by James R Benn
“That’s what worries me,” I said. “The decent types are ones who want you to risk your neck to do the decent thing. As they see it, anyway.”
“You are too young to be such a cynic, Billy.”
“Hey, I’m still alive. Made it to the quarter-century mark, so I must be doing something right.”
“Pure luck,” Kaz said, smiling as he stretched out on the bed.
“Let’s hope that luck holds, and the Father will know how to contact the Jedburgh team, or at least the local Resistance.” Knuckles rapped on the door, and speak of the devil—if that isn’t too sacrilegious—the black-robed monk himself stepped into the room.
He took a seat and gestured for us to do the same. I felt a bit ridiculous in my nightgown, but maybe that was the idea. Sure, he was basically wearing the same sort of thing, but on him it looked good.
“Father, I don’t know how involved you are with the Resistance, but I have to ask if you’ve seen any Allied soldiers in the area.”
“You mean the Jedburghs?” he said. “The Frenchman, the Englishman, and the American.”
“Yes! Can you put us in touch with them?”
“They are dead, I am sorry to say. As well as a good number of maquis.” The Resistance fighters who lived in the hills. “Yours was to be the last Lysander landing at that location; it was too well known and had become dangerous.”
“Father, how do you know so much about our mission?”
“There is no reason for me to tell you exactly how I know. Suffice it to say I am in communication with those who do know.” He meant a radio. He also meant that if we were captured, we’d talk. Sooner or later, with the right application of pain. Smart guy. “I am aware the Jedburghs were to guide you to the Swiss border and make contact with someone who could get you across. But all that has changed. They were caught up in an antipartisan sweep and killed. Luckily for them, since it was quick, at least in relation to what the Germans would have done. God bless their souls.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “But do you have a way to get us to that contact?”
“It would be difficult, but not impossible,” he said. “It is a journey of eighty kilometers. I’ve sent a courier to ask the Resistance chief to provide a guide for you.”
“They will take us, surely?” Kaz said.
“It is not so simple,” the monk said, as if struggling with how to deliver the bad news. I tried to figure the angles, to understand what he wanted, to put together the bits and pieces of what I knew about the situation.
Lasho hated the Germans and had a problem with the Resistance.
The Jedburghs and the maquis had gotten caught up in a sweep. Who were the Germans hunting in their sweep?
Lasho was a killer.
No more Lysander flights were scheduled for Cessens because it was too dangerous.
Why?
Because Anton Lasho was running amok, killing every German he could find, not caring about the consequences, life, or death. The Father cared about all three. Presto, the answer presented itself.
“You want us to take Lasho with us. All the way to Switzerland.”
“Yes,” he said. “And the Resistance will not help. They will likely kill him if they find him. They have their own rules. Harsh rules, but sensible.”
“Like no indiscriminate killing,” I said.
“To a degree, yes. An attack has to be worthwhile, in terms of reprisals. Anton does not follow any such rule.”
“Why?” I asked. “And why do you care so much about him?”
“I care for his soul. But I also care for his sanity. Anton has suffered greatly, and I fear the burden may break him.” He rubbed his eyes.
“There is terrible suffering all around us,” I said. “What’s so special about Anton’s?” I knew there had to be guilt at work in this monk’s desire to help Lasho. It’s a great motivator, especially for a decent guy.
“We helped Anton some time ago. He and his family. You must understand, we can only do so much for refugees. The Germans search the abbey often. We can do little but provide food and shelter for one night and send people on to the Swiss border.”
“Plus you have a radio, and you can’t risk that being discovered,” I said.
“If the Germans find anything here, we face certain death. Then we could help no one,” he said, his voice quivering in anger at my insinuation, at the intolerable truth of it. His glistening eyes looked beyond us, searching for forgiveness, or perhaps simply dreaming of a simpler time. “A radio, a single refugee, an escaped prisoner, or a rifle. It does not matter to the Germans. Any contraband at all is enough for an arrest. Which means torture, and secrets ultimately forced out, followed by a bullet to the head.”
“What happened to Lasho’s family?” Kaz asked, placing his hand on the monk’s arm, a comforting, coaxing gesture.
He began the story.
Anton Lasho was born in Germany, but as a Sinti, he and his clan were never welcome. His parents died when he was a child, and he ended up in England, brought up by an aunt and uncle. They lived the itinerant life, traveling throughout Great Britain and making occasional journeys to France, where Anton met and fell in love with Soraya, a Sinti from southern France. They married and had two children, Livia and Damian. When war broke out in 1939, Anton and his family—Livia was five years old and Damian eight—were in France. Travel to England was difficult, and Anton made plans with other families to head to Spain, hoping to avoid being caught up in the conflict.
Soraya wanted to stay in France for a few more months, to celebrate the festival of Saint Sarah, at Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer on the coast of southern France. Sarah was the patron saint of all Roma, and many made the annual pilgrimage to the festival. Anton agreed, so in May 1940, his family and a caravan of other Sinti were camped out on the Mediterranean coast, awaiting the day when they would all walk into the warm waters and reenact the arrival of Sarah in France.
