In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

  Alex’s night was long but Geneviève’s was longer. Katie had a hard time too, calling her father several times for reassurance her mother would recover. Alex was only grateful that Philippe—still too young to understand fully—slept in a blissful peace.

  In morning’s first light Alex examined Geneviève’s bandage. White oozed around it.

  Roused by increasing pain, Geneviève whispered, “It’s not doing so well.”

  Alex unwrapped the cloth. Red streaks showed above the wide-open, festering wound.

  Geneviève was afraid to look. Hovering by the bedroom door, Katie couldn’t wait to see—until she really did. Catching the merest glimpse of the bloody cloth, Katie blanched.

  “I don’t feel so well,” Geneviève confessed. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”

  “Just stay still and rest,” Alex counseled tenderly. “I’m going to see if anybody in the village knows anything about medicine.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Geneviève responded weakly. “I’m not going anyplace.”

  If only Geneviève had said that with a hint of humor.

  Alex asked Katie to stay with her brother. “Don’t leave the house. Or stay out front.”

  “Yes, Papy,” Katie replied, impressed by the gravity of the situation.

  “That’s a good big girl. Be sure to listen for your mother. Bring her anything she wants.”

  “I’m just going to try to sleep,” Geneviève said. “Maybe that will help.”

  She drifted off again without another word.

  Alex did not return until the sun began casting shadows into the valley.

  “Oh, Papy!” Katie called as soon as he appeared. “Maman is not good. But she says she’ll be happy again when you get back.”

  “Well, I’m here,” he said comfortingly, giving Katie a kiss on the cheek and Philippe a pat on the head. Then he hurried into the bedroom.

  Geneviève was moaning softly and twisting uncomfortably, using her unaffected leg to try to change position and ease the pressure on the injured one. Alex had tied another clean rag around the wound but that rag had long since soaked through. The yellowish pus of infection seeped around it.

  Alex felt Geneviève’s feverish forehead. When she opened her half-lidded eyes more fully, they were rheumy and red.

  “I’m glad to see you back,” she said hoarsely.

  “I tried to find a doctor but Lucien was right. I did find some alcohol—cognac—better than wine for bathing the wound and getting rid of the infection.”

  Geneviève smiled a vague half-smile. “I don’t know whether that will do the trick but at least it will smell better than the wound.”

  Alex unwrapped the leg again, tipped the neck of the bottle over the cut, and drizzled a little dark liquid up and down the wound. Geneviève clutched the bed as the alcohol burned into the infected area. Tears sprang from her eyes as she cried out in a tiny high-pitched whine that caused Alex to stop pouring. He blew gently on the leg, hoping to ease the impact of the liquid still running into and around the exposed flesh.

  After a few moments, when the pain began to subside due to the alcohol’s anesthetic effect, Alex said tentatively, “I did find out about someone who might be able to help. A healer who has knowledge of these things. The villagers depend on her when other remedies fail.”

  Geneviève struggled to lift her torso into a half-reclining position. “When will she be here?”

  “The villagers sent word to her hamlet. She could be here tomorrow.”

  “I’m willing to believe.” Geneviève dropped back onto her pillow, gritting her teeth against a surge of searing pain. “Tell me it helps to believe!”

  Pale and sweaty, Geneviève passed another bad night, keeping everyone from sleep. Before dawn Tuesday, Katie was almost desperate with fear, which was affecting Phillipe as he sobbed in sympathy. Alex told them their mother would get well soon but he was uneasy and unconvinced himself.

  They all jumped when they heard an insistent knock from outside. Alex opened the door to an old woman so dreadful-looking she might have modeled her appearance on a storybook witch. Of indeterminate age, she had matted gray hair hanging down around her shoulders in uneven ringlets. The wool shawl drawn tight to her throat couldn’t disguise her hunched back. When she talked the sound whistled out around crooked, cracked, black, and missing teeth.

