment of “aliens”—nonnative Jews.

  The Battle of Britain raged, bringing fresh fears about the fate of the Freedmans across the North Sea. Denise and Geneviève were extremely anxious about their brother Francis.

  The summer rains proved gentle and reliable. The garden thrived and flourished. The Sauverins’ vegetables grew faster, taller, and more abundantly than those of other gardens planted in the vicinity year after year, always cultivated with the same methods and producing the same modest results. Some argued that the Sauverins’ plot had lain fallow so long it was bound to do
better than adjacent overworked soil but the family was convinced André’s scientific approach—particularly his chemical fertilization—was the key to their success.

  Their garden became a much-discussed marvel. Its profusion stirred amazement and wonder. Many made a pilgrimage to “the land of the Belgians”—a true local curiosity.

  Unfortunately the Sauverins’ success also served as a reminder of the lack of manpower for bringing in everyone’s crops. Would the young men of Bédouès ever be seen again? Many had died in the doomed attempt to defend their country. Rumor had it that the Nazis had placed many others in concentration camps. Now the Germans demanded that the few remaining young adult males work in French factories supporting German war production. Newspapers reported some young men were being taken into Germany to work in the factories there.

  Fields were ripening. Orchards were heavily laden with peaches, plums, and cherries. Who would gather, sort, distribute, and store them? They would rot quickly if not picked. The Sauverins saw an opportunity to help and to supplement their own garden.

  Alex talked with Lucien Mauriac. “If you help bring in the cherry crop,” Lucien said, “you can eat any cherries while working and keep half of what you pick.”

  The Sauverin brothers and the Freedman sisters set to work immediately. The farmer who owned the trees provided each with a big apron to wear, featuring a large front pocket in which to store fruit as they retrieved it.

  Climbing the gnarled trunks of the aged trees in order to reach branches bent down under the full weight of the fruit required temerity, agility, and tenacity. Rose and Louis, suffused with pride as they watched, marveled at their sons. But the skill, strength, and persistence of their daughters-in-law astonished them.

  By mid-August Lucien Mauriac had become very nervous. Bédouès had a problem no longtime resident could solve. But there was an outsider he could approach for help.

  Early on Monday the nineteenth of August, Lucien trudged up the dusty path from his own home to the Sauverins’ plot. André was hoeing weeds between rows of beets. Alex pulled up weeds by hand.

  After preliminary pleasantries Lucien said hoarsely, “The plums. They’re ripening. And the preserves factory is closed for lack of youthful manpower. I’m afraid the fruit will rot.” Politely, hopefully, anxiously, Lucien asked, “Monsieur le professeur, is it possible you know or can devise some less labor-intensive way to preserve our plums?”

  The mayor was sweating and just this side of panic during the long minute it took André to formulate an answer.

  “I’ll need space to work,” André said. “There’s not enough room in the attic.” Lucien almost whooped for joy. Then André added, “Perhaps you could ask de Montfort. He’s got plenty of rooms he doesn’t use.”

  Now Lucien had a violent headache. He hated to ask de Montfort for anything. “Why not ask him yourself?” he suggested. “It would sound much more serious coming from a scientist.” Silence hung heavily between them. Then Lucien realized something that pleased him enormously. He grinned cagily. “Actually André, I’ll do it. Let’s settle this now.”

  Minutes later the mayor was pounding authoritatively on the château’s great door.

  “What is this?” de Montfort demanded of the men who dared disturb him.

  Lucien felt the old timidity but stated simply, “We have a request. Or rather, a demand.”

  The ex-governor of Djibouti was too shocked to respond. On behalf of the good people of Bédouès, Lucien asked him to give André a room.

  “With a supply of water and a large table,” André elaborated.

  As de Montfort spluttered with inarticulate rage Lucien inquired almost sweetly, “Do I understand correctly that you have been charging the Sauverins rent?”

  The ex-governor shifted his glower back and forth between Lucien and André as if he couldn’t decide who he loathed most or would choose to destroy first.

  Lucien drove the dagger home. “Surely you know that’s against regulations. And as a former government official you know how important regulations are.”

  De Montfort pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white.

  “I hope not to need the space for too many days,” André said.

  Struggling, de Montfort growled, “The pantry. One week. No more!”

  “Is that enough time?” the mayor asked André.

  “If I can’t solve the problem in a week,” André replied, “I can’t solve it at all.”

  André at once gathered plums from a tree near the château hoping to discover how to remove the waxy covering then dry the plums into prunes. It would change the local diet a bit but…

  His chemistry textbook, small as it was, helped him determine the composition of the plum and the makeup of the tough skin protecting the juicy pulp inside. He spent the entire day reading and trying to remember chemical formulas affecting fruit. He sat up late into the night jotting in his notebook and performing calculations.

