Village of Scoundrels

by Margi Preus

AN IMMENSE HOPE

  The next day, Inspector Perdant’s second night in the village, he meandered along the streets, trying not to look like he was peeking into windows. Evening was descending, and the wooden shutters on the windows were being pulled shut one by one, so he turned his steps toward his hotel. But when at one of the houses he thought he heard singing, he stopped.

  He stared at the house. The music sounded suspiciously Jewish. Yiddish. Or Hebrew-ish.

  Should he investigate? Although his official job description was to “maintain positive relationships with the locals,” he knew the real reason was to identify evidence of illegal activities and unregistered Jews, communists, and undesirables.

  He took one step, then stopped. Maybe he was imagining it. The sound was very faint. Ever since he’d practiced shooting a Sten gun, he’d had a little ringing in one ear, so there was that. Or it could be a trick of the wind whistling through the slates on the rooftops.

  He backed up ever so slightly and studied the window. A soft glow emanated from behind the lace curtains, as if candles were burning inside. He made out the silhouettes of young people, and then at the window, for a brief moment, a face appeared. A girl. Just before she closed the shutters.

  It wasn’t strictly in his job description to bang on doors and demand entry without justification, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself so soon after his arrival. But he could pay a friendly call, couldn’t he?

  »«

  Inside the Beehive, everyone had gathered around the menorah for the lighting of the candles. Henni looked around at the others, at their eyes welling with sorrow. What with missing their families and longing to be in their own homes, there was plenty of loneliness and sadness to go around. But as the blessing was sung and the first candle lit, she saw in its tiny flame, courage. In its bright spark, the potential for miracles. And shining in the eyes of her friends, hope.

  Each day for the next seven days, another candle would be kindled and blessings recited. The flames would leap up, bright and strong, their light dancing in the darkness. Like us, she thought. We will be the miracles.

  It was perhaps a miracle that she and the others were here at all.

  Like nearly everyone new to Les Lauzes, Henni had arrived on the funny little narrow-gauge train, La Tortue—the Tortoise—with its steam engine puffing great clouds of important-looking black smoke into the sky.

  It was not a fast-moving train. Mostly, it seemed to Henni, it moved up. Up and up through fragrant pine forests or open farm country revealing vistas of the valley below: a patchwork of farms and fields, stitched together with rivers or rows of trees. The other children, most of whom were younger than Henni, were by now all cried-out and asleep, their faces still puffy and red. Henni gazed out the open window while tiny specks of soot and glittering bits of ash floated in.

  The train didn’t move fast, but as far as Henni was concerned, it was moving away. Away from the concentration camp at Gurs and its dark, un-heated barracks crowded with starving women and children—including, still, her mother. Away from the cold muck that oozed over the tops of shoes; away from the stinking and overflowing latrines; away from the meals of thin gruel, when there was a meal; away from the desperate, all-consuming hunger.

  But it had also taken her away from Max. Max, who had made life bearable in the camp. Even better than bearable.

  “Max,” she wondered softly now, “where are you? I hope you are safe.”

  As the train had moved up, the air sharpened. Every pine needle, every leaf, every blade of grass seemed polished to a high sheen. Only the faraway mountain peaks were hazy, so cloaked in blue mist that one couldn’t be sure if they were there at all.

  The war, Henni thought, seemed as far away as those peaks. Yet, like the mountains, always present, looming.

  Madame Desault leaned forward and spoke as if casually, yet with an intensity that made Henni turn away from the window and the other children lift their heads. “Remember what I told you,” she said as the train pulled into the station. “When you meet people, don’t tell them much about yourselves—not your religion or the country of your birth or where your parents are.” Then she leaned back while everyone sat very still for a few moments, letting it sink in: Even in this remote place, it was still important to keep certain things to yourself.

  They arrived at the station and saw for the first time the town that would be their new home. On one side of the tracks, a forested hill, on the other, the village—stone houses closely nestled together, shops and streets that wound down the hill to a small river that winked and glittered as it bounded over stones and under bridges.

