In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

  “Max, if you believe I am absolutely necessary…”

  “I can’t force you,” Max said somberly. “We are free in this region at last but we still aren’t free of the shame some have brought upon us.”

  Considering, André asked heavily, “When do we go?”

  “Don’t you want to know what it’s about?”

  “I know you need me. Knowing more might make it harder for me to agree.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  RETRIBUTION

  SEPTEMBER 8, 1944

  Dr. Jean Bataille climbed into the backseat of the Buick with one of her orderlies. Max sat in the front passenger seat as André, surprised, started to drive. Max hadn’t told him anyone else would be joining them. André still didn’t know where they were headed and suspected he still didn’t want to.

  Wending their way toward Alès, Dr. Bataille remarked on the “awakening” of the villages they passed through. The differences from even a few months earlier were striking. Formerly depopulated at all hours the centers of these towns were now crowded with people moving freely, festively engaged in animated conversation, catching up with their neighbors.

  “Wonderful,” André declared.

  Max agreed in part. “The threat has passed for anyone associated with the Resistance. But for those who collaborated…”

  “I bet most of them have fled,” the orderly suggested, “hoping to start fresh where no one knows them.”

  “The rest keep out of sight,” Max said, “hoping to be forgotten.”

  “Fat chance,” the orderly sneered. “One way or another every one of them will pay.”

  As that last comment sank in, André decided he had to ask about this mission.

  Max cleared his throat but spoke so softly everyone strained to hear him. “We’re going to Celas to satisfy some French families—to give comfort where possible, to provide closure to those who seek it, and doubtless to renew the bitterness of those who will never forgive.” Dr. Bataille cleared her throat. André slowed the car involuntarily. Max cautiously choose his next words. “Between June and July, the Germans, aided by the Milice, shot and killed a number of Maquisards. Then they threw the bodies down an abandoned mineshaft in Celas.”

  “We’re to recover and identify the bodies then determine incontrovertibly what happened,” added Jean Bataille.

  André gasped, swallowed hard, and spluttered, “Why me? I have no expertise required for this mission.”

  “You keep good records,” Max replied flatly. “We need to ensure accuracy for credibility.”

  “But you know how squeamish I am,” André quailed. “And I don’t know all the terms you’ll use.”

  “The medical results aren’t in question,” Dr. Bataille said sorrowfully. “They’re all dead.” After a brief silence she added, “It’s hard for us doctors too. What could be more terrible for a doctor than to work on what used to be a person after the body has begun to decay?”

  “Please,” André said weakly. “I don’t want to hear about this, let alone look.”

  “You won’t have to look,” Dr. Bataille assured him. “Just write down what we say.”

  “It’s not going to be fun,” the orderly said glumly.

  Driving through Alès, they passed a familiar-looking corner. André wished they could stop for a quick visit with their mothers but that was not to be.

  “It’s curious how few cars are on the streets,” Max said, “after the liberation.”

  “There’s still not much gasoline,” the orderly noted.

  “Look,” Dr. Bataille called out as they passed the city hall, pointing at a couple of drab green French army trucks easily identified by the Cross of Lorraine painted on their sides. “I thought all our forces had gone north to pursue the Germans.”

  “Most have,” Max said. “But a few must stick around to provide support and an example for the gendarmes and the new civil authorities.”

  André gazed intently at the uniformed soldiers, rifles slung over their shoulders, at once nonchalant and self-important. How little different they seemed from Wehrmacht soldiers apart from the color of their uniforms.

  The orderly sniped sarcastically, “How quickly the functionaries of Pétain’s Vichy have been transformed into the bureaucrats of de Gaulle’s provisional government.”

  “Some,” Max agreed. “But many who collaborated with the Gestapo have been removed from office and placed in the same prisons that held our captured Resistance brethren.”

  “The Maquis who weren’t put to death you mean,” the orderly spat.

  Anxious to change the subject André asked, “How much longer to Celas?”

  “Five or six kilometers east along decent roads.”

