“Your brother?” André asked Léon.
“Cousin,” the old farmer answered.
“And my son?” Alex asked, almost apoplectic.
“Philippe is just a little farther away with the family of Edouard Ours in Le Lauzas, part of Le Collet-de-Dèze, south of Saint-Frézal-de-Ventalon. They have a lot of children. I’m sure he’s safe and happy there.”
“Away from his mother?”
“Just one of the precautions the Resistance judged it wise to take,” the pastor said levelly.
Alex continued to stare at Pastor Donadille. Slowly his look softened. “Forgive me,” he apologized. “I’m worried, concerned, upset. But it has nothing to do with you or any of the good people doing all they can to help us.”
“We all understand,” Donadille said, putting out a hand, which Alex took in his.
Talk turned to the question of security throughout the Cévennes.
“The Maquisards are strong around here,” Léon said. Then he smiled broadly. “Of course the strength of the Resistance is mostly due to the Communists.”
Alex was surprised by this. He had had the impression that factions within the Resistance locally were much less significant than before André had staged his intervention at La Font.
“Léon only says such things because he himself is a Communist,” Pastor Donadille told the brothers good-naturedly.
“Naturally I’m a Communist,” Léon declared. “Only the Communists have a real feel for the people. The government never cared about us even before that idiot Pétain took over. And neither do the socialists or the conservatives.”
“Léon’s a good man,” the pastor said grinning, “but he holds to his own opinions.”
“Still a Communist!”
Donadille winked at the Sauverins conspiratorially. “And like all Communists he doesn’t hold much truck with religious people like myself. You don’t think much of us Protestants, do you, Léon? Neither your forebears nor your contemporaries.”
Léon stamped the ground and gave a firm negative shake of his head. “Ah, you’re all right, Donadille,” he conceded. “You’re a good man too—not so much for the religious part but because of your Resistance work.”
“You wouldn’t have the one without the other,” the pastor insisted.
“If you say so. But I still don’t believe all that religious gobbledy-gook—not to be insulting to you two,” Léon said to André and Alex. “You can be Jews or not. I don’t care one way or the other.”
“I feel about religion as you do,” Alex quickly told Léon, “but I’m no Communist.”
“My religious views are ever-changing,” André explained, “but they’re much closer to those of Pastor Donadille than to those of my ancestors.”
The weather having become pleasant by mid-May, Georgette bid her household farewell and set off for Vialas. The sun was lovely and warm, the air fresh and filled with the exhilarating scents of spring. Georgette felt wonderful, as if the Sauverins were no problem, just welcome company. If at times Georgette had felt a little down…well, maybe she just needed to get out more.
Delighted and optimistic, Georgette did not immediately notice the souring mood of the town. But on either side of Vialas’s market street she spotted pairs of Milice thugs dressed in crude but obvious imitations of Gestapo uniforms interrogating ordinary people doing nothing more than a little Saturday shopping.
Georgette’s impulse was to turn and run but she realized instantly she had to go on because any sudden movement would single her out for the investigation presently underway. Even deviating from her path might attract unwanted attention though that path was about to lead her right by an older woman attempting to appease two questioning goons.
The terrified woman wailed, “I heard the men were flown away by the Royal Air Force!”
The Milice spat. Georgette was horrified by the way the brutes treated this old woman but her words were worse: she was talking about the Sauverins. The Milice were pursuing them!
All the villagers of Vialas knew something about the Belgians in their midst but what each knew remained an open question. No one was likely aware of where the Sauverins were just then but if anyone chose to cooperate or accidentally let slip that they might be hiding nearby…
Despite the enormous peril, Georgette lingered by a vegetable stand hoping to learn enough to determine how immediate the threat was to the Sauverins—and to herself and Simone.
“Messieurs, we have not seen these brothers for months and months.”
“What about their families?” the Milice demanded unrelentingly. “The women and the children—they fled La Font too. Where are they?”
“Truly, Messieurs, I do not know. I have never had anything to do with any refugees, let alone these. Please, you must believe me.”
One of the Milice monsters spat again at this miserable woman’s feet. But the other said she could go, which she did—skittering away, terror in her eyes, strain distorting her face.
Georgette put down the greens she had pretended to look at and as casually as she could turned and followed the “witness,” simulating a leisurely pace even though she could not have been more anxious to get away from the Milice. Soon she overtook a pair of women engaged in heated discussion.
“Good for them,” one said. “I hope they never find them.”
Georgette was grateful for this support of the Sauverins and, by extension, of herself. She knew she had to be much braver than before and felt encouraged by these women because it was brave of them to speak in public. In the little gatherings of houses on the mountainsides one could speak freely. But here…
Georgette’s worrying intensified. Everyone knew the butcher was a collaborator. Were there others? Maybe someone would talk. With the Milice stopping people randomly on the streets…
Warmer weather will make it easier for the Milice to track down refugees, Georgette thought, striding home rapidly, even in remote places like Villaret.
She knew she would have to tell Denise everything. What else could she do? But she certainly wouldn’t say a word until the children went to sleep.
Then an idea struck her with the force of revelation: Tomorrow I’m going to the Temple!