  Here she was to live in a home with dozens of others—war orphans, children sent to the plateau to improve their health, students who attended the high school, or Jewish kids like her, plucked from the camps and brought to a place above the clouds.

  Was it possible that this hardworking train that chugged so slowly up the mountainside had taken them to another kingdom, a kingdom outside the world of war? she wondered as they all tumbled out of the carriage and onto the platform. Following the rest of her group down the cobbled street, her little suitcase—all she had left of her whole life—banging against her leg, Henni wondered if perhaps they had left the war and all its cruelties behind.

  But she could feel it trailing them. The war was a broken dam, a muddy flow that couldn’t be stopped, and she was quite certain that someday, somehow, it would once again arrive on her doorstep.

  And now it had—in the form of that policeman, whom she could see through the window, coming up the walk.

  »«

  Perdant was nearly on the doorstep of the Beehive when he heard a voice behind him. “Bonsoir, Monsieur,” said the voice.

  He turned to see a small group of teenagers standing on the street with their ever-present sleds behind them.

  “Bonsoir,” he said, trying to sound friendly.

  “How are you enjoying our little town?” the girl asked. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose were red from the cold. Like a lot of people around here, she was wearing the wooden shoes called sabots and a loden cape. He didn’t care for the capes. They were smelly when damp, and so voluminous that small children could be concealed beneath, for all he knew.

  “Very nice, thank you,” Perdant said. He wished they would go away so he could proceed with his investigation, but they continued to stand there as if he should say something. “Are you joining the party?” he asked, jabbing his thumb toward the house.

  “Party, Monsieur?” the girl said.

  “I thought I heard singing.” He held up a finger and cocked his head.

  “Singing?” The girl seemed to listen. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Perhaps you hear the water running under the ice on the river,” one of the boys said. He pointed to the other side of the street, where, at the bottom of the hill, the river ran. “It can sound like human voices singing. Sometimes it sounds like ‘The Marseillaise.’”

  All three teens began to sing the French national anthem with great gusto. As soon as they finished one verse, they went right into the next.

  Perdant nodded and smiled at them. Then, a bit uncomfortably, his gaze drifted to their sleds, covered with lumpy blankets.

  Finally, he held up a hand as if to say, All right, I have heard enough. I get it. The river sings the French national anthem. He tried to interrupt, but they just continued singing. Verse after verse—he’d forgotten there were so many—helping one another with the words and giggling when they forgot some of them.

  At last, he gave them a nod and a wave and walked away, thinking that some of the people in this town were a little strange.

  »«

  The three young people continued singing for as long as they could see Perdant. When he was gone for good, they stood perfectly still for a moment and, hearing no more sound coming from the Beehive, walked on, pulling their sleds behind them.

  Finally, Léon said, “Hey, did you hear th
e one about the two policemen?”

  “Is this a joke?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Of course it’s a joke!” Sylvie said. “That’s all he knows!”

  “The policemen were talking to each other on the street,” Léon went on. “The first one said to the second one, ‘What do you think of our new regime?’ The second policeman said, ‘Same as you.’ ‘In that case,’ said the first policeman, ‘it’s my duty to arrest you.’”

  Sylvie and Jean-Paul let out little nervous laughs. Each one tried not to let the others know just how wobbly their legs felt and how their hearts seemed to echo in the hollow vaults of their chests.

  »«

  By the time Sylvie, Léon, and Jean-Paul had reached their destination, their legs had started to function normally and Sylvie had found her natural voice again.

  The farmer, Monsieur Mousset, greeted them and showed them around the farm. Typical of the area, it consisted of a stone house and barn, all connected. An inside door between the house and barn made it possible to tend the animals in the depths of winter when the snow and wind made impassable drifts outside. Of course, there were also doors leading outside.