  The next day he walked into Florac to buy caustic soda, alcohol, vinegar, salts, and an acidic brine. Retiring to the ex-governor’s pantry he tried to approximate the laboratory conditions he had enjoyed in Belgium and suddenly realized how much he missed his previous life—the studies, his experiments, the conversations.

  He created a series of solutions then bathed the fruit in one after another and waited for results. No matter how he mixed his chemicals and household ingredients hoping for a softening of the outer layer that wouldn’t degrade the sweet-flavored meat, the plums held on tenaciously to their seemingly impervious skin.

  Morning became afternoon. Late afternoon turned to early evening. Night wore on and on. Still no answer came.

  Early Wednesday André had barely taken a sip of the coffee Nichette had thoughtfully brought him before Claude de Montfort poked his head into the pantry, grousing about how long the project was taking and demanding to know when he could have his room back.

  “It’s only been two days,” André explained patiently. “You agreed to a week.”

  “Only a week,” the ex-governor fumed.

  Alone again André worked with vinegar but it left the liberated pulp with a bitter taste. Alcohol gave a fine flavor to the plum but on its own couldn’t penetrate the skin. Brine successfully dissolved the wax but the resulting fruit was more like an olive than a prune.

  Late that night André finally devised a bath with caustic soda. He tried several strengths for varying lengths of time then carefully watched and jostled the plums sitting in different pans of solution, unable to perceive any difference whatever. Sitting down and rubbing his eyes he wondered whether and how he might succeed with his limited number of chemicals and agents.

  He rose from his seat well past midnight, ready to call it a day and hoping the answer would come to him unbidden as he slept. The dim light of the pantry cast intriguing shadows on the pans of plums that seemed to await—no, insist upon—the determining poke of a finger. Unable to resist one more try, André gave a last push of his forefinger into each pan. Wherever he pressed the plums continued to hold firm. But in the very last pan the skin unexpectedly gave way and the liquid of the pulp began to bleed through.

  Too excited for sleep André took several plums from the pan and set them on a grill to drip and dry overnight. Had he stumbled into a possible answer? He began to feel the same excitement he had felt at the Free University of Brussels whenever an experiment worked.

  Thursday morning he took the weeping plums and set them out in the bright sun. After a couple of hours the purple fruit began to pucker and crinkle.

  Impulsively he went down to the mayor’s store and invited Lucien to the château the following morning.

  Early Friday the mayor appeared at the villa with other leading citizens. De Montfort caught sight of their procession toward the pantry and imposed his unwelcome obtrusive presence.

  André led them to his experimental plums set into a red-and-yellow dish to provide a vivid contrast with the dark purple of t
he fruit. He passed the dish around and each of the visitors—excepting de Montfort—took one of the dried plums, squeezed it and then with trepidation took a bite.

  Each chewed conscientiously, swallowed hard and—much to André’s relief—took another bite. Slowly their faces relaxed into grateful smiles.

  “It’s a prune!” the mayor declared joyfully. The other taste-testers nodded happily.

  Lucien gave André a kiss on each cheek. The others followed suit except for de Montfort. He wanted to know if André was ready to return the pantry to its owner.

  Saturday morning, at André’s request, the mayor gathered a number of townspeople in the quiet, idle plum factory. André demonstrated how to mix his caustic soda formula. The villagers would only need to pick the plums, place them into a vat of the winning mixture, and after the skin had dissolved spread the plums out in the sun to dry, concentrating the sweetness within.

  The crop was saved!

  The next day André slept late but Alex wanted to talk. Despite the success of the plum project and a great show of thankfulness from the citizens of Bédouès, Alex couldn’t bear to stay in the château a minute longer and not just because he hated de Montfort. As the summer’s end approached he was increasingly concerned Bédouès, on the Atlantic Ocean side of the Massif Central, would soon face cold winds and winter snows bound to blow in from the west.

  “I don’t like the situation here,” he complained to Denise in André’s stead. “We’re too exposed not only to the weather but to the new regional headquarters of the national police, in Mende. That’s not even thirty-five kilometers north.”

  Denise listened and leafed through the Sunday newspaper. “Goodness. It says here all Belgian refugees have been ordered back to Belgium to reestablish the national economy.”

  “If that anti-Semitic mayor in Florac learns of this,” Alex said gloomily, “he may send instructions for us to leave. Or he could send the police to force us out.”

  “I bet that awful de Montfort is showing him that article right now,” Geneviève complained.

  Denise sighed. “When I was down in the village yesterday I heard the Vichy government is sending officials to all small towns to ensure compliance with new regulations.”