by James R Benn
“I have ample reason not to disagree,” Kaz said, his eyes downcast. He sure did, a whole family of reasons. I wasn’t about to take Lasho to task for executing an SS officer, but it did make me wonder how unhinged he might be.
“There,” Lasho said, admiring the arrangement of the bodies. He’d tossed the major’s cap onto the toe of his boot, where it hung at a jaunty angle. “For all to see. Now come.”
“Listen,” I said as he walked down the road, “it’s time for some answers.”
“There are no answers,” he said.
“What the hell does that mean?” I said to Kaz as we hurried to catch up. “He owes us an explanation, at least.”
“I think our friend Anton is speaking at the metaphysical level,” Kaz said.
“Yeah, that’s where the major is, right?”
“Your grasp of philosophy is matchless, Billy,” he said, as we watched Lasho veer off the road and into the thick grasses along the riverbank.
“Bateau!” he yelled, waving us over to where he stood, chest high in reeds. We ran through the muck and ooze, soaking our feet, and helped Lasho pull a small rowboat out from its hiding place. By the looks of the peeling paint, it could’ve been abandoned and left out in the weather for years. But there was caulking along the seams, and she looked like she might do well in a calm pond.
The river was maybe three hundred or so yards across, with a swift current. Given that the alternative was waiting for a pack of vengeful Germans to round the bend, I helped push as Lasho took up position at the oars. Kaz and I clambered in as soon as we were out of the weeds, with Kaz hanging over the bow and me knee to knee with Lasho. It was a small boat.
The oarlocks were wrapped in cloth to muffle the sound. Axle grease was smeared where the locks fit into the wood.
“Nice bateau,” I said. “You usually use it at night?”
“Yes. But today was a special day.” Lasho rowed on, watching the riverbank as we ventured out into the water. Deep creases lined his forehead and bags hung under his wary eyes. The hands on the oars were rough and calloused, his fingernails caked with dirt.
“It’ll be a lot less special if the Germans catch us midstream,” I said, craning my neck and listening for the sound of approaching engines.
“If they come now,” Lasho said, straining at the oars as he gritted his teeth, “then we die.” He gave a small shrug, as if it would be regrettable, but what can you expect? He had the manner of a man at ease with the thought of death. Moments before, he had been jubilant, with a frantic glint in his eyes, arranging the dead Germans just so. Now, the life had drained from his face, leaving nothing but sweat and strain as he heaved at the oars, finally breeching a thicket of reeds and drifting into the marsh, pulling in the oars, and ordering us over the side.
“No oars,” Lasho said. “If the Germans see broken reeds, they know a boat came across the river. Push.” Knee-deep in muck, we drove the small boat stern-first deeper into the thicket of stalks, tying it to a fallen tree that served as decent camouflage. Then we hoofed it to dry land, the rowboat invisible from the shore or the river.
“Now I eat,” Lasho said, sitting on the lush green grass that grew along the riverbank. “Then we go.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Cessens, where you wish to go. It is not far. But it is very steep. And there are Germans. So eat.” He opened the can of diced eggs and ham and dug in, dirty fingers and all. Kaz and I did the same, using the remaining crackers to scrap out the congealed breakfast. After what we’d been through, it tasted pretty good. Lasho seemed to like it, but who knew when he’d last had a meal?
“Anton Lasho,” Kaz said, rolling the name around as he spoke it. “You are not French, are you?”
“Then what am I?”
“Gypsy?” I guessed. He had the dark hair and looks of the few I’d encountered back home, and I remembered a lot of their names ended in the same letter.
“I am Sinti,” he said. “Gypsy is what you Gadje call us.”
“Romani,” Kaz explained, downing the last of his cold eggs. “The Sinti are one of the major groups that emigrated to Europe centuries ago. We are Gadje; anyone who is not Romani.”
“Are there other Sinti nearby?” I asked Lasho, who avoided my eyes.
“Now we go,” he said, taking the ration cans and burying them under a rock. It was clear he wasn’t going to tell us anything. And that he knew how to get us where we needed to be.