  A room off the side of the barn was to be Jean-Paul’s living and work space. It was simple and small, with a bed and a desk, though no running water. No matter. In the yard outside Jean-Paul’s door, spring water ran freely through a pipe into a stone trough. Maybe the best thing of all, the animals were right on the other side of the wall, helping to keep the place warm.

  There wasn’t really heat in the room, but it felt warm. The camaraderie and the fire of their passion for the work supplied all the heat they needed. Jean-Paul felt energized. Soon he would be doing something. Really doing something to fight the Nazis.

  “It’s perfect,” he said, rubbing his hands together.

  The farmer gave a nod and went off to tend to his chores.

  “It’ll be a much safer place for our operation,” Léon said. “The student houses are liable to be searched—as we saw tonight!”

  “That was a close call,” Sylvie agreed. “It probably wouldn’t have been good to have the policeman call on them right in the middle of a Hanukkah party!”

  “I don’t get it, though,” Léon said. “Those kids came here perfectly legally. The law allowed for them to be taken out of the camps. So why is it now so dangerous for them to be here?”

  Jean-Paul set a box down on the table and turned to them. “It’s a gradual eroding of rights and privileges,” he said. “The Nazis and their puppet government in Vichy take away rights and make new restrictions little by little, so you can’t keep ahead of them. There are always new criteria for arresting people. And they’re sneaky, too. Like, they tell you to register and then you’ll be legal. But then they have your names and addresses and know everything about you—so it’s much easier to arrest you!

  “For a time it was legal to take the kids out of the camp, but now it’s not so easy,” Sylvie said. “The rescue organizations sometimes have to smuggle them out, I’ve heard. And now, if the police manage to track down the children that were taken out, they are returned to the camps in the name of ‘family unity’!”

  “It doesn’t make any sense!” Léon exclaimed.

  “Nothing makes sense anymore,” Sylvie grumbled.

  Slipping their mittens back on, they stepped outside to get more things.

  “What if that policeman had asked to see what was under the blankets?” Sylvie said.

  “Perfectly harmless!” Jean-Paul said. “Just school supplies, right? Paper, ink, stamps . . .”

  “A sewing machine?” Léon asked as he and Jean-Paul hefted an old treadle sewing machine into the space.

  “That would have been the easiest thing to explain—it’s just a sewing machine,” Sylvie said.

  “But perfect for making the perforations in ration cards,” Jean-Paul added.

  Sylvie set the typewriter on the table.

  “Careful with that!” Jean-Paul said over his shoulder.

  The typewriter had been brought from Africa by a missionary friend of one of the teachers and was thoroughly convincing in its ancient, official, been-there-forever kind of way.

  “Beautifully untraceable,” he said, running his hand affectionately over the keys.

  “The way I see it,” Léon said, “there’s going to be no end of need for papers. What with the roundups in the cities, more Jews and other refugees will come here.”

  “It has a reputation as a safe place,” Jean-Paul said. “Some may find places to stay on the plateau. Many will want to keep moving, to Switzerland, if possible. All of them are going to need papers.”

  “Now with a policeman spying on us, even more people are going to need identification cards,” Sylvie said. “They’ll also need ration books, demobilization papers, birth and baptismal certificates, school diplomas, marriage licenses . . .”

  “Even library cards, prescriptions, and rent receipts,” Jean-Paul said. “But I think that once we get everything set up, we might be able to turn out maybe thirty, even fifty, documents a week. But who’s going to deliver all these documents to the right places? I don’t really know my way around yet.”

  “And you shouldn’t spend your time hiking all over the plateau,” Sylvie agreed. Pointing to the table, she added, “You should be right here.”

  “Don’t worry,” Léon said. “People have a way of turning up when you need them.”

  JULES

  The next morning there was a knock at the door. Jean-Paul opened it to behold a boy of about ten or eleven with a puppy tucked under his arm as if he always had one there.

