In This Hospitable Land (41 page)

“Maman?” Ida asked quietly. “Were we ever Jews?”

Rose let out a sob and left the table. Never having seen their grandmother cry before except when their grandfather died, the children were confused and upset.

“The Germans and their supporters don’t care one way or the other,” Denise answered carefully. “If they believe you, your parents, or your grandparents used to be Jews, then you are Jews to them. Forever. And every refugee is suspect no matter their family history. That is why your fathers went away and that is why we must go too.”

“Are they safe?” Katie asked nervously. “We never hear from them.”

“They’re with others who are also in danger,” Denise said comfortingly. “But because they’re all together the danger is less.”

“Does that mean we’ll be safe too?” Until then Christel had been quiet, staring down into her empty soup bowl. Now too upset to hold her tongue, she watched her mother with wide-open eyes, their hazel tint darkening with fear.

“Yes. We will be safe,” Geneviève answered simply and surely.

“Will we go to Spain too?” Ida implored.

Realizing the children could no longer be protected from the truth, Denise somewhat sheepishly said, “Your fathers never went to Spain. That was just a little untruth we told so you wouldn’t accidentally say the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time.”

“Why tell us now?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Geneviève cut in, “now that we’re also going into hiding.”

“So we will see them?” Ida persisted.

“Yes,” Denise said, “I believe we will. Just not right away.”

“Let’s get started,” Geneviève insisted. “We still have work to do.”

“We’ve already packed most of what you will need into sacks,” Denise told the children. “There’s room for each of you to choose one little thing to bring for yourselves. But remember, each of us has to leave some precious things behind.”

Philippe took the little stuffed rabbit he couldn’t sleep without. Christel selected her special doll. Katie took her small pocketbook with a mirror and her ever-present comb inside. Ida chose a book she’d read so often the pages were falling out.

“Won’t you be bringing anything precious to you?” Ida asked the mothers sweetly.

Geneviève handed Denise a small velvet pouch: the diamonds.

The children surrounded their grandmother, who sat slumped in the big armchair, watching them all silently.

“Are you coming with us tonight,
Bonnemaman
?” Katie asked.

“Yes, Bonnemaman,” Ida echoed. “Please come!”

“Not tonight,” Rose replied with a heavyhearted smile as she caressed each of her grandchildren’s chins and cheeks in turn. “I’m just a little too tired, my darlings. So I’m going to stay on for a bit.”

Denise was saddened by the prospect of parting from the woman who had meant so much to her so long. She was pleased though that she and Geneviève had made arrangements for Rose’s safekeeping well in advance of this night. In a matter of moments Rose would descend the path to the little house across the road, where she would pack her few things yet again. Shortly after that, the Resistance would help her to the old mill house at La Planche. Eventually she would join Suzanne Maurel in Alès and be introduced around as Suzanne’s aunt.

“We all need to get a little rest before it’s time to go,” Denise told the children, “so I want you to give your Bonnemaman a kiss and a great big hug.”

With each successive hug, Rose’s embrace of her grandchildren became a little tighter and lasted noticeably longer.

The children trooped off to bed, their sacks at the ready for the knock at the door. Denise checked on Cristian, already asleep, surrounded by the last of the hanging garlic and other foodstuffs. Then she bid the rest of the children good night.

“Tante Didi,” Philippe asked bashfully, “do we really have to wear our wooden shoes?”

“Are you embarrassed by them?” Denise replied, surprised. “Don’t be. Back home in the low countries, wooden shoes were once considered an improvement on leather.”

“Why?”

“For one thing they don’t sink so easily into the mud!”

All the girls were lying down except for Ida. She sat up writing carefully in the family’s black notebook in which she had kept track of egg production.

Looking over the eight-year-old’s shoulder, Denise watched her meticulously make her last entry: March 18, 1943.

Shortly after midnight Louis Brignand rapped softly but insistently at the Sauverins’ back door. The bolt slid back and the door cracked open. In the thin glow of wood coals burning their last in the stove, Louis saw that Denise already wore her coat.

“I have seen no one,” he told her.

“Good,” she said thankfully, but then added fearfully, “Does that mean no one saw you?”

“Let’s hope. Are all the shutters closed?”

“Yes. Securely.”

“Then it’s okay to turn on a light since the kitchen window faces away from the valley.”

The single bulb came on and Geneviève appeared. After a brief exchange of greetings, Louis said, “We must hurry.”

Geneviève and Denise went to get the children. Ida and Katie started talking together. Christel gave a muffled cry.

“Quickly now,” Denise urged.

Entering the kitchen carrying their little sacks, Ida and Katie wore wool coats, scarves, and hats.

“We’re ready,” Katie told Louis proudly. “Philippe and Christel need to get dressed.”

As Katie finished speaking, Philippe came in rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Where’s your sack?” his older sister demanded. “You need it!”