  “I understand your woman has a bad cut,” she said in a hoarse, scratchy voice that further frightened the children. “Infected. Maybe blood poisoning.”

  “You have experience with these things,” Alex said, suddenly hopeful.

  Without asking permission the old woman went into the bedroom. She walked past with such fierce determination Alex doubted he could have stopped her had he wanted to.

  Turning around in the doorway the old woman pointed to the lamp on the kitchen table, fixed her eyes on trembling Katie and commanded, “Bring me that lantern!”

  Her father nodded. Katie brought the light forward, letting the old woman see well enough to unwrap the cloth, examine Geneviève’s leg and mutter, “Bad. Messy. Dried blood. Oozing white. Infection. Suppurating.”

  Alex took the lantern from Katie and told her and Philippe to go back to bed. But Philippe whimpered and Katie insisted she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.

  The old woman opened her shawl and drew out a small pot. Silently she put her finger into a sticky potion and lathered up the wound, spreading her “concoction” into and around the reddened ends of the flesh, humming to herself and muttering mysteriously as she worked her fingers quickly back and forth. Then she drew back, admiring her work, while Geneviève gritted her teeth against the pain.

  The old woman asked for a new bandage. Alex got an undershirt out of a drawer, tore it into strips and handed a length of it to her. The healer carefully rewrapped Geneviève’s leg, tying a tight knot. Sitting on the edge of the bed she clasped her hands in her lap and swayed, singing in patois. The gentle tune floated across the room. Geneviève, slightly better, settled into a deep sleep.

  “Tomorrow,” the old woman said, leading everyone out of the room, “she’ll be fine. Keep her still today. And hot broth is best for her.”

  The sun had pushed up above the far ridgeline. In the kitchen again the healer didn’t look so ancient or terrifying. Her skin was clear and there were surprisingly few lines on her face. Her eyes shone with the intensity of kindness. Even her hunch didn’t look that bad anymore.

  “What may I pay you?” Alex asked.

  “No pay! No money! That would break the power. All I’ve done would go to waste. But if you could give me some vegetables you’ve grown there would be something of yourself in them. That would enhance the power.”

  “How?” Katie asked, emboldened by daylight.

  The elderly healer quickly put a finger to the little girl’s lips. “It’s God’s gift,” she said. “And it is not for me, you or anyone else to wonder how or why.”

  Late the next morning, after having slept well and long, Geneviève called each family member by name. When they entered the bedroom they found her smiling. Alex was anxious but afraid to lift the sheet from her leg.

  “Go on,” she said. “It feels so much better.”

  Alex carefully undid the healer’s knot and unwound the bandage that came off clean. Geneviève didn’t wince. The skin underneath had closed up. It wasn’t even red anymore. There was no way to tell the leg had ever been injured!

  “What do you think?” Geneviève asked, sounding her old self again. “Was it the cognac or the faith healer?”

  Laughing joyously, Alex said, “The cognac wasn’t good enough to effect such a cure.”

  That afternoon there was another sharp knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” Alex called through the wooden panel.

  “The bus driver. I have a message from your brother.”

  Alex filled with dread. Had the end of one nightmare led to another? Had something bad happened to one of the Sauverins, po
ssibly Louis or Rose?

  The driver of the old red bus stood on the threshold, smiled broadly and said, “I’ve just come from Vialas. André wanted me to tell you they’ve found a place to live—at last!”

  André and Denise spent most of a week straightening, cleaning, and scrubbing, trying to ready the farmhouse to move into the next Monday. By Saturday that seemed feasible and on Sunday evening they sat down to a family farewell supper at the Hotel Guin. Backed by a fervently nodding Christel, Ida begged Monsieur Navet to join them. When Alphonse Elizière accepted, he mentioned that his sister and nephew had come to town. They were also invited.

  In her mid-forties, Suzanne Maurel was a smidgen shy of five feet tall. She wore a gray-and-black delicately patterned dress well below her knees, its collar tight to her neck and as high as her chin. She had a charming habit of fluffing out her respectably coiffed prematurely gray hair with small, gentle hands. Suzanne laughed easily and spoke with a delightful candor that made everyone feel like old friends.

