God's Formula (10 page)

“Can I fill up with petro while I’m here?” asked Father Alain LaToure.

“You may be thought cheeky,” John Tolkien replied.

“
Sheekee
?”

“
Effronte
.”

“
Effronte?
You’re joking, of course.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Father Alain, in his black soutane, looked around. The cobblestoned rear courtyard of His Britannic Majesty’s Embassy in France was eerily quiet. The two young men he had brought with him, both strapping, moving lithely in the bright morning sunlight, were making quick work of loading the thirty-odd cases of Thompson submachine guns and ammunition into the back of the Sion Convent’s Citroen Camionette. The sagging open-air truck, marketed in the mid-twenties to small farmers in rural France—donated to the good sisters when it was on its last legs in 1938—sagged even more under the weight of its heavy load.

“Your vaunted BEF has left,” Father Alain said. “Your embassy is filled with ghosts, and you think it bold of me to ask for fuel? We are staying to fight the Bosche, while you flee.”

“I’m staying.”

“So you say.”

“Here comes Captain Smythe,” said Tolkien. “We can ask.”

Captain Smythe, the same ruddy-faced captain who had greeted Tolkien and Fleming on the day nine months ago when they had reported that the Friedeman boy had not appeared at Gare de l’Est, now
sans
mustache, looking determined but haggard—his face was shockingly unshaven—reached them and nodded.

“All set, then?” he said.

“Almost,” Father Alain replied. “May I inquire?”

“Yes?”

“I need petrol.”

“Ah, yes,” Smythe replied. “There’s a pump around back, and a shed with gerry cans. Take as much as you like.”

“You don’t think I’m sheekee?”

“
Sheekee
?”

“Impertinent.”

“No, sorry if you’ve been given that impression. I’m staying as well. In fact, we should talk.”

“I will fill up and then come back for more fuel. Will you be here?”

“For a day or two.”

Father Alain did not answer as all three men looked up, in the direction of the sound of German bombers high in the eastern sky. Overlaid on this now familiar hum came the high-pitched, siren-like whine of the Stuka, the Luftwaffe’s terrifying dive bomber. The whine, which grew louder as the plane dove at a forty-five degree angle, was faint to them, but distinct. They could see the plane now in the distance, diving to within two hundred feet of the earth before releasing its bombs. Then the muffled thuds of the bombs exploding. They watched the resulting smoke and dust clouds rise into the atmosphere, marring an otherwise clear blue sky, then turned back to the business at hand.
Nothing to see, really, just the war.

“Are you the intelligence officer here?” the priest asked.

“The last one left.”

“Where are the Bosche?”

“Rommel is fast approaching the Seine. The Luftwaffe is running riot. British and French air…”

“Yes?”

“They no longer exist.”

“How long?”

“Three days, four at the most.”

“I’ll come back later today for more petrol. We’ll talk then.”

“Excellent. I… I lost two brothers up near Reims.”

Smythe looked to the side for a quick second, as if embarrassed by this personal revelation, or perhaps he was looking in what he thought was the direction of Reims. Then he saluted smartly before turning and heading toward the rear of the embassy.

“I apologize,” Tolkien said.

“No need.”

“Yes, I—”

“No. I keep insulting the English, but it is my anger that is talking. Much British blood has been shed in defense of France, and there will be more. It is humiliating that we have let this happen.”

“You are not the typical parish priest, I must say.”

“I am deeply flawed.”

“We all are,” said the Englishman, “hence the need for salvation.”

“That perspective, professor, will soon be lost forever.”

“I hope not.”

The two men, roughly the same age, looked at each other for a moment and then looked quickly away, the way men do. The skies were empty and silent now, but both men knew that the death machines would be back.

“I have seen you at mass every day, professor.”

The Englishman nodded.

“The world presses itself on us regardless
, n
’est pas
?” the priest said.

Tolkien smiled a wry smile.

“We must embrace it, I think,” the priest said. “Each in our own way.”

“Speaking of embracing it,” Tolkien replied, “I must ask, Father, I have been to the Café de la Petit Flore every day…”

“Your boys are safe, professor,” said the priest.

“Can we have them now?”

“No.”

“Father…”

“One of them is sick. A doctor has visited.”

“Friedeman?”