Philippe ran back to his room. Denise returned, pushing Christel ahead of her. The little one’s eyes were red from lack of sleep.

“I’ve got to get Cristian,” Denise said, placing Christel between Katie and Philippe.

Louis began to fret but a minute later all the Sauverins were lined up at the kitchen door holding sacks or small valises. Denise also held Cristian so bundled up Louis couldn’t see his face.

“Let me take your case,” Louis offered Denise, relieving her of her bag before she could protest. “You just take care of that little one.” Turning and smiling at the four other children, he said, “And remember: no noise. We don’t want to disturb anyone else’s sleep.”

With Philippe on his shoulders Louis took the lead followed by Christel, Denise carrying Cristian, Ida, Katie, and finally Geneviève bringing up the rear. As soon as they set foot outside the door—the little ones with the thrill of anticipation, the mothers with misgiving—they heard a rumbling that echoed across the valley.

“What’s that?” Denise gasped, clutching her baby more tightly.

“It’s them,” Geneviève intoned coldly. “They’re coming.”

“A truck I think,” Louis said. “And motorcycles. Headed up the road toward Soleyrols. Come. Now.”

Louis put Philippe down and Philippe slipped on a rock. The sharp kick of his sabot pierced the night, louder in everyone’s ears and more heart-stoppingly unnerving even than the growing growling motorized sounds of vehicles coming closer.

“Sh!” Christel hissed.

“Good girl,” Louis said quietly, “but be sure to take your own advice.” Louis addressed all the Sauverins without raising his voice. “We’ll wait until we’re sure those vehicles have gone on toward the pass at Saint-Maurice-de-Ventalon.” Trying to quiet his breathing and his racing heart, he listened to the truck gear down and the engines work harder until the noise finally faded. “Quickly,” he said, showing the way. “Watch out. The stones are covered with frost.”

The whole journey, he knew, was a dicey proposition. He was thankful, though, that the landscape was bare of snow. At least they would leave no tracks.

Rounding the corner by the café, Louis was relieved to see that the light no longer glowed in the little house across the way. Rose Sauverin must have left too and therefore had a chance of being safe—this night anyway.

The road was empty but it seemed to Louis that they had walked along utterly exposed for a dangerously long time before coming to the turnoff. Again he heard the motors he feared from somewhere above—which confused and concerned him.

“Maman?” Christel whispered. “I’m afraid. I don’t like this.”

“Monsieur Brignand knows what he’s doing,” Ida whispered back.

But Louis could appreciate Christel’s apprehension. He worried too, imagining members of the Gestapo or Milice hidden in every dark group of trees lining their route.

For the moment, though, all was still. They soon entered onto the path Louis hoped would carry them more safely toward the rocky slope below and thence to the ruins of the old mill where Émile had met André and Alex during their escape one month before.

Hard to believe how little time had passed. It seemed so long ago.

Nearing their first destination, Louis noticed that the sporadic sound of motors had grown louder and clearly came from the road on the ridge above. Apparently the vehicles had ground to a halt with their engines idling.

Male voices wafting on the chill night air spoke guttural German mixed with sibilant French. A motorcycle alternately gunned and sputtered. Then a loud, exasperated, threatening voice reverberated through the dark. Motors revved and vehicles roared toward Vialas.

Louis and the Sauverins moved on but soon Louis whispered, “Wait. I’ll be right back.”

After slipping around a turn in the path, he cautiously approached the old mill and stepped across the sill. Dim skylight filtered in and Louis tensed involuntarily as a human form emerged from the shadows whispering, “Louis?”

“Yes,” Louis answered, relaxing in recognition of his contact’s voice. “Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Then I’ll go get them.”

One by one the refugees emerged from the shadows. Denise visibly startled as the figure standing in the old mill’s doorway came forward.

“Madame,” he said in formal greeting.

“Max! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to guide you on your way…”

“But—”

“…while Louis gets back to his house.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Georgette Guibal in Villaret. There you and your three little ones will stay while Madame Geneviève and her two go on.”

“What do you mean? You can’t split us up!”

“There’s no choice,” Max said consolingly. “No one in the region has enough room to accommodate seven of you.”

“But where will they go?”

“It’s better not to say.”

“And when will we see each other again?”

Max looked to Louis, who had no answer either.

“Times are so uncertain,” Max explained, “there’s no way to say. But you must believe it will happen. We are all intent on making it so, on reuniting all the divided families—yours as well as our own—as soon as possible.”

“I should go now,” Louis said.

Denise shifted Cristian in her arms and with enormous dignity told their guide, “You have done us a great service. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Louis replied, shrugging his shoulders.

“Good luck,” Max said, offering Louis his hand.

“And to you.” Louis turned back to Denise. “And good luck to you and your children.”

He put out his hand. Denise took it, leaned forward, and gave him a kiss on each cheek. Geneviève did the same.