  Upon emerging from the city André turned the car toward the still-rising sun. André filled with trepidation when he saw a mineshaft dead ahead rising twelve meters above the flat surrounding fields. As the car drew closer he saw several buildings nearby. The setting reminded him of a public park except for the two ambulances lined up alongside several army vehicles and the clusters of two or three dozen people standing near the exposed shaft.

  “That’s Laurent Spadale, the sous-prefect of Alès,” Max said as the car came to a stop.

  “Ah,” Dr. Bataille responded. “He’s the one who called for this inquiry.”

  A gendarme opened the rear door for Dr. Bataille, who was greeted by two men.

  “Those are Doctors Mosnier and Chametier,” Max explained, stepping out into the warm fresh air. “I recognize them from my student days.”

  The three doctors moved toward the clusters of people, with Max, André, and the orderly following. As they passed close by the mineshaft André looked at the opening in the ground surrounded by a concrete-and-metal casing. He shuddered.

  “Max,” Dr. Bataille called. “Please help set up our table for the bodies. André,” she said pointing, “there’s a table you can use for recording our comments.” André flushed. “Goodness, you’ve turned green.” Dr. Bataille felt his forehead and took his pulse. “You’ll be all right. Just keep your back to us if you like.” She pointed out two men dressed as if to descend into caves. “That’s Robert de Joly, the eminent speleologist. The other is a Resistance lieutenant, Réné ‘Ulysse’ Soustelle. They’re the ones with the really hard job,” Dr. Bataille continued. “They’ll be going down into the mineshaft.”

  The sous-prefect called Dr. Bataille aside for a private consultation.

  Max looked at the perspiration on André’s forehead. “You all right?”

  “I hope so.”

  Max stepped away to organize the medical equipment. André went to his table where he overheard Robert de Joly and Ulysse Soustelle.

  “No problem,” de Joly insisted. “This is straight down. I’ve gone into caves where the opening twisted and turned. Now that’s complicated.”

  “We’ll rappel down,” Soustelle said, “in tandem.”

  “Ready, gentlemen?” Sous-Prefect Spadale asked solemnly.

  The two “divers” nodded then stepped to the lip of the mineshaft. In the great silence that followed André realized he was holding his breath.

  Slowly the brave men began their descent.

  As the men descended, Laurent Spadale signaled to a gendarme who had witnessed the original atrocity. The policeman saluted, turned to open the door of one of the mineshaft’s outbuildings, and ordered those inside to come out.

  A dozen prisoners emerged: Milice and collaborator detainees being held against the discovery of definitive evidence of their treachery. The policeman made them sit on the ground not far from the great hole itself—the receptacle of their dirty deeds.

  Everyone focused on two strong ropes—one end of each lashed securely to the iron bars of the mineshaft structure, the other to the spelunkers themselves—as they slowly slid down the shaft. The ropes were clearly marked and when the two investigators had descended one hundred ten meters the rope lines stopped moving then visibly jerked.<
br />
  “They’re signaling for the body basket,” Dr. Mosnier cried out.

  Max brought the basket forward and helped attach it to yet another rope. Two of the larger gendarmes gradually paid out the line.

  The tension was evident on every aboveground face. Waves of anger, hatred, and disgust were directed at the prisoners seated on the ground, facing one another in a tight circle, most dressed in the despised blue and black of the Milice. Their belts had been removed though no one would have objected had they done themselves harm. They had also been stripped of the berets they had until recently worn at an arrogant angle as a mark of power. Bareheaded though they were, they hardly seemed humbled or repentant.

  When de Joly and Soustelle emerged from the mineshaft one prisoner said “Merde” and spat in the dirt—whether reacting to the spelunkers’ solemn expressions, the dreadful smell coming off of them, or what he knew they had found at the bottom of the shaft no one cared. The nearest guard kicked the prisoner’s back viciously. He nursed his new bruise with bound hands.