The Germans beat them to it.
The invasion of France came in early May. The surrender of France followed in late June.
By July, the government of Vichy France had begun to arrest Jews, Sinti, Roma, and antifascists, corralling them into internment camps. Vichy was a slice of southern France, a bone the Germans had thrown to Marshal Pétain to provide the illusion that the French still governed themselves. Pétain and his fascist militia gnawed that bone hard, giving the Nazis a run for their money when it came to tracking down Jews, Gypsies, and anyone else who didn’t fit the new European order.
Anton’s Sinti caravan scattered. Some were picked up right away, while others went on the run, splitting up and hoping for the best. Anton and Soraya were lucky. They found refuge with a farmer who’d hired them for seasonal work the year before. He took their horse and cart, along with what little cash they possessed, but he gave them a small room and shared what food he had. They all worked the farm, even little Livia and Damian pitching in at harvest time.
It was two years before the Germans came to the farm. They weren’t hunting Jews or anyone else. They were after food. They took the farmer’s two pigs and a dozen sheep. They took most of his grain, his apples, and even the jams Soraya had preserved from the wild strawberries she’d picked. The officer in charge gave the farmer a receipt. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t read, and the paper was worthless anyway.
One of the soldiers—maybe he was a farm boy and felt guilty—whispered to the farmer, telling him in schoolboy French to get his identity papers in order. With a knowing glance in Anton’s direction, he warned him of security troops checking papers and arresting anyone without proper identification.
Anton and his family left the next morning. They began walking east, to the Swiss border. Wary of patrols, they kept to the forest, coming out only to beg for food at small village churches. They were turned away often, fed occasionally, sheltered and comf
orted twice.
One priest put them in touch with the Resistance. They said Anton could join them, but Soraya and the children would have to make their way alone. Anton refused, and they left the Resistance camp with the name of another priest twenty kilometers distant who might help.
It was that priest who brought them to the abbey. The children were sick, their clothes filthy and ragged. Anton and Soraya were pale and thin, most of their food having gone to Livia and Damian. The monks nursed them back to health, hiding them whenever the Vichy militia came to call.
The Father leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of water, shaking his head as if to clear away the memories.
“It sounds as if you provided the Lasho family with everything they needed,” Kaz said. “What went wrong?” It had to be plenty for the Father to put so much time into setting the stage.
“Everything,” he said, taking another drink and setting the cup down, hard.
It had been relatively easy for the abbey to give shelter and solace to the Lasho family. At that time, the province of Haute-Savoie was occupied by Germany’s Italian allies. The Haute-Savoie was the only French province on the Swiss border that was not occupied by German troops. For the most part, the Italians did not share the German enthusiasm for rounding up Jews and other refugees on the run. Many a blind eye was turned, especially at border crossings. The Swiss, however, preferred the Nazi approach, since it kept the influx of unwanted refugees to a minimum.
The Lasho family stayed at the abbey for months, hiding in plain sight, making themselves useful or scarce as the situation demanded. Plans were made for them to get to the border, eighty kilometers away. A guide was arranged to take them across, evading both the Italian and Swiss border guards.
Then everything changed. The Italians got rid of Mussolini and switched sides. The Italian occupation troops left for home, and the Germans took over, sealing the Swiss border completely. No guide wanted to risk the journey, at least not for what they’d charged before. And the Swiss had closed the border to all but deserters, escaped POWs, and political refugees. Jews and Romani were defined as nonpolitical, a convenient strategy for the Swiss to keep unwanted minorities out. But they did make some hardship exceptions. Parents with children younger than six years old were allowed, if they survived the crossing. Anyone sick, pregnant, or over the age of sixty-five would also be granted asylum. Not that the sick or elderly would stand a chance of evading the Gestapo and the border guards. Children traveling alone under the age of sixteen were also allowed in under the hardship rules.
Which meant that Anton and Soraya had only one chance for Livia, age ten, and Damian, age twelve. Send them across the border alone.
Pressure mounted at the abbey for them to leave. The Gestapo paid a courteous visit to the abbot, counseling him to refuse help to the Resistance, report any strangers in the area, and mind his own business. Then came the first raid. It was only the dust cloud from the approaching convoy that gave any warning. The Lashos were spirited out of the abbey and hidden in the woods as the Germans tore through the abbey, thankfully finding nothing. It was decided. It was too dangerous for Anton and his family to stay any longer.
The Lashos left in the morning, leaving their sanctuary behind.
The monks had done what they could, making arrangements to get them to the border. They walked to a nearby village and hopped a freight car that slowed, even more so than usual, at the bend in the tracks where they waited. When the train braked to pull into Annemasse, they leaped off and were met by a priest who led them on back roads to a small chapel. They rested and spent what they hoped would be their last night in France, sleeping by the altar.
They left at dusk the next day, staying in the shadows, the priest in the lead. As soon as the sun set, they could be shot on sight for being outside after curfew. He took them through fields planted with beans, the ripe tendrils wound around tall stakes. It was good cover. Beyond the bean field, the land sloped down to the river. The priest told them it was shallow, barely up to their knees. They had to cross it, continue straight on, and cross again, where the river meandered back on itself. Then they’d be in Switzerland. But they had to be quiet; there was a customs post two hundred meters away, manned by Swiss and Germans who spent the day staring at each other, when they weren’t hunting desperate refugees.
