by Margi Preus
Why had she never stopped to think what it would be like to be Henni—or any of the other Jewish teens and children scattered in farms and houses all over the plateau, separated from their families, not knowing where their parents were or if they were still alive, having to hide when neighbors stopped by, never knowing what would happen next? Why did she think she should be so privileged to escape being afraid now and then?
“Yes, of course I’ll help,” she said, knowing now that she would also help Léon.
7.
JUNE 1943
LE PASSEUR—THE PEOPLE SMUGGLER
As usual, Philippe arrived at the safe house dressed in his Scout uniform: shorts, shirt with badges affixed, beret, and scarf. There, he was introduced to his “travelers.” By now he’d made a number of these journeys. Through the late winter into spring, and finally summer.
This time his travelers were a couple whom Philippe knew only as Armand and his wife, Lucile. Armand was French; Lucile, German. Armand had been wounded in World War I; he’d had a business in Paris. Lucile was a nurse. According to their new identification papers, they were French, from Alsace. It was imperative that Lucile not speak, as her heavily German-accented French would fool no one.
Philippe took note of—and approved—their nondescript clothes and decent walking shoes. They carried very little in the way of luggage. All to the good—there would be less to convince them to leave behind once they reached their final stop.
He also knew by now they would have been filled in on the “rules” of travel that Madame Créneau would have recited:
You are hereby warned that the trip involves risks and there is no guarantee for anybody. If you agree, good luck!
A young man will come looking for you at this house. Follow him at a distance.
So far, so good, he thought, walking in the direction of the train station. The couple followed at a distance as they had been instructed to do at all times.
Just before you depart, the young man will give you your train tickets. If someone asks for your ticket or your proof of identity, act as though nothing important has happened and you aren’t bothered. Don’t speak.
The beginning of the trip was the easy part. As he would for every segment of the journey, Philippe bought and then gave the tickets to the travelers as unobtrusively as possible before they boarded. The couple would sit separately from him, and they and Philippe would pretend not to know each other.
Philippe’s rule, when involved in an action, was to stay focused. Buying tickets, getting the tickets to the refugees, boarding the train, taking a seat, having identity cards checked: Stay alert. Keep your eyes and ears open. Listen. Watch. Observe. Think only about that moment. The time to review the next steps was on the long rides or waiting for the next connection.
This leg of the trip had gone off without a hitch. He and the travelers disembarked and only had to wait for their next train. Now was a time to think through the future steps.
This was what he was doing while leaning on a pillar in the station at Dunières when he noticed someone who looked like Céleste. The fashionable skirt, that blouse, the dark curls framing her heart-shaped face, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear . . . It was Céleste! He felt a rush of . . . what? Something like the adrenaline rush he sometimes got when the German police approached or something looked dicey. It was sort of like that—his heart lurching wildly—and it surprised him. He saw her all the time in Les Lauzes and his heart didn’t do acrobatic stunts then . . . Did it?
He’d taken a few steps toward her before he realized what he was doing and stopped. No distractions, he reminded himself. The last thing he needed was to miss a train connection or lose track of his travelers. For another, she looked . . . Well, he had the distinct impression that she’d seen him and was pretending that she hadn’t. Why? Where was she going? With a suitcase?
Philippe had the urge to speak to her, but he reminded himself he needed to keep his attention on his travelers. It would be unconscionable if they missed the train to Saint-Étienne because he’d been chatting with a friend. While he considered all this, Céleste disappeared in the swirl of people.
Sitting on the next train, and on the long walk to the Revols’ house, Armand and Lucile trailing behind, Philippe wondered about that chance encounter. Where was Céleste going? Her family lived in Paris. But she wasn’t headed toward the Paris-bound trains. She had been headed in the other direction.
These thoughts dogged him all the way to the Revols’ farm. There, Armand and Lucile were ensconced in the barn and offered stew made with vegetables from the garden, along with some bread and a portion of cheese.
Philippe sat with a bowl of the same stew at the kitchen table while Madame Revol rinsed strawberries from their garden under the tap and spoke about the roundups in Lyon and the destruction of old Marseille.
“They’re starting to get desperate, the boches,” she said. “And they are getting meaner.”
Philippe tried to keep his mind on the conversation, but his thoughts drifted to the moment he’d seen Céleste. Was it possible it wasn’t Céleste, but just someone who looked like her? No. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that it had been her.
