Alex hadn’t anticipated the need to keep a pig interested in eating. At least the creature kept putting on pounds. To judge by the look of him Adolph would be fattened up for the slaughter by the time cold weather arrived.
The Sauverins were slowly becoming self-sufficient like the region’s long-established residents. Every day they felt less need to go to Vialas. As they produced more of what they had formerly bought, they found their ration coupons lasted longer. They did so well they even felt free to sell off the last of the previous season’s chestnuts.
Agricultural disappointments were few. The potato yield only increased fourfold above seed stock. Even though the textbook suggested growth by a factor of ten to twelve that still meant lots of potatoes. And as if to compensate for that “failure” they pulled a great many more carrots out of the ground than expected. The Cévenol summer had passed its peak but these root vegetables continued their exceptional productivity.
The corn proved a triumph as did the soybeans. In fact the twenty-four soybean seeds produced a crop sufficient to help feed the family and their livestock and to save a great many more seeds to plant the next spring—if necessary.
The need to stay in Soleyrols was a distressing but increasingly likely prospect. Pétain broadcast a speech asserting Hitler had attacked Stalin’s Russia “in defense of civilization” and he had taken measures to suppress opposition political parties in the unoccupied zone, to create a stronger police force and—most frighteningly—to establish special courts.
Denise felt encouraged by a joint declaration by Roosevelt and Churchill. The “Atlantic Charter” described their vision of a free, peaceful, democratic world to be constructed after the destruction of Nazi tyranny. She believed these leaders would never have enunciated such a vision if they did not intend and anticipate its realization.
The Sauverins were well-housed, well-fed, comparatively safe and—most important—together. Which need not have been true. Much had gone badly for the Jews in France since late August when the Germans opened a major concentration camp in the northern Parisian suburb of Drancy, a holding facility and transit point for Jews who would later be sent—well, no one knew where, assuming they weren’t executed…a real possibility since German authorities threatened to shoot Drancy detainees should attacks on German troops and interests continue.
Continue they did. In a matter of days, Pierre Laval and a prominent pro-German newspaper editor were shot and wounded near Versailles by a young man acting independently. Always seeking to impress its German masters, the Vichy government ordered the immediate roundup of many opponents, generally branded Communists.
Distinctions were drawn between French and non-French Jews in France. The non-French were better off because only French police rounded them up. French Jews were rounded up the Gestapo since the brutes didn’t trust the French police to arrest their fellow countrymen.
Which did not make the Sauverins sanguine. They would have to be increasingly careful in their travels and associations as the Germans and their henchmen became more entrenched.
The sheep behaved well until chestnut season. Then they revealed a taste for falling nuts.
“They like them more than we do,” Denise suggested, penning the sheep for the night.
“That’s not saying much,” Geneviève said sullenly.
“Who cares whether we like chestnuts?” Alex demanded. “The sheep eat what we need. Do you really think they’re worth the effort?”
“Their behavior is certainly exasperating,” Denise conceded.
“Isn’t it interesting though,” André asked archly, “that the lambs always follow Alex?”
Denise giggled.
“They’re still stupid,” Alex said miserably.
He left to expend his anger slopping pigs. Over the summer the family had acquired two more. Besides “Adolph” they now had “Herman” and “Emmy,” named after the Görings.
With those names, Alex thought, slaughtering them will be a pleasure.
Early on the morning of October twenty-fourth, Alex went out alone to look at trees. He and André had already scavenged the dead and fallen for the hard winter ahead. Now they would have to chop down a few live ones, sanctioned neither by custom nor tradition. So he did his best to select those which didn’t produce anything valuable enough to rival the family’s need for heat. He had to wander farther and farther afield for such trees, which meant hauling as well as chopping. And they would have to fulfill Rose’s needs as well as their own.
When he returned to the house for breakfast, Alex ran into the postman and told him about the evacuation of Moscow. The postman reported the latest rumor: de Gaulle had met the previous day with leaders of the French Resistance asking them to spare the innocent and bide their time.
As the postman started back downhill, Alex was glad to see Emmanuel and Sebastian coming up. Two Spanish Communists, they had come to France as refugees from their civil war and somewhat later had visited La Font to satisfy their curiosity about the Sauverins. Now they returned every few weeks out of friendship and to see the children as they yearned for their own.
Swarthy gentlemen with black hair and deep-set eyes lined at the corners, Emmanuel and Sebastian looked older than their twenty and twenty-two years respectively. Born into farming families, they had worked their native land until joining the Republican army to fight Franco.
“We were lucky to get away,” Emmanuel, the taller, leaner one—his body hardened first from digging in the baked soil of his family’s farm and then from several years of fighting—had explained to the Sauverins, with whom he and Sebastian had immediately felt comfortable. “Once Franco’s army started winning, they hunted for us hard and knew just where to look.”
“The climb through the mountains was difficult,” Sebastian had added, explaining how they had come into the Cévennes. Shorter than Emmanuel but more heavily muscled, his chest was deep, his shoulders were broad, and the black hair on his chest curled up above his shirt. That he was cross-eyed too helped create a special bond with Ida. “Leaving our families behind was unbearably sad but at least we think our women and children are safe. I don’t know about my father though. But I can hope. Not Emmanuel. His father was killed in our last battle. Right before his eyes.”