“Yes. Epilepsy.”

“Epilepsy?”

“He escaped and was seen speaking German at the scene of a bombing.”

“Is he safe?”

“Yes, he was found just in time. A crowd was gathering.”

“Surely he was not considered dangerous. He is a boy.”

“It was a primary school, professor. Children were lying dead in the rubble. The people left in Paris…, well, they are frightened. They feel abandoned. The Bosche are in Evreux today. There are rumors that their spies precede them. Perhaps the boy is one of them, they think, a spy. They put nothing past the Bosche.
Will their women be raped, their children taken away to camps?
Bedlam.”

“Shall I continue to visit the café?”

“Yes, but there is no formula.”

“Father…” Tolkien stopped himself. He was not in the habit of challenging priests. At the age of eighteen, deeply in love with Edith, he had obeyed the command of his legal guardian, a kindly but no-nonsense priest, not to see or communicate with her until he became twenty-one, the age at which the guardianship terminated. He had suffered dearly for his obedience, but things had worked out well. So well, that he and Edith named their first son John, after Father Morgan.

“Yes, professor?”

“What about Captain Smythe? The embassy must surely be able to tell you who I am.”

“It is not up to me to confirm who you are, it is up to the people in
la resistance
. Their one contact with your MI-6 has disappeared. He was an actor at the Comedie Francaise, probably killed by Abwehr agents. They are waiting for a replacement to be identified. An understudy I suppose you could say. Until then, the boys are safe.”

“Once the Germans arrive, I will have to go into hiding.”

“Make your way to my rectory. I will conceal you there.”

Father Alain’s two young men were tying a tarp over the wooden crates of guns and ammo. When they finished, they stood at the rear of the truck and lit cigarettes.

“Father?” Tolkien said.

“Yes.”

“The need for salvation…Surely this is something that mankind will never lose sight of.”

The priest shook his head. “The battle now is between good men and evil men,” he said. “But one day soon, men, normal men who think they are good, will laugh at God, as if he were a joke. Salvation will be a joke to them. Then the last days will begin.”

John Tolkien sat alone in the last row right of the Cinema George V on Champs Elysee, watching the credits roll for
All This, and Heaven Too
. The boy in the blue shirt had pointed to a seat and disappeared. Except for a couple passionately kissing near the front, the theater was empty—dark and empty. Why it was open for business, with the Werhmacht encircling a ghost-like Paris, the professor could not guess. Perhaps its owner knew the man who would be meeting him—was doing his bit to thwart the Germans. Vive La Resistance. On the screen,
Bette Davis
and
Charles Boyer
had given way to secondary characters, their names in much smaller sized print, not unlike the way research assistants were credited in articles written by highly regarded professors. The
Phamous PhD
’
s
, Tolkien called them, when thinking about his meager scholarly output, which decidedly did not include
The Hobbit
.
Oh, well
…the sudden but very quiet movement of a person taking the seat next to him brought an abrupt end to these musings.

“Professor Tolkien,” the man said.

“Yes.”

“The boys have left.”

Silence, except for the opening scene of the movie—teenage school girls in pinafore dresses being introduced one by one to their new French teacher, the prim and proper and sad-looking Mademoiselle Desportes.

“Who are you?” Tolkien asked. He stole a glance at the man, who was older than he expected, perhaps fifty, and who was large—he barely fit into the theater’s cushioned seat—and who wore a rough beard.

“I am a friend of Father LaToure. You have no choice but to trust me, Monsieur Tolkien.”

“Where are they? The boys?”

“We had to get them away. The people in the neighborhood saw the Friedeman boy on the street ranting in German. They were asking questions. The Germans will be here tomorrow. We could not take the chance of someone talking to them.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Dentz has sent a deputation to St. Denis to negotiate the surrender of the city. There will be tanks and German soldiers marching on the Place de la Concord by seven tomorrow morning.”

“Dentz?”

“The military commander of Paris.”

“We would have taken them.”

“We only confirmed your mission this morning.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yes, and worse. You must leave Paris. If you are caught, you will be hung.”

“What about you, whoever you are?”

“I am a national rail conductor. I will stay and work. The trains must run. Perhaps I will blow up one or two before it is over.”

“Tell me where the boys are.”

“They have been taken south.”