Mme Revol set a bowl of still-wet strawberries—tiny beads of water shimmering on their surface—on the table. Philippe stared at them as if at a bowl of diamond-encrusted rubies.
“They’re also saying,” she murmured, “that Lyon is crawling with the men in leather jackets and felt hats.”
“Plainclothes German police,” Philippe said. It was no secret that they favored leather jackets and felt hats. He also knew there would be a long wait in Lyon for the train to Annecy. He bit into a strawberry, tasting the sweetness of the fruit, followed by a slight bitter aftertaste of fear. “We arrive in Lyon at six thirty or seven o’clock and leave at midnight, so there’s quite a wait,” he acknowledged, “but I’m sure it will go fine. This couple has been doing everything right. They’re conscientious, thoughtful, intelligent. They haven’t made any missteps.”
“Good,” Mme Revol said. Her gaze fell to the strawberry she was slicing into a bowl.
Philippe’s mind flitted again to the sight of Céleste walking away. She hadn’t looked like her normal, sassy, playful self. She looked, he realized, feeling an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, afraid.
Mme Revol glanced up, pointed her paring knife at Philippe, and said, “Make sure you don’t get distracted.”
ON THE TRAIN TO ANNECY
Philippe hoped the couple remembered the instructions Madame Créneau had given them:
During the whole day and night of the train journey, and in the railway station waiting rooms, pretend to be asleep as much as you can. Don’t let anybody start a conversation with you. If somebody seems to keep staring at you, pretend to fall asleep. Don’t chat with your companion in your own language. You will have a chance to relax and talk to each other during the various stops you will make at the homes of friends of your guide.
If you lose sight of your guide, don’t worry. He’ll be back as soon as he can. If you are arrested but your guide isn’t, you must leave without giving any sign that you know him.
After midnight, the train car went quite silent, most of the passengers asleep. Philippe stared past the sleeping man next to him at the rain lashing the window—the rivulets of water made silvery streaks down the outside of the glass. Beyond that there was darkness. He tried to focus on the next steps: bus to Collonges-sous-Salève, where they’d rest at the abbé’s house, but his mind was still on Céleste. He thought again of watching her walk by. He recognized that way of walking—arms held close to the body, shoulders raised. Yes, he was convinced she’d been nervous. Maybe outright scared. Why?
He became aware of movement at the back of the car and heard voices. Glancing behind him, he saw two German military policemen checking identification papers. Okay, he thought, all right. It happened often on this train; he’d been through it many t
imes before. The light was dim and it was hard to see anything very clearly. That helped. But it was always a delicate moment.
He glanced three rows ahead of him where Armand and Lucile pretended to be asleep. He was sure they were not.
“Carte d’identité?” the policeman demanded in German-accented French, holding out his hand toward Philippe. Philippe reached into his pocket and pulled out the card—false, of course. He’d done this a good twenty times before and had never been challenged, and assumed he wouldn’t be this time. He wasn’t. The policeman handed him back his card, then checked his seatmate’s.
Then the policeman worked his way down the aisle until at last he approached Armand and Lucile.
Now was the dangerous moment. If the police tried to speak to the couple. If they questioned their papers. So many things could go wrong.
Straining to hear, Philippe tried to still his breathing and make his heart stop thumping in his ears for a moment, while also trying to appear nonchalant.
The hardest part of having your guard up was making it look like you didn’t, Philippe thought as he watched the policeman scrutinize the couple’s papers. The man squinted at the documents for a good while before handing them back. Philippe was just about to exhale when Lucile cleared her throat as if to speak. The policeman turned back toward her and, without meaning to, Philippe sat bolt-upright, thinking, and possibly mouthing the words, Don’t speak!
Lucile waved her hand at the policeman as if to say, Nothing! Nothing! And he turned away and continued down the aisle.
Philippe slumped back and waited for his breathing to settle. He noticed his seatmate staring at him with a look of irritation. Philippe gave him a weak smile, and the man settled back in his seat, closed his eyes, and promptly fell asleep. Now that the check was complete, Philippe thought that maybe even he could sleep. But he found himself once again caught up in thoughts of Céleste. He realized it wasn’t all professional concern. He guessed he really liked her. She’s out of your reach, he told himself. She’s from Paris. Those fashionable clothes she wears. Real shoes. Her family has money. And yours does not. He resolved to think only one last thought about her before falling asleep. The thought was this: Whatever you’re up to, Céleste, please be careful.