Emmanuel had sighed heavily. “That was enough for me.”
“So now our women work the fields while we work in the mines.”
“The work is hard but it’s better than evading Franco’s police.”
“Crazy,” Sebastian had said. “Now we have to hide from Pétain’s police.”
The Sauverins knew little else about the Spaniards except that they lived in a hamlet farther down the valley and labored in the barium mine. Also they were knowledgeable in agricultural matters and happily lent Alex and André a hand in exchange for a little food. Farmwork gratified them. Each time they set to, their tough protective exteriors softened.
And they glowed spending time with the Sauverin children, taking special delight in tossing the youngsters high into the air and carefully catching them when they came down. The children loved it too.
Today the two were glad to help chop firewood and lug it from far up the hill to outside the kitchen. While they worked, they spoke with regret and disgust of rumors they had heard concerning a volunteer Spanish brigade joining the German fight against the Russians.
“We would fight on the other side,” Sebastian asserted, “if it all didn’t seem so futile.”
At the end of the day Alex was anxious to think up a new way to show his appreciation, which wasn’t as easy as when the gardens were producing. Then he had an inspiration.
He had long wondered what to do about the old goat who had lost her kid in childbirth. The goat was of no use anymore except as meat and Geneviève would never allow her kin to eat the poor thing. Yet feeding the goat was a drain on their domestic economy. Perhaps Emmanuel and Sebastian would be interested.
The Spaniards declared goat a favorite
meal among the miners. But they wouldn’t simply accept the animal as an act of charity. Though Alex didn’t want their money, he finally agreed to take a few francs—far fewer than even a thin goat was worth.
CHAPTER NINE
CRISTIAN
OCTOBER 26, 1941
Speaking with André had been on Denise’s mind all day in part because the twenty-sixth of October was her brother Francis’s twenty-third birthday—such a baby really, yet flying in fighter planes. But she could never find the right opportunity. Before she knew it supper was done, the dishes were washed and put away, and there her husband and she were, snuggling in bed, trying to warm each other against the mid-autumn chill.
Denise whispered excitedly, “I think we’re going to have another little one!”
In the dark awaiting her husband’s reaction—shock? displeasure? delight?—she filled with trepidation. Listening to his steady breathing, she sensed André’s eyes open wide and felt him shift position, propping himself upright on the thin mattress recently restuffed with cornstalks. When he leaned over and gave her a long tender kiss she flushed with warmth—released to fully enjoy carrying another of André’s children.
“That’s wonderful,” monsieur le professeur Sauverin whispered at last, the palpable thrill in his voice making up for the slight delay. “When will it happen?”
“Hard to say,” Denise responded gaily now. “Maybe late May. I’m so happy. It may not be convenient, but what joy!”
“I love you,” André burst out, more loudly than seemed wise.
“Careful.” Denise giggled. “Let’s not upset Alex with a display of affection!”
“I dread his reaction.” André sighed. “I suppose I should tell him myself?”
“And I’d like to tell Geneviève.”
André embraced his wife again, resting his hand gently on her belly. “Why do I think you got the easier assignment?”
The following morning while Denise announced the news to her sister in the kitchen André told his brother as they stepped outside to release the sheep into the fields.
“What a stupid thing to do!” Alex shouted. “How could you let that happen?”
Instantly angered, André realized it had been absurd to expect Alex to react like anyone else and simply offer congratulations.
“Geneviève and I would never be so reckless,” Alex groused.
André grinned. The more he thought about the pregnancy the more pleased he was.
“There’s a war going on!” Alex exploded. “It’s a struggle to survive even without an extra burden.”
“I think we’ll be fine,” André replied peaceably, though he was becoming aggravated by Alex’s inability to be happy for him and Denise. “And may I remind you,” he said stiffly, “that you and Geneviève knew it was a troubled world with more trouble to come when you got pregnant with Philippe in ‘38? Yet you chose further life. And Denise and I choose life now.”
“We’ve just gotten Philippe out of diapers,” Alex groaned. “To go through that again…”
In the kitchen Denise and Geneviève smiled broadly.
“I think it’s wonderful,” Geneviève said to Alex. “Don’t you?”
Alex reflexively shook his head no. “What if we’re forced into hiding?” he demanded. “A squalling infant will give us all away.”
“We’ll take care of it, Alex. We’ll manage.”
“What about a doctor?” Alex breathed, uncontrollably vexed. “The doctor from Vialas who tried to help Father isn’t around anymore.”
“We’ll manage,” Geneviève said soothingly, rubbing her husband’s back.
“It’s all such a bother,” he complained.
“The doctor is an issue,” André allowed. “But I think Max Maurel could help.”
“Max!” Denise clapped her hands. “So warm and so intelligent.”
“Do you think he’ll be available?” Geneviève asked.
“We can’t be certain he’ll be free from Les Chantiers de la Jeunesse,” André replied. “But we can hope.”
