Village of Scoundrels
Page 1
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Preus, Margi, author.
Title: Village of scoundrels: a novel based on a true story of courage during WWII / Margi Preus.
Description: New York: Amulet Books, [2019] | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: In the 1940s, remote Les Lauzes, France, houses Jews, unregistered foreigners, forgers, and others who take great risks to shelter refugees and smuggle them to safety in Switzerland. Identifiers: LCCN 2018058722 | ISBN 9781419708978 (alk. paper) | eISBN 978-1-61312-507-6 Subjects: LCSH: World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—France—Fiction. | CYAC: World War, 1939–1945—Underground movements—France—Fiction. | Refugees—Fiction. | Jews—France—Fiction. | World War, 1939-1945—France—Fiction. | France—History—German occupation, 1940–1945—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.P92434 Vil 2019 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Text copyright © 2020 Margi Preus
Illustrations copyright © 2020 S. M. Vidaurri
Edited by Howard W. Reeves
Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura
Title type design by Kay Petronio
Published in 2020 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.
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THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY INSPIRED BY REAL EVENTS AND THE EXPERIENCES OF REAL PEOPLE WHO LIVED OR WERE SHELTERED IN A CLUSTER OF VILLAGES IN SOUTH-CENTRAL FRANCE DURING WORLD WAR II.
“THE OPPOSITE OF GOOD IS NOT EVIL; THE OPPOSITE OF GOOD IS INDIFFERENCE. IN A FREE SOCIETY WHERE TERRIBLE WRONGS EXIST, SOME ARE GUILTY, BUT ALL ARE RESPONSIBLE.”
—RABBI ABRAHAM JOSHUA HESCHEL
CAST OF MAJOR CHARACTERS
A
Pastor Autin (oh-tanh)—one of the Protestant pastors in Les Lauzes
B
Monsieur Boulet (monh-syeur boo-lay)—director and houseparent of the Beehive
C
Céleste (say-lest)—high school student originally from Paris who becomes a courier for the resistance
Claude; Clo-clo (clode; clo-clo)—Jules’s friend who helps paint the roadway
Madame Créneau (mah-dahm cray-no)—organizer of the network that finds safe places for refugees on the plateau and smuggles children and others to Switzerland
D
Madame Desault (mah-dahm day-zo)—rescues children from the camps and brings them to Les Lauzes by train
F
Jean-Paul Filon (zhonh-pole fee-lonh)—Jewish teen who seeks shelter in Les Lauzes and becomes a master forger. He is also known as Otto and Jean-Paul Lafour.
H
Henni—a German Jewish teen released from Gurs internment camp to Les Lauzes, Max’s girlfriend
J
Jules (zhul)—ten- or eleven-year-old goatherd who passes messages, creates diversions, and delivers forged papers for
Jean-Paul Filon. Also known as La Crapule (lah crah-pul)—The Scoundrel.
L
Léon (lay-onh)—brother of Sylvie; teen resident of Sunnyside who joins the resistance
Louis XIV (loo-ee kah-torz)—King of France, 1643-1715. Devoutly Catholic, he abolished the rights of the Huguenot Protestants, and encouraged his “dragoons” (soldiers) to persecute them until they emigrated or converted.
M
Madeleine (mah-deu-lehn)—Henni’s friend, Jewish teen living at The Beehive
Max—Henni’s German Jewish boyfriend, whom she met in Gurs, a concentration camp, primarily used for internment
Monsieur and Madame Mousset; M. and Mme Mousset (monhsyeur and mah-dahm moo-say)—a farm couple who offers a space to Jean-Paul Filon where he can both live and run his forgery operation.
P
Officer Perdant (per-danh)—plainclothes French police inspector sent to “keep an eye on” the townspeople of Les Lauzes
Marshal Pétain (pay-tan)—head of the collaborationist Vichy government in southern France after Germany occupied northern France. When Germany occupied southern France in 1942, he became a puppet of the German military adminstration.
Philippe (fee-leep)—high school student from Normandy who hides refugees and smuggles people to Switzerland
S
Sylvie (seel-vee)—Léon’s sister, high school student and forger
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Pronunciation notes:
zh = the sound g makes at the end of “garage”
eu = the sound in the middle of “should”
onh = the beginning sound in “on” before you say the “n”
ah = the beginning sound in “all”
kh = the sound an angry cat makes
PLACE NAMES
A
Alsace—ahl-zahs
Annecy—ahn-see
B
Bastille (historic French prison)—bahs-tee
C
Cévennes—say-ven
Château de Roque—shah-toe deu rock
Chemin du Dragon—sheu-manh du drah-gonh
Clermont-Ferrand—clehr-monh feh-ranh
Collonges-sous-Salève—co-lonzh soo sah-lehv
D
Dunières—du-nyair
L
Le Chambon—leu sham-bonh
Le Puy—leu pwee
Les Lauzes—lay lowz
Lyon—lee-onh
M
Marseille—mar-say
N
Nice—nees
R
Rivesalte—reeve-salt
S
Saint-Étienne—san-teh-tyenn
T
Triangle de la Burle—tree-angleu deu lah burl
V
Vichy—vee-shee
1.
