In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

  “We can’t go much farther,” the portly one said, cocking his head at a quizzical angle. “You want to carry us? Heh?”

  The thinner man spotted André standing apart. “And what do you do? I can tell by your glasses you don’t belong here.”

  Before more taunting occurred, Jacques ordered, “Let’s not waste any more time.”

  “You heard the man,” the young Maquisard gleefully told the fat spy, prodding him again with his rifle butt. “On your feet. Move.” Then he jabbed his boot into the other one’s shoe.

  The spies rose reluctantly, suddenly fearful of violence. Jacques just wanted to get on with it. He hoped to get back to camp before sunset because in the dark his charges would have to be bound, slowing progress and further endangering his men.

  “Keep moving,” he barked.

  For the remainder of the forced march, Jacques kept pushing the pace though the suspects flagged and their breathing came harder. But what difference did that make?

  Time for them to meet their fate.

  The light began to fade as the thin captive caught sight of Les Bouzedes. In a way he was as glad to be there as his captors. He too could use water and a rest. And he would soon know whether his worst fears were justified. Either way he would be glad when this was over.

  But then the man in charge held up his hand bringing them all to an abrupt halt.

  “Wait here,” he commanded, marching off to the main house with the man in glasses.

  Roger Boudon stood and stretched his fingers, trying to ease the cramping that came from writing too much. André considered the irony: here was he, an academic, engaged in “manly” endeavors, and there was Roger, a habitué of the outdoor physical life, spending most of his time chained to a desk and a mound of papers.

  “So how did it go?” the chief asked. Jacques deferred to André, who told his tale. “In other words,” the chief concluded for him, “they’re spies.”

  Warily André said, “So it seems. But there’s no guarantee.”

  “They don’t belong here!” the chief exploded. “They’re not from here and they’re certainly not here to grow their own food no matter how much they insist. That radio transmitter bears out the intelligence we received. What other conclusion could a reasonable man reach?”

  “Agreed,” André said grimly.

  “I’m positive too,” Jacques put in.

  Roger sat back down to address his paperwork. “Bring the spies to me.”

  Jacques left. André felt foolish and agitated just standing there.

  Roger came out from behind his desk to shake André’s hand and pat his shoulder. “Good job,” he said. “Thanks.” He hesitated. “Do you want to be here for this?” André shook his head no. “That’s fine. You’ve done what we needed. We can take care of the rest.”

  The chief went back behind his desk. Going out André ran into the spies, who looked pale and shaken. The fat one almost had to be carried in by the Maquisard guards who held each of his arms. The thinner man gave André a look that, quick as it was, he would never forget: the cold glare of a man who has looked into his grave and accepted that he would soon lie at the bottom of it.

  André hastened away, not wanting to see or hear more or to think about what would happen next. It was a great relief to see his brother coming toward him. Alex would understand.

  Although he had already heard all about André’s mission, Alex still asked if he’d been successful for his brother’s opinion was the only one that mattered to him.

  “Successful?” André seemed puzzled by the word. “If you mean successful in finding the men we were sent for—yes we succeeded.”

  “Then they aren’t…”

  “Yes, they are. I’m sure they were sent to spy on the Resistance.”

  Having wandered behind the big barn, the brothers stopped side by side to study the sunset, so stark and luminous in the clear cold air of the Cévennes.

  “It’s good to have found them out,” Alex said flatly. “They’re a danger to us all, including our loved ones. And when I think of our family—well, I don’t care a rap about what happens to anyone who puts their lives in jeopardy.”

  “I know,” André said, weary and sad. “This war is a tragedy—all war is.” He shaded his eyes against the bright glare of a corona caused by a passing cloud. “I know we must do what we have to. But when I look deeply into the faces of people who in other times and circumstances might have been as good as anyone else—selfish perhaps, possibly foolish and probably with opinions quite different from yours and mine, yet on the whole decent—then I despise this war not just for what it is but for what it’s doing to us all.” André put the butt of his rifle down on the ground, leaned the barrel up against his leg, and rubbed his shoulder where the strap had cut into his trim frame’s flesh. “I don’t think I can ever watch another killing no matter how necessary. And I could never do the deed myself—point the gun and pull the trigger.”

  “Not even if someone was shooting at you or me or Denise?” Alex loved his brother but was tired of this endless repetitive argument. When would André reconcile himself to the way people actually behaved? Given all that they had already seen and experienced, how could André still cling to his pacifistic notions? The world had never worked the way either of them wished, and it never would. “Believe me, André, not everyone’s as good as you are. I would far rather take the lives of those who would take ours than lose our own.” André stared off into the distance. Alex feared he had gone too far. “Of course it helps if the enemy’s far away. When you’ve never met the people you must kill, it must be easier.”

  “I still wouldn’t want to do it.” André shook his head pitifully. “Near or far.”

  A considerable commotion made them turn toward the big house. The door was open and Jacques stood on the top step. When he spotted the Sauverins, he hurried their way.

  “You want to come with us?” he asked André excitedly. “Having gotten all he can out of them, the chief has decided to keep them from making their report—ever.” Jacques grinned but, sensing André’s mood, faltered. “You can come or not. That’s up to you.”