“How will that help if he’s living in Alès?” Alex asked dubiously.
“He might agree to stay at La Planche,” André countered, “once he knows.”
“A young man with no experience,” Alex went on, “who never finished his studies.”
“He’s a fine fellow,” André said firmly. “I’m sure he already knows enough.”
“What fun to have an infant around again,” Geneviève cheered.
“Given the midwifery skills Geneviève demonstrated with the old goat, maybe Denise would be better off in the hands of an untutored boy,” Alex scoffed, storming out of the farmhouse.
“He doesn’t mean it,” André told his wife and sister-in-law.
“Of course he does,” Geneviève said knowingly. “But don’t you worry.” Sweetly she gave her big sister a little hug. “Everything will be all right—even Alex. He’s just afraid.” Then she excused herself to see to him.
“That went well,” André told his wife sardonically.
“It will all be fine.” Overwhelmed with exhaustion, Denise slumped in her seat.
“Shall I go tell Mother?” André asked gingerly. “I think she should hear it from one of us.”
“No,” Denise replied rising slowly and slipping her hand through her husband’s arm. “Let’s go together. I want to see Rose’s face when she learns of this new life.”
Early November brought the solemn first anniversary of Louis Sauverin’s passing. A week later André and Denise turned forty and thirty-two, but the family was in no mood to celebrate.
The weather had turned cold enough to prevent meat from spoiling so they decided Adolph should be slaughtered. Almost all the villagers of Soleyrols showed up to assist since hog butchering was traditionally a communal activity—a big job requiring an experienced hand at the helm and much additional help to assure the fullest use of every bit of the animal, including the head and feet, which would be turned into souse.
All the messy work involved, such as cleaning the intestines, disgusted sophisticated Geneviève. But the previous winter’s experience of fatback had developed her visceral sense of the value of viscera. And with the stuck pig’s carefully saved blood, she, Denise, and Rose could make boudin—blood sausage—in the Belgian style Louis would have appreciated.
And then there were the chestnuts to collect. It went slightly more swiftly this year since their hands and fingers were experienced. But it was still painful and painfully tedious.
The Sauverins’ St. Nicholas Day Eve celebration was spare and quiet again but enjoyable. Two days later, though, they had quite a shock when they learned of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and the loss of three thousand American lives.
Yet some good came out of this latest atrocity. It finally forced the United States to declare war on the Axis powers.
Soon afterward, the BBC brought more dreadful news: German mechanized forces had destroyed much of the Soviet army and the Germans had overrun almost all of European Russia. Fortunately harsh winter weather, as so often before, had come to the aid of the Russian people. For the moment the Nazi drive on Moscow was stopped in its tracks.
On a different scale winter made life difficult for the Sauverins too, as before. They only went outside when necessary for the briefest time possible. When a huge snowstorm blew in on Christmas day, the children were prevented from attending the pageant at the Protestant temple in Vialas which they had spent months looking forward to and preparing for.
The Sauverins also felt lucky to have special foods to share. In addition to the wealth of their larder, including the wonders of “Adolph,” there were dried fruits and of all things sardines Uncle Paul Herz—Leonore and Regine’s brother—had sent from Portugal.
Another luxury was coffee. Real coffee beans had become nearly impossible to obtain but André had devised a system for making them last by combining them with ground soybeans. As long as one added a dash of imagination it was
somewhat flavorful.
Perhaps the greatest gift to arrive at this time was a response at long last from Anna Sauverin. The letter from Brussels was circumspect to say the least. Aware that the authorities were reading all mail, Anna had felt terribly constrained. At least the Sauverins in Soleyrols could gather that the family in Belgium was managing to survive.
In late January there was an unexpected knock on the door. Marc Donadille, the pastor from Saint-Frézal-de-Ventalon, had learned of the Sauverins from Sebastian and Emmanuel and had decided to pay a call as part of his ministry and to express his concern for the exiles’ welfare.
Primarily he was concerned that the Sauverins were living relatively openly, under their own names.
Alex snarled, “And what are we to do about that? We’re registered under our own names here and elsewhere.”
“There’s always the possibility…” Pastor Donadille trailed off briefly before completing his thought. “Certain sympathetic officials in interesting situations—in towns where the churches that held birth records have burned down…Let me look into it.”
As soon as the pastor was gone, Alex said, “So he’s part of the Resistance?”
“I suppose,” André agreed. “Everyone knows the Protestant pastors of this region are associated with the Resistance. But no one speaks that truth out loud.”
In the depths of February a significant lessening in the quantity of milk produced by the family’s goats worried Geneviève. There was no obvious cause. But a careful examination of the goats’ udders revealed the smallest of puncture wounds in every teat.
“Snake,” Albertine Brignand declared nonchalantly. “Not uncommon here.”
Geneviève shuddered, as frightened of snakes as of rats.
Albertine laughed. “Time to call the faith healer!”
In another time and place Geneviève would have dismissed this as superstitious nonsense. But after her experience in Bédouès…
In This Hospitable Land Page 19