  Clear of the mineshaft, de Joly and Soustelle turned off the lamps atop their helmets. Half a dozen meters away observers gagged from the stench of decayed and rotting flesh.

  Dr. Bataille hurried over. Right behind her Spadale called out, “What did you find?”

  De Joly spoke about the glacial cold engulfing them as they descended and of the humidity that oozed from walls stained with blood.

  “It’s as we suspected only worse,” Soustelle reported. “We could see bits of clothing and even skin hanging from the hooks cemented into the walls of the shaft. The hooks must have torn at the falling bodies as they bumped down.”

  “Then it got very dark,” de Joly stated. “Even when we turned on our lamps we saw nothing. But by the hundred-meter mark the piercing stink of decomposing cadavers almost suffocated us.”

  “Below us very plainly,” Soustelle continued, “we could see a white surface. But it wasn’t until we were one hundred ten meters down that our horrified eyes could discern the awful spectacle.”

  “Bodies intertwined…”

  “All mixed up…”

  “Nearly nude…”

  “Mutilated.”

  “Bellies bloated…”

  “Still tied to planks of wood…”

  “Old cable-ends wrapped around their arms…”

  “Bits of clothing stuck to the remaining flesh…”

  “Yes, well,” Dr. Chametier said after forcefully clearing his throat several times, “that is what you’d expect of bodies submerged in water for three months.”

  For a long while no one said another word. Even the prisoners were shocked by what they had heard. How much worse it would be when the bodies were brought up.

  Pulling off his rubber boots and pants, de Joly said, “We had to take the greatest precaution trying to release any individuals from the layered mass.” Taking off his rubber gloves last he spread out all his gear carefully for one of the gendarmes to hose down with clean water. “The bodies could pull apart so easily.”

  “Come on,” Soustelle said, cutting off de Joly while he stripped down as well. “There’s nothing holding the arms and legs together. The tendons have rotted away. One of the heads as soon as it was jostled detached and floated loose from its body.”

  After waiting a decorous moment, de Joly concluded, “It took forever but we finally got one mostly whole body into the basket. If you’re ready, bring it up. But be careful. Any more disintegration will make identification even more difficult.”

  Spadale and his male colleagues stood slack-jawed so Dr. Bataille issued the order. Then she walked over to Max, put on her white smock and a face mask, and pulled on her gloves as several of the larger gendarmes and Maquisards pulled steadily on the line attached to the basket.

  To everyone’s horror and dismay the line stopped—snagged. The men had to lower it again to loosen it then jostle it around before they were able to pull on it steadily again.

  Time slowed. The heat of the day increased as the sun reached its apex.

  Finally a pair of grotesquely white distended legs appeared followed by something large, soft, and puffy. Surely that wasn’t a man or what remained of a man.

  Any formerly identifiable facial features had sloughed away. Only the head wound that had resulted in the poor man’s death could be picked out by the searching eye. The head itself had been hideously enlarged by the action of the water.

  Everyone standing took a step back reflexively except Max, who stood his ground and motioned to two orderlies. “Let’s get that basket and bring it over here.”

  André stared at the corpse peculiarly. Then with a sudden lurch he turned away, doubled over, and threw up on the ground next to his makeshift desk. His stomach heaved several more times before he slumped down onto his chair.

  The three doctors lifted the remains gingerly from the basket and placed them carefully on the metal examining table. The arms, such as they were, were still tied behind the body’s back, wire biting all the way down to the now-visible wrist bones.

  Captain Lucien, a French army officer, marched over and asked, “Will you be able to identify anyone in such a…condition?”

  “It won’t be easy,” Dr. Bataille snapped.

  The police chief approached and suggested, “With information from families about missing loved ones, the scraps of clothing we can still see and some dental records…”

  The sous-prefect wasn’t prepared to wait. “I’m sure this is one of the men the Milice were reported to have executed in June.”

  “We warned the Resistance to wait for us,” Captain Lucien said, shaking his head dolefully. “They were no match for the Germans.” He passed a hand over his moistened brow, straightened up, and squared his shoulders. “Poor, brave men. Foolish perhaps. But brave.”