  Two more Maquisards emerged from the house followed closely by the spies, who were followed in turn by the three young men who had accompanied Jacques and André on their mission. The chief came out last. All headed toward the back of the barn.

  The thinner spy walked past André without giving him a glance, eyes fixed on the last of the setting sun. But the fatter one—shoulders sagging, large belly seeming to hang more pathetically over his belt with each step—stopped within inches, staring at André with watery, pleading eyes.

  A young Maquisard leering maliciously prodded the fat man from behind, forcing out of him a cracked voice that formed one word: “Please!”

  The parade passed by. Jacques gave André a quick salute and a little wave. André kept his eyes on the fat man, the back of his head rising and falling as he trod the rough path, his folds of fat compressing and stretching as he bobbed along, struggling to keep pace.

  Alex kept his eyes on his brother.

  “You can go in my place if you like,” André told him weakly.

  “I wouldn’t take your place,” Alex replied softly. “No one could.”

  The two brothers stood together silently, watching and waiting as the procession crossed the field and went down into a small ravine. All was quiet and eerily peaceful.

  The camp’s residents had wordlessly gathered near the brothers. Neither seemed to have noticed the massing of this silent crowd.

  Suddenly rifle fire crackled. Two distinct pistol shots followed.

  Roger emerged from the ravine with the rest of the resistants.

  “You three,” he said, pointing to men next to the Sauverins. “Get shovels and get to work. Executioners shouldn’t have to bury the results of their own efforts.” The deputed gravediggers raced to obey. The chief turned to André and Alex. “Had to be done,” he said coldly.
/>   He returned to his office and the other Maquisards dispersed. But the Sauverins remained motionless. Alex listened closely to the bite of shovels plunged into the earth, staying faithfully by his brother’s side.

  André stared into the sky until it was too dark to see anything at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE WEHRMACHT

  MARCH 20, 1944

  Spring 1944 finally came to the high mountains of the Cévennes—an enormous relief to Irene Bastide. She always felt isolated in her remote hamlet but never more than when shut in by the deep snows of winter.

  On the bright side, the forces of nature also prevented unwanted visitors—a great blessing during the snow of winter since Hitler had ordered the occupation of unoccupied France. With the façade of Pétain’s power shattered once and for all, even this obscure region no longer felt safe from search and seizure.

  But with the softer weather everyone started going out almost every day. Irene found herself longing to attend Easter services in Vialas, unusual as this was for her. A staunch member of the Religious Society of Friends, Irene centered her practice of faith on Bible reading and direct personal communing with the highest power—the opposite of an Easter pageant. But what appealed to her now was the chance to spend time in the company of other Cévenols whose belief in God had helped them make it through yet another rough winter.

  Nor would Irene mind being bathed in a minister’s words for a change, reassured in the midst of tumult by the steadiness of his Christian message. And Irene wanted to show her support not for Pastor Burnard’s interpretation of Christian principles so much as his embodiment of Christianity in his Resistance work.

  “I can stay with some members of the congregation,” she assured her troubled mother.

  “If anyone asks meddlesome questions along the way,” Ernestine said somberly, “say as little as possible.”

  “Oh, it’s safe enough now,” Irene said lightly, bussing her mother on the cheek, “from what the mailman says—that the tide is finally turning against the Germans.”

  “That’s what makes them dangerous,” Ernestine cautioned, “like cornered beasts.”

  “Mother. They’re sticking to big cities like Mende, Nîmes, and Alès. They’re hardly ever seen in Génolhac anymore, let alone Vialas or the little places I’ll pass through along the way.”

  “What does the mailman say about the Milice, eh?” the elderly woman asked fretfully.

  “Thanks to the Resistance it may be less safe here for the Milice than the rest of us!”

  On Saturday, April eighth, Irene put on her heavy coat and tied on a scarf to protect her hair from breezes blowing off the mountain.

  “Come here, little one,” she called in the special gentle voice she reserved for Cristian as he manfully demonstrated his mastery of walking by striding back and forth in front of the stove. Sweeping him up into her arms as he squealed with delight, she gave him a great big kiss on the cheek. “Now don’t you fall down and cause your mother concern while I’m not here.”

  She cuddled him close and set him down again, making sure he regained his balance before loosening her grip. Then she squeezed Denise’s hand before giving her mother’s hands an even bigger squeeze, picked up the little sack with her comb and changes of clothes, called good-bye to Ida and Christel playing upstairs, gave a short final wave, and stepped out briskly into the bright day and fresh spring air.

  Her cares fell away as she marched toward the Route des Crêtes, marveling at the renewed face of the world as it awoke from its long winter sleep. The bushes were just beginning to show a little color as new buds emerged from the brown branches springing back to life.

  Irene knew this ground well and felt utterly safe. Her neighbors were perfectly aware of her houseguests and in complete sympathy with her efforts to keep them safe.

  She hiked with joyful anticipation for an hour but as she approached Vialas sensed something odd. Then she heard the rumbling of distant motors. That gave her pause since gasoline was only available to Germans, Vichy government functionaries, and the Milice.

