In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

  The next two hours passed mostly in silence. Each man was profoundly engaged with his own thoughts and the struggle to get comfortable and breathe.

  Finally Max felt the truck rumble over the ancient arched stone bridge that crossed the headwaters of the Tarn and gave the town its name. Soon the driver slowed to a prearranged stop by a small alley to pick up a compatriot. Then he quickly started off again.

  The truck wound up along the hills surrounding Le Pont-de-Montvert, crossing little streams and passing occasional gatherings of homes until it entered an ancient village close by the mountain pass leading into another valley. Skirting the fountain in the town square that pulsed water beneath a metal cross commemorating all the wars fought and sacrifices made since the village had been established, it turned into a side street which devolved into an old farm path—nothing but rocks, ruts, gravel, and dirt.

  The driver brought the truck to a halt and the recently added passenger hopped out to open the huge door of the largest barn at the Resistance camp. Then the driver pulled the truck in and turned off the engine.

  It wasn’t easy but Max, André, and Alex disengaged themselves from logs and sacks, opened the rear door and climbed out stiffly. The driver was busy removing burning charcoal from the gasogene—a far longer process than shutting off the engine.

  Some twenty men were scattered in the dim light of the barn’s interior. There were no animals or other indications that this was part of a working farm. It wasn’t. There was a great deal of work going on in the camp but none of it had anything to do with farming.

  There was a mix of languages—French, Spanish, Polish, even German, for the Maquis included refugees from Nazi Germany. One man approached the apprehensive Sauverins eagerly.

  “Welcome,” he said, grasping the brothers’ hands. “We’re happy to see Max got you here all right. Now you go over there. That fellow will find you a place.”

  The greeter pointed toward a lean man who stood up abruptly and said, “Follow me.”

  The brothers walked away, leaving Max behind. A beefy hand clapped Max’s shoulder. His grizzled, middle-aged chief said, “Welcome back. Tomorrow then.” And, quieter, “You’re sure they can be trusted?”

  “Anyone forced to flee Belgium and hide in this rugged terrain can have no love for the Germans. I know the Sauverins well. Good people.”

  “And what did you say they do normally?”

  “One’s a professor. The other’s a stamp dealer.”

  The chief broke into a broad gap-toothed grin. “I don’t think we’ve ever had either of those before.” The smile fled. “But they know about sheep?”

  “They kept sheep on their farm in Soleyrols and there are sheep where they’re staying now too.”

  His thoughts already turning elsewhere, the chief said, “They’re going to learn a lot more about animals before we’re done with them.”

  The taciturn, lanky gentleman led André and Alex to their quarters for the night in one of a handful of wooden shacks of simple frame construction built by Les Chantiers de la Jeunesse. Something in the nature of this man’s silence discouraged questions.

  The brothers were shown to a tiny room with improvised beds of straw on the floor. They settled down wearily.

  The next morning they were surprised to have slept long and well despite their stiffness and assorted aches. Tired though they were they still woke with the first light of dawn seeping through the cracks in the roughhewn wood walls, having lived as farmers for years.

  Max came in almost immediately. “We all wake up early too,” he said, “especially in the barn and particularly before an operation when everyone’s nerves are on edge. Not that we’re not hopeful.”

  The day was gray but dry and crisp. The brothers mustered quickly and joined the other Maquis gathered around the chief in the dim light of the large barn.

  “Tomorrow,” the chief announced, standing on a bale of hay, “our local farmers start driving five hundred sheep toward Le Pont-de-Montvert. We’re going to make sure none reaches the intended destination. You have all been assigned, mostly in pairs, to farms and farmers we know support the Resistance. After we ‘divert’ the sheep—some of which belong to collaborators—they will be hidden by our supporters.”

  The Sauverins were impressed that the Maquisards knew which farmers were with or against them, who they could trust or must fear, who could be asked to help with this operation and who should be left in the dark.