EARLY MAY 1943
LES LAUZES, FRANCE
V FOR VICTORY
Jules carried the brushes. Claude, because he was bigger, lugged the can of paint. The two boys kept to the far side of the trees lining the road, trying to stay out of sight.
“German soldiers walk along here sometimes,” Claude whispered.
Jules swept his gaze up and down the road and to each side. “Well, they aren’t here now,” he said. A faint jangle of bells caught his attention, and he turned to see a herd of goats coming out of the forest onto the road behind them.
Jules tapped Claude on the shoulder and jabbed his thumb in the direction of the road. “Here,” he said, and the boys crept from behind the trees onto the roadway.
“What about them?” Claude pointed at the animals clip-clopping along the pavement. “And the old lady?” A woman in a long skirt hobbled behind the goats, urging them along with a stick.
“Don’t worry about any of that,” Jules said. “Now, you paint ‘1918.’”
“Doesn’t eighteen go before nineteen?” Claude asked.
“Yes, usually, but this time paint 19, then an 18—that’s all—because it’s the year.”
“But it isn’t! It’s 1943!”
“Yes, I know that, but . . . Never mind. I’ll paint 1
918. You do the V for Victory.”
Claude bobbed his head happily and put brush to pavement, ignoring the goats that clattered past. But when the goatherd passed by, he looked up and whispered, “Why does that lady have a suitcase strapped to her back? Oh, is that the Ameri—”
“Shh!” Jules hushed his friend. “Make that V bigger. It’s too little.”
Once the goats were past, all that could be heard was the scrape of the brushes on the pavement and the boys’ earnest breathing, a little from the exertion of the hike and from bending over to paint. And that other thing: fear of getting caught.
Jules was just putting the finishing touches on his work when he heard shouts.
“Achtung!” Then, “Garçons! Arretez!—Boys! Stop!”
Jules leaped up and tugged at Claude’s sleeve. “Vite! Vite!” he cried, then dashed away.
He could hear Claude clomping along behind him, and behind Claude the clanging of metal-heeled boots on the roadway. Only German soldiers had boots that sounded like that, Jules knew. He glanced over his shoulder to see a couple of soldiers chasing them—still far enough away that Jules wasn’t worried about getting caught. The boys only had to duck into the forest that lined the road and take any one of a number of paths and they’d lose the soldiers in no time. He glanced back again—now Claude was loping in the wrong direction—back toward the soldiers.
“Claude!” Jules shouted.
“The paint!” Claude yelled over his shoulder.
The goats skittered sideways as the soldiers ran past them.
“Leave it!” Jules hollered.
There was no way Claude could retrieve the paint and get away before the soldiers reached him.
Jules clutched his head in his hands. There was the woods, right there—full of paths leading in all directions. But there was Claude, about to fall into the hands of the Germans, the Germans who would turn him over to that policeman, Inspector Perdant.
Jules let his arms fall to his sides and ran back toward his friend.
2.
EARLY DECEMBER 1942
INSPECTOR PERDANT ARRIVES
Five months earlier, in December 1942, plainclothes inspector Perdant had arrived in the village of Les Lauzes.
The village, situated on a high plateau, was accessible from the valley only by a single winding road or a comically small train. Ever since France’s surrender to Nazi Germany in 1940, the place had been living in its own little way, outside the rules of the current government. It had taken a while for that to be noticed. But now it had.
By the time Perdant arrived, winter had settled in, and the streets were snow-covered and slippery. Since the village was built on the side of a steep hill, this could make for treacherous going.
He was mincing his way to the café across from his hotel when a loud, sustained shriek made him stop in the middle of the street. Someone in danger? Distress? Perhaps his brand-new job as the sole police officer was about to begin with something truly dramatic. He turned his head—all his senses alert. Maybe one of the illegals said to be hiding here was trying to murder someone! If he could just pinpoint where the scream was coming from, he would dash to the rescue.
The high, keening “Eeeeeee” transformed to a squeal of “Aaaahhhhh,” and . . . did he detect an element of glee in that scream?
The sound grew closer and clearer—like a train engine echoing between stone walls, now muffled, now screaming, now rounding a corner, gathering speed.
Then, there! Careening at high speed down the street, aimed straight at him, came a train of sleds, ridden by teenagers. Surely they’ll stop, Perdant thought.
He flung up his free hand, palm-first, as if he might stop them by sheer force of will. Quickly realizing that they couldn’t possibly stop, he lunged out of their way at the last moment.
“Ooohhhh!” the riders screamed as they rocketed past him.
No sooner had one sled gone by than another followed, and then another. A cap blew off, a glimpse of red stockings, a hair ribbon, snow-frosted eyeglasses. Did that boy just stick out his tongue as he whizzed past? A little brown-and-white dog chased after, barking and barking. The squeals of delight echoed between the village shops, then changed tone when the teens zoomed past the town square. Sparks flew from the metal runners as the sleds clattered over the railroad tracks, and the screams faded as the riders rounded the corner and headed toward the bridge that spanned the river.