When Georgette returned to Villaret from the services in Saint-Frézal-de-Ventalon late the next afternoon, she sat Denise down in the great room to say, “Marc Donadille will be visiting his parishioners this week. His regular ministry.” She laughed. “Of course we all understand his ‘regular ministry’ now: helping to save everyone he can from the Nazis and their sympathizers.”
“So…?”
“So we wait. The pastor will be here—today, maybe tomorrow, certainly this week. With a plan.” A light film of perspiration covered Georgette’s flushed face and long gray wisps of her hair kept coming loose, falling in front of her ears and sticking to the moisture on her cheeks and lips. “We need to be ready to act quickly when he says the time is right.”
Dazed, if not stricken, Denise said, “I shouldn’t be surprised. At least this time will be easier since we stored almost everything in Soleyrols.”
“Sh!” Georgette warned. “Don’t tell any more than I need to know.”
“Sorry,” Denise said softly, chastened. But after two months of intimacy it seemed only natural to tell Georgette everything.
“It’s all right. It’s just the war. It does things to all of us. Before the war we all knew everything about everyone else. And after the war we’ll know everything again. But now we can’t. We mustn’t.” Georgette sat beside Denise at the table and held her hands. “Nothing should be this way. We’ll miss you when you go.”
But they didn’t go, though their canvas bags and suitcase were packed and waiting by the door. Night after night the week dragged on. Still Pastor Donadille did not appear.
When the quick, solid knock finally came during supper Saturday night, Denise jumped.
“Who is it, Maman?” Ida asked excitedly. “Is it him?”
/> “We won’t know until we open the door,” Denise said, trying to sound calm.
Simone leapt up to get it. Soon she brought in the pastor, who shook himself to ease the strain on his back caused by the little pack he carried.
“Mesdames,” the pastor said formally. “You are well I trust.”
“Now that you have come, yes,” Denise replied, marveling how despite the war and all they had already gone through together propriety was still appreciated and sustained.
“Pastor,” Georgette offered politely, “will you have some soup and a little bread with us? There isn’t much left tonight but you’re welcome to what we have.”
“No need.” The pastor patted his belly gently and laughed lightly. “I ate well at midday.” Then he resumed his formal manner. “Madame Denise, I have come to lead you and your children across the ridge to Le Salson. To Ernestine Roux and her daughter Irene Bastide.”
“Irene?” Ida squealed delightedly.
Pastor Donadille smiled. “She looks forward to seeing you again too. Did you know Irene and her mother are cousins of the Guins with whom the brothers Sauverin stay?”
“Is Le Salson far?” Denise asked, almost as excited now as Ida but anxious about whether she and her children had the strength to make the journey.
“Not so far, no. But more isolated and much safer than here.” The pastor turned back to Georgette. “Other sources have confirmed what you told me last week: the Milice seem energized. They are going out into many villages now asking more and more questions. I doubt they even know Villaret exists but we dare not take chances.”
“So they go now?” Georgette asked apprehensively.
“As soon as Madame is ready.”
Denise looked at Georgette, who was on the verge of tears, and patted her hand. “It’s best for us all that we go quickly.”
Pastor Donadille gazed at the two women steadily. “You are both very brave. None of us could have gotten this far if you weren’t.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” Georgette said, bowing slightly to him and wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.
“Come, children,” Denise said gathering the girls, picking up her son and moving toward the front door. “Tell me, Pastor Donadille, will we be closer to André and Alex? Do you think we’ll be able to see them?”
“Perhaps.” The pastor followed the Sauverins to the door then turned back to Georgette, who had followed him. “When did you last see your husband? I neglected to ask last Sunday.”
“Three months,” Georgette said in the hushed voice she assumed on the rare occasion the painful subject came up. “My man left home around the time the Sauverin men left La Font.” Again Georgette seemed about to cry but instead she snorted with anger and derision despite the pastor’s presence. “The bastards. The filthy rotten creatures who do the dirty work for the Bosch and turn their countrymen in to the Gestapo to save their own useless skins.” Georgette balled the hem of her apron and worked it nervously back and forth. “But don’t worry about me, Pastor. I’ll survive. I have Simone and I know my husband is out there with the others. Of course I pray for him constantly. Every day.” A single tear ran alongside her nose. She wiped it and sniffled. “But what am I thinking? You’ll want to take a little something with you! Simone, will you help me?”
The pastor stood waiting. Denise helped her children into their heavy outerwear since it could still be chilly at night.
The Guibals returned with several small packages.
“This isn’t much,” Georgette said. “Just the remains of that big round loaf of bread we had for dinner and several pieces of our hard goat’s cheese.”
“That smelly stuff?” Christel complained.
“Christel!” Denise chastised. Her daughters were wonderful but they still needed to be reminded occasionally to mind their manners.
“That’s all right,” Georgette laughed. “It is smelly. And the smellier the better I say!” She winked at Christel. Christel squirmed. “You’ll also find slices from that joint of smoked ham hanging in back of the root cellar.”