Louis turned to the three girls and one boy standing woefully next to one another.

“It won’t be long now,” he said, knowing they must be cold, tired, hungry, frightened, and miserable. He patted each on the head then turned and walked away.

After a short rest in the old mill, the party proceeded, Ida and Christel holding hands and striding along behind Max. The path grew steeper. Here and there the travelers had to inch around large rocks jutting out from the hillside. The sound of rushing water grew louder with each step until they came to the narrow log bridge without a handrail to protect them. At least the wood, unlike the stones on the path, was free of frost.

They made their way across at a cautious pace, clasping each other’s hands, arms, and elbows. Suddenly Max heard someone cry out behind him. Instantly turning back he reached out to grab Cristian just as he slipped from Denise’s arms, almost tumbling in the direction of the creek. While lifting the infant and securing him against his chest with one arm, Max reached for Denise with his other to help her steady herself.

Despite the sudden jolt, little Cristian let out only the smallest of cries. Then he rested quietly in the cradle of Max’s strong right arm.

Before long they reached Le Massufret. Several hundred yards farther along a straight path that angled upward, they made their way into the gathering of the half-dozen homes of Villaret. Passing a large barn that served Max as a landmark in the dark, they abruptly entered a narrow passageway between the roadside wall and the barn’s adjoining house, readily identified by the finished stone archway over its entrance. The door of the house faced the side of the barn, hiding it from the houses farther up the hill.

Edouard Ours stood quietly by the head of his horse and his two-wheeled cart awaiting the small fleeing group. At this moment of truth the Sauverins clung to one another, rooted as firmly as the Lozère’s oldest trees.

“Please,” Edouard finally said. “We must go on before all our efforts go to waste.”

Gently Max and Edouard separated the family. Max lifted two little sacks onto the hay in the cart then heaved Philippe into place in one swift motion. Katie tried to climb in on her own but it took so long that Edouard felt compelled to lend her a hand.

Geneviève let out a long sigh, climbed up on the tongue of the cart, and settled down on the bare wood plank. Denise couldn’t even bring herself to ask again where her sister, niece, and nephew were going. She knew it was useless.

As the cart headed off Ida and Christel ran after it crying and reaching for one last grasp of hand. Katie and Philippe leaned over as far they could but when the cart got going faster than Ida and Christel, they stopped and waved till the cart was swallowed by the dark.

Georgette Guibal urged Max and the Sauverins to hurry into the only large room of her small house. Georgette’s adolescent daughter, Simone, hung back shyly near the fireplace that radiated welcome heat from the far wall.

Ida and Christel dropped their little sacks onto the floor. Christel grabbed and held her sister’s hand though she sensed immediately that the Guibal household offered refuge—the first true safety she’d felt that long night.

Exhausted and emotionally wrung-out, Denise sat down on the bench along the near wall and looked carefully around this sheltering home. The room’s stone walls were plastered white. The fireplace offered a bold contrast of gray granite stones set in a wide arch. On an iron crane in the middle of the fireplace’s deep cavity, a pot hung over hot coals of soft firewood glowing deep orange.

“You must be tired,” Georgette said in a kindly way to the children. “Come take off those coats. I have some soup for you.”

She bustled to the fireplace and spun the crane on its pintles to bring the bubbling pot within easy reach of her large pewter dipper. Then she reached for several bowls set out on the great wooden table not far behind and began ladling the steaming mixture into them.

Without taking off her coat, Christel ran to the table, pulled a chair up to it, and began to eat before her mother, sister, or Max could take their places.

“Ugh!” Christel said just as suddenly, making a terrible face, putting down her spoon, and looking to her mother as if for protection.

Max took a taste of the thin soup made of nothing but garlic, onions and a little bit of cut-up carrot floating in the broth. He really couldn’t blame the poor thing for her reaction. But her mother could.

“Don’t you dare say another word,” Denise hissed under her breath, giving her younger daughter a menacing look and then glancing over at Georgette to make sure she hadn’t noticed this embarrassing behavior. Fortunately Georgette was busy stoking the fire. “Eat,” Denise quietly commanded Christel and then said sweetly to Georgette, “It’s so cold out tonight. Thank you for this thoughtfulness.”

Georgette kindly took Cristian from Denise. The others sat silently, staring apprehensively at the soup. Finally they moved hesitantly to swallow one shallow spoonful after another. Max found the distasteful soup went down more easily with the chunk of rough country bread Simone served each of them.

While others ate their soup, Christel put her spoon back into the bowl and idly stirred until she realized her mother was watching out of the corner of her eye. Jolted into action Christel once again scooped up the smallest conceivable quantity of soup and raised it ever so slowly toward her mouth. After her mother shot her yet another stern glance Christel shut her eyes, brought the broth up to her lips, and with a terrible effort swallowed. Then she opened her misting eyes and looked over at her mother pleadingly.