“Are you with the Resistance?” I asked, hustling to catch up with him as he stopped at a line of trees by a farmer’s field. It was a simple question, but Lasho focused on the open space before us instead, lifting his face to smell the air, searching out the smell of German sweat, cigarettes, and leather.
“You must save your breath,” he finally said, pointing to the far side of the field. A steep forest faced us, wind gusting through the pines, their boughs waves of undulating green. He took off at a run on the hard-packed path along the line of trees dividing the fields, leaving no footprints. We followed, into the woods, and from there up, bounding over logs and boulders, ducking dead branches, and trying to keep up with the silent Sinti.
It had been good advice; I needed every breath and gasp of air I had to stay with Lasho.
After an hour of hard climbing, we left the thickly wooded slope and came to a meadow, flat and soft, covered with thick green growth. It looked familiar, like a lot of Lysander landing spots in occupied France probably did. Isolated, with plentiful grasses, where sheep might have grazed until the Germans had come along and confiscated everything with four legs. It had even terrain, wide enough for the small aircraft to set down, make a turn, and take off again.
“Cessens?” Kaz asked, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Lasho held up his hand as he scanned the field and the tree line beyond. He trotted around the perimeter, swiveling his head as he searched the undergrowth. About two-thirds of the way around, he halted, sniffing the air, his nose held high like a dog searching out a scent.
He knelt, his hand combing through the long grass. He came up with a cigarette butt, crushed indifferently into the ground. The word Privat was visible on the paper. It was a cheap brand issued to German soldiers. Somebody had been watching the place. Maybe a Kraut, maybe a guy who’d taken the smokes from a Kraut he’d killed. Hard to know, but one thing was clear: he’d waited a long time, long enough to get bored and risk lighting up.
Lasho said, “This is where the English land. Now you are here.”
“But too late, and we’re not the only ones who have been here,” I said. “Can you take us to the Resistance?”
“No,” Lasho said. “But I will take you to the abbey. It is safer.”
“Thanks for your concern, but I think we’ll be safe enough with the Resistance,” I said.
“You? Yes. Me? No. So we go to the abbey. The black robes will help you. Come.” He strode across the field, not bothering to see if we followed. We did.
“So Lasho doesn’t like the Germans or the Resistance,” I said to Kaz, keeping my voice low as we trailed behind him.
“Not exactly, Billy. He hates the Germans but wishes to avoid the Resistance. Some sort of personal dispute, perhaps?”
“He said he wouldn’t be safe, not that he had a beef with some Frenchman,” I said. “Something’s wrong with him. Maybe he’s off his rocker.”
“Perhaps the locals do not like the Sinti. It could be as simple as that,” Kaz said, his halfhearted tone telling me he didn’t believe it either.
“I don’t think Anton Lasho is a man given to simple solutions,” I said. “Even if the folks around here didn’t like Gypsies before the war, the Resistance wouldn’t mind one who could pull off the kind of ambush he did. There’s something he’s not telling us, and we’ve got enough problems without adding his to the mix.”
“So far, Lasho has
been our only source of assistance,” Kaz said, holding back a branch as we threaded our way through the thicket.
Far as I was concerned, if our only ace in the hole was Lasho, our mission was FUBAR, which was GI slang for something that was worse than SNAFU—“situation normal, all fucked up.”
FUBAR? That meant “fucked up beyond all recognition,” which pretty much fit.
We came to a trail that switchbacked down the hillside. Lasho crouched and waited, listening for the sound of boots. The air was filled with chirping birds and the soft rustling of green leaves, but no clomping feet. He signaled us to follow, and we crossed the trail, bushwhacking our way down, avoiding the obvious, and easy, route. I had to admit, Lasho exhibited a healthy sense of self-preservation. Crazy like a fox, maybe.
He stopped at a rock outcropping above the curving trail and waited for us. “Lac Gris,” he said. Below us, a long lake glistened in the sunlight, nestled between two hills. Afternoon shadows were already beginning to reach into the valley, and I felt the chill of night even as the sun was on my face.