“Look, Maman,” Ida said, pointing to Cristian, who sat on the floor with his back to the door, all but swallowed by his coat, his little head nodding as his eyelids fluttered uncontrollably. “He’s almost asleep. But don’t worry. I’ll carry him.”
“I’ll help,” Marc Donadille said sweetly, grinning appreciatively at Ida.
“Let me try first,” Denise said, lifting her son gently to her shoulder. “Amazing. Only eight days till his first birthday and he’s still so light.”
The Sauverins and Guibals made their good-byes. Ida clung tearfully to Simone. Simone also seemed moved.
“Must we go, Maman?” Ida asked. “I really like it here.”
“But I don’t like having to bend down all the time,” Christel countered. “Where we’re going will we still have to stay away from the windows?”
“I don’t think you will, little one,” the pastor said pleasantly, crouching down beside Christel to reassure her. “The place where you’re going is far far away, where no one else can see. I think you’ll be able to stand up as much as you like, even in front of the windows!”
“Well, that’s better,” Christel said somewhat petulantly.
Georgette leaned to give Ida a hug and a kiss on each cheek. Then she picked up Christel and held her for a long moment before giving her her little kiss on each cheek.
“You take care,” Georgette said, smiling though looking forlorn. “And be good girls like you have been here. I’ll think of you often.”
“But we will see you again, won’t we?” Ida asked, becoming emotional. “Simone, I will see you?”
“Of course,” Simone said in a hoarse whisper.
“When?”
“Soon. Very soon.” Simone turned away as she said, “I hope.”
Denise and Georgette made one final quick display of affection.
“Thank you so much,” Denise said, hoping to convey the intensity of her gratitude as much with her eyes as her words. “I can’t begin to say…”
“I know,” Georgette said, squeezing her hand. “I know.”
Simone stepped forward and with a little curtsey offered Denise a kiss on each cheek. Then Marc Donadille opened the door and without another word stepped out into the night.
The dark was alleviated by the glow of a half moon and the sparkling of a million stars. The Sauverins followed the pastor down the path. Suddenly alert, Cristian began babbling to himself and waggling his head, delighted by the change of routine and scenery.
Denise concentrated on the narrow gravel paths and the even narrower tracks in the woods. Despite the cool night air, the brisk walk heated them till they regretted their heavy coats, but it was still easier to wear than to hold them. Every once in a while Donadille—carrying the suitcase—slowed just enough to let the lagging girls catch up.
After they’d been walking about half an hour, the pastor told Denise, “It will take us another two and a half hours to get to Le Salson. Can your daughters handle it?”
“They’ll have to,” Denise said simply, negotiating around several large rocks.
“Listen,” the pastor said, holding up his hand and stopping them all in their tracks.
From far away Denise could hear all the noises of the night: insects, birds, nocturnal animals creeping about.
“Noise is good,” Pastor Donadille said cheerfully. “If anyone was out and about prowling all God’s creatures would sense danger and quiet down. So their noise is a comfort.”
They continued their dogged way uphill so long that Denise hoped they’d made good progress.
At the crest of the mountain the pastor peered and pointed below. “That way,” he said. “Le Tronc.”
Le Tronc. Denise’s heartbeat strengthened. André. Alex.
But as she knew he must, the pastor led them in another direction. He found a path that ran down the mountain into the same great valley that contained Le Tronc but wo
uld usher them toward a different place: the little collection of homes Denise could just make out in the distance.
“Le Salson,” Donadille said, pointing again. “You see that flickering light?” He gesticulated more excitedly. “It must be the lantern Irene said she’d leave shining through the window of the main room of her little farmhouse. I admit I’m relieved. I trust my wonderful fellow Resistance workers but when making arrangements we have to work with a word here and a lifted eyebrow there. So each time it’s good to see how effective their efforts can be. They said Irene and her mother would wait up for us. Thank God they did.”
At an hour when she was usually long and fast asleep, Irene Bastide was a bundle of nerves not because she feared discovery (the local gendarmes rarely set foot in Le Salson and the Milice and Gestapo had never been seen there), nor because she was troubled by the close proximity of the other three families living in her tiny hamlet (each of those families had at least one man in the Resistance), but because her husband was not in the Resistance. A French soldier, he had been captured by the Germans in the first days of the lost war and imprisoned in northern France. Three years later Irene had no idea where her man was or even if he was still alive. The last letter she had had from him had arrived more than a year before and she had worried every day since. A young, recent bride when her husband went off to fight, she had been worn thin—or thinner, given how large she was to begin with and still remained. Now she appeared prematurely aged due to relentless emotional pain and anxiety.
Her accustomed apprehension was tinged tonight with as much excitement and hope as fear. The thought of those children—those two darling little girls and now a baby boy—thrilled her. They would be her special charge. She would care for them with unending delight.
Her mother Ernestine, widowed by the Great War as so many were, would gain renewed interest in life too. Irene suspected Ernestine would especially appreciate the company of another adult—especially one as worldly and sophisticated as Denise Sauverin.
But the children…oh! For Irene Bastide to have a hand in raising and comforting young ones in a house she had once hoped to fill with children of her own…
In This Hospitable Land Page 28