  “Bring those prisoners over here,” Sous-Prefect Spadale ordered.

  “Get up!” a Maquis barked at the former Milice members and collaborateurs. Grudgingly, listlessly, the prisoners got to their feet. Their outraged captors shoved them forward with rifle butts.

  The French army was in charge technically but its leader seemed inclined to leave this affair to local authorities. The gendarmes represented the restored civilian government but preferred deferring to the Resistance in crimes committed against its members. The sous-prefect could only hope to unite these disparate factions.

  As the prisoners approached, fear mixed with ill-concealed hatred on their faces. Spadale told the gendarmes, “Send them into the mineshaft two at a time. Let them bring up the bodies.”

  The accused looked shocked. Their reluctance to confront the remains of men they hadn’t hesitated to kill was richly satisfying.

  The gendarmes dragged two resisting Milice to the mineshaft opening, untied their hands, placed helmets on their heads and lashed them tightly with support ropes.

  “Into the shaft,” a gendarme growled. Then he and his partners put the two men over the side of the hole and gave them a little push.

  “Let them down slowly,” the sous-prefect commanded. Then he leaned over the side of the shaft and shouted to the prisoners, “Take care. No more damage to any body.”

  The other prisoners slumped to the ground. One actually had tears in his eyes.

  “Don’t you worry,” one of the Maquisards snarled, crouching down to leer into those teary eyes. “You’ll get your chance.”

  This is awful, Max thought. Each day seemed worse than the one before. How many more bodies could possibly be down there and how much longer would it take getting all of them out?

  Every morning as Max emerged from the home of a victim’s family local authorities had arranged for him to stay in, he saw more and more people gathered at the site: friends, relatives, curiosity seekers, reporters. Throughout each day everyone waited for a visible tug on a rope line. Then big men pulled until the submerged pair of prisoners came back into sight followed—inevitably, unbearably—by another corpse or as much of
a corpse as was found and fit into the basket. As the remains were taken to a metal table the onlookers gasped, gagged, keened, and wept. Meanwhile two more of the accused were outfitted and deposited into the mineshaft.

  The stench hung over the open field like a fog that never lifted. André kept moving his makeshift desk farther and farther from the doctors performing autopsies. By Saturday, September sixteenth, it was surprising he could hear anything the doctors said. He threw up twice a day at least.

  Dr. Bataille asked de Joly if he thought the recovery phase was almost over.

  “I hope so,” he said fervently. “There were three layers of bodies all massed together…” With another tug on the rope lines the gruesome process began again. “That’s got to be the last.”

  He was right. In all thirty-one bodies had been brought up from the dark depths of the mineshaft into the harsh light of day. Remarkably every one of them had been identified in spite of their severely deteriorated condition. Twenty-eight belonged to members of the Resistance and accounted for all reported missing from Alès. The surprise was the other three: collaborators who had also been reported missing but whom no one knew had suffered the same fate. The assumption had been that they had run away to escape Maquisard retribution. Now it was conjectured that they had been killed by members of the Milice or the Gestapo trying to keep the terrible murders secret.

  Standing beside Sous-Prefect Spadale, Lieutenant Soustelle announced, “Now that we have all the evidence, justice needs to be done.”

  André, his features distorted as much by disgust as rage, went to Max and said, “I’ve done my duty.”

  “Yes,” Max responded feelingly. “Now we have our proof.”

  They both fell silent studying the somber faces all around them.

  “It could have been you or me down there,” André whispered hoarsely. “You or me.”

  What Sous-Prefect Spadale feared most wasn’t summary judgment—that had already been rendered—but summary justice. He could feel the desire for retribution and the expectation of its imminent arrival and wondered, Will this settle the score when the score is too great to be settled? Will it give us back our sanity or degrade our humanity? Restore our civilization or reduce us, as these prisoners reeking of death have been reduced, to mere animals?