“The abbey?” I asked. Lasho didn’t deign to answer. We followed. Situation normal.
An hour later the abbey came into view, on a hunk of land that jutted out into the lake. From our perch, we could see gray slate roofs, granite walls, a courtyard, a steeple, and cultivated fields outside the main building. Little figures in black scurried across the landscape, tending crops and doing whatever monks did to fill their time between prayers.
We filtered down through the forest, Lasho even more alert as we neared the abbey. We came close enough to make out the monk’s faces as they worked their hoes in the garden beds. Lasho settled in behind the trunk of a massive tree, the rifle cradled in his lap and his eyes on the abbey walls.
“What now?” I whispered.
“Wait,” Lasho said.
“For?”
“A light. See the windows on the top, to the left?” He pointed to a row of narrow windows on the third floor. “Stained glass. One is very red, one is bright blue. When the sun sets, we wait for a candle. If it lights the blue window, we go inside. If it lights the red window, we run, back up the mountain.”
“What if there is no candle?” Kaz asked.
“Run faster.”
Chapter Five
We waited. My shoes and socks were still damp from the river, and the cold was beginning to creep up my bones. I shivered as Kaz shared the last of the food; dried fruit bars wrapped in cellophane. Lasho shot a dark glance my way as I fumbled with the wrapper, the crinkling sound not much to his liking. He produced a pocket knife, neatly slit open his package, removed the fruit bar, and stowed the wrapper in Kaz’s bag. Silently.
We waited some more. The monks gathered their tools and went into the abbey. The sun set. Lasho turned his head twice, listening to distant sounds. Once we heard an engine, far away, fading as it drove off in another direction. A dirt lane led to the abbey, winding along the shore of the lake, faintly visible in the moonlight. I kept my eyes on the road while Lasho watched the windows. No one except the Germans or the Resistance would be out after curfew, which began at sunset. We didn’t want either of them for company.
The last light disappeared at the horizon, and the stars began to twinkle. I wondered how long before candles would be lit, if at all, and where we’d be right now if everything had gone according to plan. Across the border sipping hot chocolate in front of a fire? But that was a wasted thought. Nothing goes according to plan. Our pilot knew that. The Krauts who had been barreling down the road, masters of their piece of France a few short hours ago, knew it as well. If the dead realized anything.
Soft lights began to flicker at a few windows. I watched as a glow made its way room by room, closing in on the top floor. It settled in at the blue window, the stained glass the color of the sky.
Lasho rose, his dark face streaked with ghostly moonlight. The grimness and strength he’d carried all day had vanished, his gaze hesitant and his mouth slack-jawed. He stumbled off, looking more like a tired old man than a stalking killer. I felt the way he looked, but then I’d felt that way since I woke up in that shepherd’s shack.
We worked our way around the abbey walls to the rear until the lake lapped against the shore only yards away, the gray granite looming over us. Lasho picked his way through a jumble of rocks that hid a well-trodden path to a small wooden door. The wood was shiny and worn, held by iron hinges that looked centuries old. No latch, only a knotted piece of rope that hung from above. No access from the outside, no noisy knocker to attract attention. Tailor-made for those on the run and seeking sanctuary.
Lasho pulled on the rope twice, deliberately. Soon the door swung open, the ancient ironwork smooth and quiet. A hooded, dark form emerged and took Lasho’s rifle, then pulled him inside. Others reached out for me and Kaz, and before we could blink we were inside, the door closed and locked behind us, as we were disarmed, searched, and pushed down a dimly lit corridor by more men in dark cowls.
Two of them escorted Lasho down one corridor while three others moved Kaz and me down a set of ill-lit stairs to the musty basement, reminding me of dank prison cells and how this whole mission was definitely not going according to plan.