  Coming within sight of the town she saw trucks rolling slowly up the road from Génolhac, rounding the bends, hewing closely to the thinly covered sides of the mountain slopes. Her heart started pounding. Her breath grew short and shallow. She felt cold then hot then cold again. Her tightly clenched hands became moist with sweat.

  Now she could clearly discern the German cross on the side door of the small open car facing her—the lead vehicle speeding ahead of two loud trucks. The little convoy left a faint trail of smoke in its wake, heading straight for the center of town.

  Irene’s heart thumped more heavily as she forced her fists open to stop her fingernails from biting into her palms. Should she turn tail and run or continue on into the belly of the beast? Disgusted with herself for hesitating, she went on.

  After traversing the stone bridge across a stream, she stayed close to the stone walls bordering the path. The temple of gray stone rose straight and true before her and somehow gave her strength. The temple’s small belfry enclosed the single bell that rang Sunday mornings to call the worshippers together and at other times to announce important news such as France’s surrender to the Germans—or, as now, that the Germans were driving into town.

  A group of old men shuffled down side streets to the town square. Women wrapped tightly against the cold came too but stood back to acknowledge this was man’s business and to keep as far as possible from the Germans without losing sight of what was really going on.

  Irene joined these other women as the German command car rolled to a screeching halt in the heart of the square. The German officer in the open front seat stood up and an accompanying soldier jumped from the rear, ran around, and opened the door for him.

  As the officer stepped down onto the plaza’s cobblestones and looked about imperiously, the mayor rushed along one side of the square, having raced down from his home on the outskirts when he heard the temple bell. German troops jumped from the backs of the trucks that lurched to a stop opposite.

  The German officer watched the mayor run right into the small city hall. Less than a minute later the mayor reappeared with a blue, white, and red sash—the official badge of his office—tied around his waist. He pulled himself up to his full middling height, made his way around his townspeople, and stood at attention to confront the representatives of the German war machine with a dignified silence.

  The German officer looked vaguely bored. Nearby soldiers formed ranks behind him. On the far side others unloaded a large machine gun and set it up with unnerving efficiency.

  Irene felt the women around her tense. All had heard stories of indiscriminate German cruelty—the needless and pointless machine-gunning of whole towns’ citizenries. No one could deny their fear.

  Having settled a good distance from the command car, Irene hadn’t anticipated ending up a few feet from uniformed men with rifles nor a machine gun. As if against her will she watched the machine gunners unload ammunition from the truck and place the long ribbons of bullets alongside the fearsome weapon.

  She stumbled back a step and a soldier swiveled his eyes her way—brown eyes that looked almost black beneath his helmet’s rim. Was his soul that black? He stared at Irene for an agonizingly long time, making her heart race so quickly she might have been having a heart attack.

  The soldier didn’t avert his gaze until the officer placed one booted foot slightly ahead of the other and announced aggressively, “We are here to keep order.” His formal stilted French had a stiff, studied accent utterly devoid of the soft warmth of the Cévenol. “We will not tolerate the slightest deviation from the orders of your government. Do you understand?” He didn’t wait for an answer but finished off his effort to intimidate by bearing down upon the mayor.

  Nervously adjusting his sash then bravely jutting out his chin and stepping forward a couple of paces, the mayor swallowed hard and proclaimed, “The people of Vialas are well aware
of orders, Sir.”

  “But are you aware it is necessary to follow those orders?”

  “We are good Frenchmen.”

  “And a good Frenchman does as he’s told, eh?” Towering over the hapless mayor, the German officer raised his voice enough to ensure that even the women standing at the farthest edge of the crowd could hear his threat. “If there is any disobedience at all or if there are any further attacks on authorities or government property, I will take hostages. Innocent or not, they will pay the ultimate price.” The officer jerked his thumb toward the armed soldiers ranged in a phalanx behind him. The machine gun rolled forward for additional emphasis. “You in this village and throughout this area will comply.” The officer glared at the mayor and grinned maliciously. “From now on I expect the mayor to set a proper example you will all follow. If not we can always make someone an example.” He turned to the lower-ranked officer by his side. “Deploy the men. House them where you will.” Then he turned back to the mayor. “You will work with my sergeant to find appropriate housing for my men. And no stinting. Treat them with the honor due soldiers of the Third Reich.”

  “For how long, Sir?” the mayor asked hoarsely.

  “For as long as it takes every one of your fine citizens to realize their responsibilities and to cease any further support of those damned Maquis.”

  The townspeople dispersed rapidly and Irene escaped into the temple. Others had already gathered there—a small group discussing what had happened in voices hushed as if the walls might give them away.

  “Vialas is so much more dangerous now.”

  “It used to be easy to get rid of collaborators in the wrong place at the wrong time. But as of today…”

  “A whole troop of Germans. This is new.”

  “Where do you think the mayor stands?”

  “I hear he’s part of the Resistance.”

  “No. He cooperates with those fools in Vichy and with the Milice. We can’t trust him.”

  “Of course we can. He only pretends to work with Vichy. That’s what protects him.”