  Suzanne wanted to know everything about the Sauverins, but she focused most of her attention on André “as a fellow teacher.” Suzanne was even more surprised to learn André had accepted the Freemason membership. André explained that the Grand Orient of Belgium was truly revolutionary within the Freemason fraternity due to its democratic and liberal orientation and because it had abolished the obligatory obeisance to a divine “Grand Architect of the Universe.” As a member André had been delighted to discover men from remarkably varied backgrounds working together toward the common good in an open spirit rich in faith. He was, he explained, particularly interested in those sects which focused on an individual’s direct encounter with God.

  Suzanne interjected genially, “That’s very interesting but it doesn’t sound very scientific.”

  “The more science I know the more clear God’s reality becomes to me, for whatever explanation of physical phenomena we devise there is always a mystery beyond it and another beyond that irreducibly. Isn’t that mystery God?”

  “My son André,” Louis broke in proudly, “has an insatiable curiosity. He brings relentless energy and discipline to all intellectual pursuits.”

  “Ah,” Suzanne said, “then you will adore the people of the Cévennes. You’ll find they have a real love and respect for learning—far more than my students in Alès. You’ll be surprised and pleased I believe by their reverence not only for the Bible but for all literature.”

  “Then I am happy to be among them,” André said enthusiastically.

  “And it is because of this character of freethinking, this continuing heritage of the Huguenot tradition, that the people of the Cévennes resist against the loss of freedom not only of thought but of a true and freely organized government. As an example my husband, Charles, started a resistance movement in Alès among the students, with my help of course and that of Françoise, our thirteen-year-old daughter who’s home with him right now. We printed up and passed out leaflets declaring the dangers of collaboration and the weakness of the Vichy government. Charles saw immediately that the German defeat of France did not free the French from danger. He believes fervently we must make an aggressive effort never to succumb to Nazi pressure. Unfortunately engaging in these activities weakened Charles so he had to give them up. I carry on as best I can. He’s been quite an influence on the children too. But for goodness sake Max can speak for himself!” She pointed to her son, a lanky, fresh-faced, handsome young man of twenty, dark hair with hazel eyes, quick and bright.

  Throughout the evening André had taken note of Max Maurel’s thoughtful and attentive presence even though the young man contributed as little to the conversation as Monsieur Elizière. Max did respond politely to direct address, however. Now, when Rose asked whether he was still in school, he sheepishly noted that he had enrolled the previous year at the University of Montpellier—his mother’s alma mater, some hundred kilometers south of Vialas—to study medicine, for which the university had been renowned since the twelfth century. But the war had forced him to return to Alès at the end of his first spring term.

  With that Max fell silent again. As the dinner dishes were cleared preparatory to dessert, talk turned to Vichy’s decision to allow the Japanese to enter French Indochina—a perplexing move that seemed to clear the way for Japan’s pursuit of territorial expansion. This sparked Max as nothing else that evening.

  “Wait and see,” Max said angrily. “This just proves the Axis powers of Germany and Italy are aligning themselves with Emperor Hirohito and his military government. Mark my words: the Japanese will soon be full participants in this terrible war—on the wrong side!”

  André was impressed by the young man’s passion and capacity for analysis. He wished he could find a way to speak with him in private where the youth might express himself more freely. After dessert André manufactured an opportunity, offering the young man a cigarette. The two stepped out onto the hotel’s balcony for a smoke and a glass of brandy.

  André immediately expressed his regret that Max had been forced to abandon his studies. “My own studies were interrupted by military obligations. You must continue yours as soon as possible,” he said encouragingly.