  In spite of the cold and snow, he wore short pants and knee-high woolen stockings, with a navy blue beret pulled down on his head. The beret had a little button on the very top, and Jean-Paul had the impression that if he pressed it, he might set the boy spinning like a top.

  “Bonjour,” the boy said solemnly.

  “Bonjour,” said Jean-Paul. “Are you one of Monsieur and Madame Mousset’s children?”

  “Me?” said the boy. “No. I’m Jules.”

  “Well, Jules, how can I help you?”

  “I was thinking,” Jules said, craning his neck to try to see into the room, “that I might help you.”

  “Jules! Jean-Paul!” Mme Mousset waved at them from the farmhouse door. “Get out of the cold and come inside, you two!”

  Jules and Jean-Paul walked across the yard and stepped into the kitchen, where each was handed a mug of warm milk. Jean-Paul’s had a splash of ersatz coffee in it.

  “What kind of a position are you looking for?” Jean-Paul asked Jules. “And what are your qualifications?”

  “My qualifications are that I know this whole area.” Still holding the puppy, Jules spread his arms wide so that the puppy kicked his legs nervously. “I know the hills, the forest paths, where the gates are on the fields. And the sheep trails. I know the farmers, too—who lives where.”

  “And how did you come to this vast knowledge?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “I have a herd of the orneriest goats this side of the Cévennes Mountains. They run away. They hide. They get into trouble. So I meet a lot of people.”

  “Where are they now?” Jean-Paul asked, gazing out the window as if expecting to see them pawing at the snow outside.

  “They are in the goat shed at home,” Jules said, looking at Jean-Paul with the kind of pity reserved for city boys. “My little brother is taking care of them.”

  “Your . . . little . . . brother?” Jean-Paul said.

  Jules nodded. His dark eyes were those of an adult’s set in a child’s face. Now they regarded Jean-Paul with a touch of bemused tolerance, as if to say, Perhaps it’s different in the city where you’re from, but here on the plateau, we all—young and old—have to work, you know.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Jules said. “You’re thinking that I’m too young. But that’s what makes me perfect. Nobody will suspect me.”

  Ma
dame Mousset made a little affirmative sound and added, “That’s so.”

  “How old are you?” Jean-Paul asked.

  “Ten,” the boy answered.

  “What about your parents?” Jean-Paul said. “Do they know what you’ll be up to? And do they approve?”

  The way Jules saw it, if his father could join the resistance, well, then, he could do something, too. If his mother found out what he was doing, she’d find him, drag him home by his ear, scold and chatter away like a red squirrel, and send him to bed without his supper. But he’d just climb out the window and be gone again. Eventually he’d wear her down and she’d give up—he felt sure of that.

  He did not say any of that. He just said, “Oh, yes. It’s fine,” without looking directly at Jean-Paul.

  “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble,” the older boy said.

  Jules laughed. “I’m in trouble all the time!”

  “Serious trouble, I mean,” Jean-Paul clarified.

  Jules gave a little one-shoulder shrug. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “If you were caught with papers, you couldn’t say where you were taking them or who gave them to you. No matter what. You understand that?”

  “Absolument,” Jules said.

  “You won’t know what the documents say or exactly who they’re for—only where to take them.”

  “Absolument,” Jules repeated.

  “I can’t pay you much,” Jean-Paul went on. “And by ‘not much’ I mean ‘not anything,’ at least at the moment.”

  “I don’t do it for the money,” Jules said. It was an opportunity to do something really important—and dangerous. And he hated the boches. He knew he wasn’t supposed to call the Germans boches or Fritzes or Krauts or beetles—all derogatory terms—and he wasn’t supposed to hate them either. He went to church and listened to the sermons. Still, his insides zinged a little and his skin prickled just thinking of getting the better of them in any way possible.

  Plus, he already knew that stopping at farms often elicited a reward of a slice of meat, maybe an egg or two, some vegetables, an apple, sometimes even a piece of cake!