  The chief broke into a great grin. “The Germans have already paid for these sheep. So we’ll finally have reason to be grateful to the Nazis—for buying us French lamb and mutton.”

  The resisters laughed appreciatively, whistled, and clapped. But one asked, “When we get our sheep into one of these local barns, then what?”

  “The farmers will immediately slaughter one or two so have some meat for yourselves. Then bring back as much as you can carry. But don’t be too obvious about it, eh? Oh, and several camps are working on this operation so others will have new provisions too. After that the farmers have agreed to keep the sheep as long as necessary, mixed in with their own flocks.”

  The chief stepped down from the hay bale and put on his hat and coat. The greatcoat was worn not for warmth at that time of year but to conceal the pistol in his belt.

  He assigned the teams and gave individual instructions. The men drifted out. André and Alex accompanied Max, relieved to be working with someone they knew.

  Some Maquisards walked north, crossing open fields on well-worn farm paths. Others rode bicycles. A handful left in one of two ancient trucks. Several more drove off in one of very few cars. It was remarkable that the Resistance had that many vehicles—all converted to gasogene.

  Max and the Sauverins made their way on foot with Max as guide. First they followed some others on a small path north. Then they veered alone to the west.

  They walked most of the day, making the Sauverins glad they had grown stronger and hardier by working outdoors for three years.

  “See that farm?” Max said now and again, pointing as they trudged through little hamlets. “The farmer and his neighbors will take all the sheep we bring them.”

  Just past sunset but before complete dark they entered the small village in which they would spend the night. Smoke rose from chimneys in several houses. Occasionally a light could be spied shining from a window onto the only lane, which bisected the small community: five houses on one side, outlying farm buildings on the other.

  Max approached the largest house and rapped on its door with the great black metal knocker that proclaimed the owner’s financial success. The traditional bolt shot back and yet another Cévenol farmer stood in his open doorway peering at the new arrivals skeptically.

  “Sheep?” Max asked: the password.

  “Sheep,” the farmer replied, standing aside to let them in. An older man—tallish, rangy, firm-muscled, with calloused hands and slightly bent from long working the earth—offered no name and neither did Max: part of the chief’s security plan?

  “Come eat,” the farmer encouraged. “You’re hungry and we’ve been waiting for you.”

  The room was bright with several electric lights, another sign of the farmer’s above-average productivity. His wife—short, slender, quiet, with modest clothes and a gentle careworn face—brought out country bread and butter, and beef left over from previous meals. Not bajana!

  Everyone ate rapidly. Alex hesitated to taste the wheel of homemade cheese because it was fearsomely encrusted with mold and dirt. But the farmer and his wife dug into it heedlessly, appreciatively, so he decided to run the risk and was rewarded with a remarkably smooth and tangy sensation. When he remarked upon the unusual savor the farmer laughed, doubting Alex had ever eaten cheese made from sheep’s milk before. Even if he had, this wheel would still taste different because of the distinctive grasses the sheep grazed in the high pastures during the warmer months.

  The farmer and his wife aged the cheese in their own
root cellar. The apples and pears which had lasted the winter and which all ate for dessert had picked up some of the flavor from sitting alongside the cheese as it set and softened over many months.

  Dinner done, the farmer pulled his chair closer to Max. “Well?”

  “We start out early,” Max said, including the Sauverins with a gesture. “We’ll get into position, watch the sheep come together, and move along as one until close to dark. Then our teams will move in and separate out the animals a few at a time for the receiving farms—most in the high country here but several closer to Le Pont-de-Montvert where the Germans will be waiting with trucks to move the sheep to the city. They’ll have a long wait.”

  “That’s a lot of sheep to hide, isn’t it?” the farmer asked with hard-won skepticism.

  “Sure, but there are two or three dozen farms involved. If we disburse the sheep carefully—say, you normally have fifteen sheep and now you’ll have thirty—you think anyone’s watching your flock that closely?”