  “I assure you I will,” Max said fervently. “Nothing can stop me. But for now…You know not every Frenchman is willing to bow down to our new German masters or to that puppet French government.” Max took a long drag on his cigarette and expelled the smoke into the air as if venting his anger. “It’s funny. I didn’t want to say this inside but…though I didn’t know anything about my father’s actions in Alès until later, I joined a group of like-minded students and former students at Montpellier to write and distribute informational tracts against Pétain. Unfortunately the school’s administrators got wind of it, which is why I had to leave. Not that they threatened me—they just expressed ‘disappointment’—but it made me realize it would be dangerous to stay, especially when the orders came down for young men like me to go and work in Germany. More dangerous naturally for my friend and fellow medical student, Fela Klinghofer—a Polish Jew. I could go home to hide but she…she had no place to go. So I took her with me. She’s there now too with Françoise and father. At least we’ve been able to help mother and Françoise with the leafleting.”

  “Is that a delicate situation,” André asked, drawn to and concerned for this young man who reminded him of his very best students in Brussels, “living in the same place as your girlfriend?”

  “What? Oh! Fela’s not my girlfriend! I don’t have a girlfriend! She’s my comrade! And tomorrow we’re both going into Les Chantiers de la Jeunesse. I may have managed to escape the call-up for Germany but…”

  “Les Chantiers de la Jeunesse?”

  “‘Building sites for the young’—Pétain’s latest brainstorm. It’s supposed to get unemployed youth out of the cities and into the countryside—to thin dead trees out of the forests and hack out paths and lanes. Mornings anyway. Afternoons we’re supposed to have ‘educational opportunities.’ Moral education they call it—an investigation of the ethics and legacy of France—but I think it’s all about indoctrination. And they want to keep an eye on us, keep us out of trouble. Keep us from making trouble. Ah well. I’ll enjoy the fresh air.”

  By then the two men’s glasses had been drained and their cigarettes had gone out. Much as André enjoyed Max’s company and his stimulating perspective, he realized it would be rude to remain apart from the others any longer, especially now that he knew it was only a matter of hours before Max and his mother would be separated for some time to come.

  With the evening at an end André reflected on how remarkable the Maurels were and how much he would miss them even though they had just met. He was especially touched when Suzanne said good night and embraced him with tears in her eyes.

  “We will see you soon,” she assured him, smiling through her tears—or was she reassuring herself? “After all, now we are officially neighbors!”

  “Yes,” André
said, happy at the prospect. “Soleyrols isn’t all that far from your summer house, is it? We must have you to dinner as soon as we settle in.”

  “And you must visit La Planche. Of course if you ever find yourselves in Alès I know Charles and Françoise would enjoy meeting you as much as we have.”

  As the others drifted out of the dining room, André lingered for a final word with Max.

  “I just wanted to tell you what a pleasure this has been,” André told him. “I trust we will meet again before too much time has passed. And I’d love to meet your friend Fela.”

  “And she will look forward to meeting you,” added Max. They shook hands as the evening ended.

  While Louis napped in the back bedroom, Rose sat in the large front room of the house across from the café, looking out the window, waiting for the bus. The previous week the bus driver had delivered the news of La Font to Alex and returned with a message on a plain sheet of paper, written in the same tiny elegant penmanship Alex used to mark his ratings on the backs of collectable stamps: We will soon start sending bags of carrots, beets, and whatever else we can still harvest.

  When Alex’s shipment finally arrived the last Thursday of September, it was not a disappointment. In addition to the large sacks of carrots and beets he had promised specifically and which the bus driver was kind enough to lug out and set beside Louis and Rose’s front door, there were two chickens and two rabbits in four separate cardboard boxes.

  Chickens! Rabbits! Rose wondered what Alex knew about acquiring or raising them. Would André know what to do with them?

  Distracted by these concerns, Rose forgot that André wanted another message delivered to Alex until the bus driver was climbing back into his conveyance. Racing to reach him before he drove off she called out, “Please! When you see Alex could you tell him André hopes he’ll find and buy a cast-iron wood-burning stove in Bédouès or maybe Florac that he can send along with you?”