“Where, exactly.”

“Foix, near the Spanish border. They were entrusted to an elderly couple, originally from Foix, Jean and Paulette Foret.”

“Who are they?”

“They lost two sons in the fighting at the river Meuse. Rommel. They are going to join a resistance group in Foix.”

Silence. On the screen, Mademoiselle Desportes, on the verge of tears, was rushing out of the classroom.

“Is there really a French resistance?”

“We will see. So far it consists of various groups of misfits.”

“How will I find the boys in Foix?”

“If you insist on trying, go to the Chapel of Notre Dame de Montgauzy. It’s at the foot of the Foix Castle. Ask for Father Raymond. But I must warn you, they are a strange breed in Foix.”

“Strange breed?”

“Have you heard of the Cathars?”

“No.”

“A twelfth-century heretical group. Fanatics. They trust no one.”

“Do you mean to say they still exist? Is Father Raymond one of them?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care to know. Everyone in Foix or from Foix is crazy, including the clergy. The Forets intend to seek the help of the priest. That’s all I know.”

“I
do
remember reading about the Cathars. They were wiped out.”

“Not completely, or so rumor has it.”

“They put up a fierce fight.”

“They were supposed to have some kind of secret weapon. The Treasure of Cathar. They killed thousands of the pope’s mercenaries with it. Many thousands.”

“Which pope?”

“Innocent III. He got a crusade going.”

“This father Raymond…?”

“Here, take this. It may help.”

Tolkien looked down at the object that the Frenchman had pressed into his palm. It was a large, gold, oval locket, perhaps two inches by one inch. He opened it to see a beautifully-rendered enamel painting of the Virgin Mary holding an older Christ Child on her left side. In the Child’s hand was a thumbnail, its detail amazing, of a castle with three crenellated towers. A red flag bearing a bright yellow twelve-pointed cross flew atop the center tower. Both the Blessed Mother and the Child appeared to be smiling, their eyes a translucent blue, like the sky in the thumbnail, glowing.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Father LaToure gave it to me to give to you. That’s an image of Foix castle the Child is holding. Foix Castle was the last holdout of the Cathars. He said it may help with Father Raymond.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” the bearded man said. “The Germans will occupy Paris and the North. Petain will be their puppet in the South. Confusion will reign for a short while. You must take advantage and escape. Then you can thank me.”

“How do you know all this?” Tolkien had learned as much from his nightly talks with Fleming in Fleming’s room. But Fleming was in touch with embassy personnel, who would be expected to know how the French were going to handle a German occupation. This bearded man…

“We have people in certain places,” was the man’s response.

“I can’t leave without the boys.”

“You are on a fool’s errand. The Friedeman boy has no secret formula.”

“Perhaps the Brauer boy has it.”

“Professor, we searched them both. We interrogated them both. They were both
incredule, naïve
. It is clear, Friedeman sent his son away knowing he was going to blow up the institute where he worked. The Brauer boy is his protector. No more, no less.”

“Young Friedeman, how is he?” Tolkien had a sixteen-year-old son, Christopher. He couldn’t imagine him in the Friedeman and Brauer boys’ situation.

“He had a seizure.
Le grand mal
. He has recovered.”

“Are you—was the doctor sure it was epilepsy?”

“The symptoms are unmistakable.”

“I know them. A neighbor’s boy in Birmingham had seizures. I was with him once.”

“I am sorry I could not help you, Professor Tolkien.”

“When did the boys leave?”

“Yesterday.”

“How are they traveling?”

“In a refugee caravan.”

“Slow as molasses.”

“Yes.”

“On foot?”

“No, among a throng of Belgians, some in carts, some walking, some on bicycles, a few old cars and trucks.”

“What route?”

“There is only one way south. Nationale Route Six.”

“Thank you.”

On the screen, Miss Desportes, still sad, was telling a story of some kind, her face now composed.

“Scandal, forbidden love, murder,” said the bearded man.

“Pardon?”

“The posters out front,” said the bearded man, nodding toward the screen.

“What do the Forets look like?” Tolkien asked.

“I don’t know,
vraiment
. They are friends of friends.”

Tolkien nodded.

“The Luftwaffe is strafing Route Six,” the bearded man said. “Be careful, my friend.”