Anton and Soraya led the children across the river. The priest waved, then disappeared. They were alone. The water was cold. Livia stumbled, falling in up to her neck, but Damian caught her and held his sister’s hand. Up on the sand bank, and back into the river, they made the final crossing.
The ground felt the same as it had on the other side of the river. It was Switzerland, but they were still in danger. They had to get the children away from the border, far enough away that the Swiss authorities wouldn’t be tempted to chase them back across the river.
In the darkness, they crept beside a road, keeping to the ditch, ready to hide at the first sign of alarm. It was the same roadway that led to the customs stop at the border.
That route was a mistake.
A truck came rumbling down the lane, its taped headlights illuminating the ditch as the road curved to the right. Soldiers stood in the open bed, pointing at the four of them as the driver braked.
Anton told the children to run. They hesitated, fearful and confused. Soraya grabbed them by the hands and sprinted away, a sorrowful glance all she could spare for Anton. He understood. She’d get them away and then leave them to be found. He’d distract the guards. Maybe he’d get away, maybe not.
He jumped up, waving his arms, stepping between the lights and his fleeing family. Two soldiers grabbed him, while the others ran past, not distracted at all, intent on their quarry. Anton raged against the men holding him, tearing loose from their grip, knocking one to the ground with a ferocious blow, and speeding off after the other guards. He heard a shot and kept running, certain that the remaining soldier wouldn’t fire in the direction of his comrades. Then another shot, and it felt like he’d been struck in the side by a red-hot iron. He stumbled, fell, got up again, and ran on.
Into the darkness.
He awoke in the woods, his side sticky with blood. Broken ribs and a bloody gash. He had no idea where he was. It was daylight, just past dawn. He kept to the woods, hoping to find Soraya and the children, hiding, excited to see him. Then they’d make another plan, get the children to safety, and take their own chances.
Lasho knew he’d run out of chances when he came to the forest edge, which looked down on the customs station. He could see the river where they’d crossed, the double bend and the shallow water. He stared at the river, watching the icy Alpine waters flow freely across the land, past the customs station they’d so carefully avoided the night before.
Something was wrong.
The gates were raised. German and Swiss soldiers mingled in the roadway, smoking and laughing. Lasho knew what the raised gates at the customs station meant. He knew what the truck waiting on the French side with its swastika markings was for. He knew what the approaching Swiss police sedan meant as well.
It squealed to a halt dead on the border. The Swiss were taking no chances with a mother and her two children. They’d been caught together, and since the children weren’t alone, they weren’t a hardship case. Lasho watched as the Swiss border guards opened the doors and escorted Soraya, Livia, and Damian to the waiting Germans. Soraya turned her head, perhaps looking for him, perhaps looking away from her captors.
It was over in seconds. The truck drove away, the sedan backed up and left, the gates came down.
Lasho’s family was gone.
Chapter Six
“That is the story Anton told to me,” the Father said. “We traced Soraya and the children to an internment camp outside Orleans. Then to a work camp inside Germany. Slave labor, I should say.”
“A death sentence,” Kaz said.
“Making it difficult for the Resistance to operate,” I said.
“Indeed. Since he is only one man, he can vanish into the hills with ease and evade the patrols that hunt him. But the maquis and our couriers cannot hide as he can; they must risk capture in order to carry on their work. We have lost too many brave souls to the Boche already. This cannot continue.”
“How does he survive?” Kaz asked. “He must need supplies and shelter.”
“I know he steals food. As for shelter, he cares little for comfort. I imagine some people help him, thinking he is part of the Resistance.”
“Yesterday, it was obvious he knew to expect an SS officer at a certain time and place. How did he get that information if he’s not with the Resistance?” I said.
“He takes prisoners when it suits him. I believe he tortures them for information. And his own pleasure, if it can be called that.”
“You want us to take him off your hands,” I said.
“You must,” the Father said.
“We have a mission,” I said, not happy about having to drag Lasho along while convincing him to stop killing Germans, which was pretty much the whole point of this war.
“Of course. And I shall be happy to assist you in crossing the border into Switzerland. If you take Anton with you.”
“And if we don’t?”
“Then, sadly, I would decline to assist you. I will be much too busy dealing with the crisis he has forced upon us to oblige,” the Father said.
“Father,” Kaz said, his voice nearly a whisper, “you’ve told us Lasho has caused much trouble for you. Why not simply lock him up? Or turn him over to the Resistance?”
“They will dispense their own rough justice. A bullet and an unmarked grave,” he said. “Anton deserves more. He came to us for succor, his wife and small children in hand. I welcomed them in, and it was I who made the decision that they must leave. I must make things right, for Anton’s spirit and his soul. And for my very own, I confess. I am sorry to stoop to coercion, but it the only tool I have at hand. You look to be competent and decent men; I trust you will keep your word if you agree.”