Things looked up as we were brought into a well-lit, warm kitchen. A large cast-iron stove took up one wall, with a square table and chairs of plain, rough wood at the center. The hooded men were quickly revealed to be monks in black robes, as Lasho had described. Chairs were held out for us and soup ladled from a pot simmering on the stove. Wine was poured from an earthen jug, and when they were done serving, the monks stepped back, one of them leaving the room. Kaz spoke in rapid-fire French. I didn’t understand much, basically because I was too busy slurping soup to pay attention. The monks stood in silence, no response offered.
No wonder Lasho liked it here.
“I think they are Benedictines,” Kaz said, as he tasted the wine. One eyebrow went up, which I took to mean he was pleasantly surprised. “The black cloaks and the silence.”
“How are we going to communicate then?” I asked. “Sign language?” I took a gulp of wine. Not bad. Not that I’d know good.
“Benedictines practice periods of silence, but they are not a silent order. And they are released from silence when necessary.”
“Where do you think they took Lasho?” I said. “Why separate us?”
“They obviously know him, if that means anything,” Kaz said, blowing on a spoonful of soup. “They took his weapons immediately and brooked no argument from him.”
“Ours too, for that matter. But I can understand monks not wanting armed men wandering the abbey.” The door opened, and the two monks moved to make room, giving a slight bow as they stood aside. The fellow who entered wore the same black getup, but he was obviously high up in the holy pecking order. He tossed back his cowl and smiled pleasantly.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said. “You are the answer to our prayers.” He spoke in a clipped, precise manner, his French accent barely discernable.
“Thank you, Father,” I said, getting to my feet, not sure what you called a monk. Nuns were sisters, so were they brothers? I should have paid better attention in parochial school back in Boston. “I have to wonder what you’ve been praying for. My name is Billy Boyle and this is—”
“No names, please,” he said, waving his hand apologetically. “It is better for all concerned. Please, sit and eat.” He pulled up a chair next to Kaz and took his time studying our faces. His was well-lined, peaceful, and calm. Stands to reason, it was a pretty peaceful life here by a beautiful lake, with crops in the field and jugs of wine at hand. Except for guys like Lasho dropping by, that is.
“A wise precaution,” Kaz said. “If names are not known, they cannot be spoken.”
“Exactly,” our host said. “Even an alias, if the Germans hear it repeatedly, can cost lives.”
&nbs
p; “I thought you were in the business of saving souls, not lives, Father.” I figured since he hadn’t corrected me, that title would do.
“We are shut away from the world, my son, but we are still of the world. We do what we can to ease suffering, something that should not be as dangerous as it is today. But that is the world God has given us, so what else can we do?”
“Well, you’ve eased our hunger, and for that we’re grateful,” I said, raising my glass in his direction. He smiled and bowed his head in acknowledgment. “But you may not want us here for much longer.”
“Are the Germans searching for you?” he asked.
“Our aircraft crash-landed some distance from here. They may have given up the chase for us by now, but our friend may have stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
“Hornets?” he asked, taking a second to figure out what I’d meant. “Oh yes, le frelon. And there’s no need to avoid his name. Everyone knows Anton Lasho, especially the Germans.”
“Why?” I asked.
“That is a long and sad story. And it has to do with what we’ve been praying for. But first, please, eat and drink. Then the brothers will take your garments to be washed and show you to your quarters. Soon I will explain everything.”
“Thank you,” Kaz said. “It will be a relief to have these muddy clothes clean again.”
“Of course,” he said. “You will have to look your best in Switzerland, won’t you?” With that, he departed, leaving us to wonder how he knew about Switzerland. We’d mentioned it to Lasho when we’d tried to get a fix on our location, but we hadn’t said it was our destination.
Bread, soup, and wine distracted me from any further thoughts on the matter. When we were done, our monk escorts brought us to a small room upstairs, lit by a single candle. There were two beds, a few chairs, and a small table with a jug of water and wooden cups. The monks took all of our clothes and shoes, in exchange for a couple woolen nightgowns. Itchy woolen nightgowns, but I told myself not to complain.
“What do you think the good Father has in mind?” Kaz asked as he sat on the straw mattress. “He seems the decent type.”