  “I wouldn’t know. But the Germans have made us declare the size of our property and the numbers of our livestock. And another thing: I have enough feed for my flock but I doubt I can sustain twice as many. And I’m one of the more prosperous farmers around.”

  “Remember, we need food. Some sheep will be slaughtered now and the rest as needed. Besides spring is here. Your pastures are mostly green again. They’ll support the extra sheep.”

  “We’ll have to watch closely, run everything carefully,” the farmer said. “There could be trouble ahead. But to help you help us—it’s worth the risk.” He stood up, pulled on a coat, said “Come,” and walked to the front door, lighting and lifting a lantern before stepping outside. He led Max, André, and Alex to his barn where the goats and sheep were bedded down for the night. Two cows chewed their cud standing next to a team of workhorses.

  “We can add the sheep in here,” the farmer said. “Nobody will know.” He held the lantern high so the glow shone not only on the pens separated by little fences and wooden walls but also on the four men. Then, leading them back out of the barn, he tilted his head in the direction of several other barns in the hamlet and said, “The others will do the same.” When they reached the house again he told them, “You can sleep in the back room. It was the boys’ before they went off to the army.”

  “And?” Max asked gently, concerned.

  The farmer sighed heavily. “We haven’t had word in over a year. That’s one reason we’ll help in any way we can.”

  The morning was still when Max and the Sauverins awoke in the crowded back room. A little frost glistened on the fields. Fresh breezes blew softly from the west.

  The air in the room was electric. This was the Sauverins’ first Resistance action and though Max was an old hand, each new chance to strike a blow against the Nazis excited him.

  “There’s a certain risk,” Max whispered to keep the farmer and his wife from overhearing his concern, “mostly from a collaborator who might give us away. It’s worst when they don’t have a name or other specifics. Then the enemy gathers a whole village and shoots some men at random as an example. It’s an effective technique of intimidation and repression but each such act ends up serving as a recruitment tool for the Maquis. So the countryside becomes even less safe for the Germans and still more dangerous for their traitorous French accomplices.”

  These sobering thoughts accompanied the three friends to the dining table where the farmer’s wife had laid out a full breakfast. André was nervous but Max encouraged him and Alex to eat heartily because there was a strong possibility they would have no opportunity to eat again until they returned to the farm much much later.

  In exceptionally high spirits, the farmer said, “I want you to take my sheepdog Blackie. He’ll know how to separate out the sheep and he can find his way home even in the dark.”

  The would-be rustlers began their long hike over the pass into the next valley with Blackie gamboling by their side. Wherever they went the path was clear, for though it was frequently used by local farmers to guide their flocks from pasture to pasture no one was using it today.

  The sun shone clear above the horizon. Only a few wispy clouds laced the sky. Rounding the hillside Max pointed into the distance where white shapes moved and merged into a large symmetrical object only to break apart again farther along, strung out in a line.

  “That’s where we’re going,” Max said enthusiastically, picking up the pace.

  Approaching their destination Blackie grew more excited. Other sheepdogs worked the flock, which kept getting larger as more and more sheep joined from other paths.

  By noon, the trio reached the little valley rendezvous. With the bearing and allure of a natural leader, the chief stood out in the crowd. André and Alex already recognized many of the men gathered around the chief, some sitting on rock outcroppings, most standing. They stayed a step or two behind Max, who approached the chief to let him know they had arrived.

  “All the sheep are here too,” the chief said. “These farmers are all with us. The ones paid to deliver their sheep to the Germans are back in their own homes protected by the Milice—today. Tomorrow—who knows?” He raised his voice to be heard by the two dozen men ranged around him. “The drive will go on most of the afternoon. But when you see the trail or path that leads to your assigned farm, pick off as many animals as you think can be hidden where you spent last night. If there are any sheep left I’ll take them on to the final village. It’s a little close to Le Pont-de-Montvert but it will do.” He paused to look at each man closely. “None of these animals have been tagged or marked. If you notice distinguishing characteristics be sure the farmer slaughters those sheep first.”