A year or two earlier, he might have been sledding down the hill with them, Perdant thought. But now he was twenty-two and a policeman and had to look more seriously at these things.
He knew the town was full of teenagers. They came from all over France to attend some kind of “exceptional” high school meant to “promote peace and international unity.” A little too late for that, Perdant thought. Many of these students lived in boardinghouses; it was known that some of them were foreign Jews. It was suspected that there were also communists and other illegals and undesirables. And since he was also quite sure it was not legal to ride sleds down the main street, there were obviously delinquents among them.
“Scoundrels!” Perdant said aloud before he stepped into the café, notebook under his arm, ready to begin his first report.
THE SLEDDERS
Across the bridge and a little way up the hill on the other side, the sleds slowed. One by one the sledders jumped off and stood up, brushing the snow off their jackets and cloaks, laughing and chattering as they waited for everyone to finish the run.
Philippe came careening down the hill, leaped off his sled while it was still moving, ran alongside and jumped on again, finishing the run facing backward.
There was a smattering of applause with mittened hands, which Philippe acknowledged by standing and doffing his cap, revealing a shocking abundance of red hair.
Next came two sleds moving in tandem. First, Léon, with his feet hooked into the sled behind him that carried his sister, Sylvie.
Then a sled carrying two girls zoomed down and toppled over. The girls rolled off, and Henni stood up, but Céleste found she couldn’t. Her scarf was snagged on the runners.
“Who was that man?” Henni asked, shaking her hat free of snow.
“What man?” Céleste tugged at her scarf. “I had my eyes shut the whole way!”
“The man standing in the middle of the street,” Henni said.
“He must not be from around here,” Philippe said, “because he didn’t know enough to get out of the way.”
Céleste extracted her scarf, and the group moved their sleds off the bridge to get out of the way of the last stragglers. Once all the sledders were accounted for, they started back up the long hill, and the story of the man in the street came out in bits and pieces.
“He’s a policeman,” said Léon.
“But no uniform,” Céleste pointed out.
“Plainclothes,” Léon went on. “His name is Perdant.” (This elicited giggles, because the word in French meant “loser.”)
“Why is he here?”
“Sent to keep an eye on us. On the town. And the area.”
Henni’s French had improved enough that she could keep up with the conversation and ask hopefully, “A gendarme?” The gendarmes, at least the ones who’d come around the previous summer, had seemed mostly harmless.
“He’s French, not German, but he’s not an ordinary gendarme. He’s from the national police,” Léon explained.
Talk stopped. Their breath hung suspended in frosty white clouds. For a moment, the town seemed wrapped in silence.
“National police,” Philippe said quietly. That was a serious kind of police, and not as friendly as the gendarmes who showed up from time to time to arrest someone but mostly sat in the café drinking coffee and talking loudly about whom they planned to go after. By the time the gendarmes went to make the arrest, that person—no surprise—was usually long gone.
The sledders continued up the hill, each of them absorbed in their own thoughts. For a while all that c
ould be heard were their feet crunching on the snow, and the shoosh of the sleds following behind.
“Gotta go,” Philippe said without further explanation. He walked away, head down, knowing that what he was supposed to do later that night had just gotten considerably more dangerous. His heart raced a little, a feeling he’d become so used to, he’d kind of grown to like it.
Henni’s heart raced, too, unpleasantly so. Her memory had flown to her old home in Germany. The marching soldiers in the streets, the smashing of the windows in her mother’s shop, the ringing of jackboots on the stairs, only one hour to pack their things, the misery of the internment camp. Was it going to start all over again? She mumbled goodbye and trudged toward the Beehive, the house where she lived now, full of kids who really didn’t need one more thing to worry about.
Céleste watched the others scatter and wondered over all their secrets. Daredevil Philippe, for instance. He was like a smoldering fire—both attractive and dangerous—composed of warm coals that seemed to burst into flames on the top of his head. She imagined the snow melting under each purposeful step he took. He was up to something. She just didn’t know what.
And there were brother and sister, Léon and Sylvie, whispering to each other as they turned their footsteps toward Sunnyside, their boardinghouse. Tall Léon bending down to self-assured Sylvie, her mittened hand gesturing. What were they talking about?
Everyone in this town had secrets. Everyone but her, Céleste thought. But what could she do? She was bright enough to do well in school, but not a genius. She was not big and strong, but as small as “une petite puce—a little flea,” as her father still called her. She was also a scaredy-cat.
Céleste fumbled with the top button of her coat, trying to close it against the falling snow, then noticed her coat was buttoned up wrong. How could she be trusted to do something secret and dangerous when she couldn’t even button up her coat right?
Still, the cold pellets tapped against her head more and more insistently. Go, go, go, the snow seemed to say. Do, do, do.