  The Sauverin brothers trailed along behind Max all afternoon, Blackie obediently at their heels. The size of the flock diminished until Max finally said, “We’ll take ours here.”

  The Sauverins took a deep breath and walked slowly toward the flock from the rear.

  “Eh Blackie,” André called softly. Then using the singsong mountain patois he had practiced with Touté he gave the dog instructions and, he hoped, confidence. He was relieved to be rewarded by the dog’s practiced response. It was important not to spook the flock.

  Blackie worked back and forth carefully, herding the sheep, heading them onto the right path, not letting any rejoin the larger flock. In a gratifyingly short time, Max and the Sauverins managed to move their small flock over the hill on the way to their new home.

  As the sun began to set, the handful of local farmers stood talking quietly, waiting. When Max, the Sauverins, and the sheep appeared, Blackie, at his owner’s direction, brought the flock to a halt in the center of the road.

  “You take these three,” the farmer told one of his neighbors. “They look like yours.” He did the same with the other sheep and farmers. In the end fifteen nervous “diverted” sheep were left. “Okay, Blackie. To the barn.”

  In minutes everything was back to normal. No one entering the village would have guessed that a few more sheep had been mixed in with each farmer’s flock.

  In the morning Max and the Sauverins began hiking back to the camp, avoiding all roads associated with Le Pont-de-Montvert. Great care was taken to cross only where adequate cover shielded them from unwanted view and even then only when all was quiet.

  “Today or tomorrow at the latest the Germans will miss their sheep,” Max said. “I’d love to hear how the collaborators explain it.”

  Late in the day they climbed the last hill to the camp. Smoke swirled into the sky from two chimneys on the grounds. Though it was quickly lost in the gloom of dusk, Max thought he should talk to the chief about it since it was imperative that the Maquis conceal their hideaway.

  In the large barn everyone had a story to tell or a comment to make.

  “I had to act as the bellwether. They would only follow me.”

  “Dumb animals. Stupid sheep.”

  “But good eating.”

  “No
matter how old, mutton makes better eating than turnips three times a day.”

  The banter died away as the men laid themselves down and dozed off.

  “We’ll stay a week or so,” Max whispered to André and Alex, leading them back to their quarters. “It’ll be safer staying together in an armed camp. Once the Milice tell the Germans five hundred sheep have disappeared, the Gestapo will go everywhere to hunt them down.”

  “To hunt us down,” Alex corrected him.

  “So,” André asked, wiping off his glasses briskly, “are we now one with you?”

  “You are now Maquis,” Max grinned, grasping each by the shoulder. “Welcome!”

  André settled his glasses back. “So there’s more for us to do?”

  “Eventually. Meantime I’ll get you back to Le Tronc as soon as it’s safe to leave.”

  Max and the Sauverins sat around pondering the future. André expressed a heartbreaking sense of helplessness about Denise and their three children.

  “We’re in your hands,” he said over and over. “Yours and our fellow Maquisards.”

  Alex acknowledged similar thoughts and feelings about Geneviève, Katie, and Philippe. Both brothers fretted about their mother and their relatives in Aubenas and Belgium.

  “Don’t worry about your mother,” Max responded to the brothers. “I’ve heard that she is safe. Especially staying with my mother in Alès. Mother is very cautious when there are Germans around.”

  “How do you know?” snapped Alex.

  “We have those who get the word through to us.” Max raised his hand slightly to end the conversation.

  Then word came that the Germans were furious over their sheep loss, demanding of their French partners how a flock so large could simply vanish.

  In the large barn an old farmer who had helped the Maquis smiled toothlessly as he related what he had witnessed in the village square. “They were running all over frantically, insisting that the mayor find their sheep. But the mayor and the townspeople said nothing. They just went back to their homes. It was wonderful. The Gestapo officer grew red in the face and turned his outrage on the Milice captain next to him, yelling in German. The captain didn’t understand but was still terrified.”