CÉLESTE’S JOURNEY
A tiny slip of tissue paper. A tiny slip of paper so dangerous that if military police made a check on the train, she was to swallow it. Léon had said so.
Céleste sat on the edge of her seat on the train, jiggling her knees or trying not to jiggle them, gnawing her fingernails or trying not to gnaw them. She imagined a pulsing glow emitting from her left foot where the message was tucked into her stocking.
She had concentrated so exclusively on this little scrap of paper that when she’d seen Philippe in the station at Dunières, it had taken a few moments to register who he was. By that time she was past him, without a greeting or anything.
That was likely for the best: He was wearing his Scout uniform, and that probably meant he was on some kind of mission. She wasn’t supposed to know that, but she did. And she was on a mission, too. Better not to notice each other, she’d told herself. So she’d squared her shoulders and marched on, headed to the train.
Now she jiggled and gnawed and tried not to, until the train unexpectedly came to a halt. An alert sounded, and the cry went out: “Bombers overhead!”
“Allez-y! Get going!” people shouted as they hurried to evacuate. They practically climbed over one another in their scramble to get off the train.
Céleste joined the crush of passengers stumbling over the tracks, her consciousness still focused on the imagined pressure of the paper against her left ankle. The roar of the approaching airplanes’ engines sent everyone into the brush that lined the tracks.
Crouched with the others, Céleste squeezed her eyes shut as the planes roared overhead. The bombs whistled down and exploded in a series of deafening blasts, each blast shaking the ground under them and producing clouds of dust, smoke, and debris. Instead of covering her ears as she should have, she clutched her ankles, as if to protect that little piece of paper.
After just a few frightening moments, the planes roared away, and a strange quiet resumed—a fuzzy emptiness in her head.
“Next time, cover your ears,” someone shouted at her, though his voice sounded distant and murky. “Don’t worry,” he added, still shouting, “your hearing will come back.”
»«
For the next few days, as she made her patchwork way across the countryside to meet her contact, there was a hissing shhh in her ears, and the voices of those around her on the trains and buses she rode seemed far away. At least that made it easier to ignore the conversations and the crying babies and squabbling children all around her. And trying to sleep while standing in the train corridor or sitting on her suitcase—every train and bus was so crowded!
She could think of nothing but the knot in her stomach, and that little piece of paper she had taken from her stocking and moved to her pocket. The urge to fiddle with it was almost overpowering, but she didn’t want to draw attention, so she sat, telling herself over and over, “Don’t touch it. Don’t think about it,” alternating with repeating the message to herself: Jean will be at the Pierrou party, and he will bring three gifts. She’d had to memorize the message in case she was forced to swallow the paper. All she knew was that it pertained to a parachute drop, where it would be, and what it would bring. And even though it was in code, there was always the danger the Germans could decipher it, putting lives in jeopardy.
Then it happened. Down the corridor came two men in leather jackets and felt hats. Gestapo! she thought, slipping the message from her pocket, pretending to cough, and popping the paper into her mouth. Chewing, chewing, chewing. Then swallowing, swallowing, swallowing.
The two men passed by without even glancing at her. And now she had tissue paper stuck between her teeth.
Finally, taking a roundabout series of trains and buses, none of them direct, since bombs had taken out stations and tracks, tunnels and bridges, she reached the village where she’d been told to contact a Monsieur Mouroux, who was to take her the rest of the way. She found a telephone booth with a working telephone, inserted the required centimes, and dialed his number.
“That’s forty kilometers from here!” he protested when she told him where she wanted to go. “And all I have for transportation is a tandem bike.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but—”
“And,” he cut her off, “I went there just the day before yesterday!”
She paused, not knowing what to say. She’d been on trains or buses or waiting in stations or hiding in bushes for four days. She figured she could hang on the phone a little longer.
After a long silence, the man said, “Fine. Come to my house tonight. Eleven o’clock.”
Monsieur Mouroux was standing outside, holding the handlebars of his bike, when Céleste arrived. He strapped her mostly empty suitcase onto the bumper, not even raising an eyebrow at the weightlessness of it. Then she got onto the back seat, Mouroux got onto the front, and they set off into the night.
Through the sleeping village they went, the ticking of their tires echoing against the walls of the stone houses. Soon the road passed between a row of plane trees, and for a few moments, the bicycle coasted among the shadows, then shot out into moonlit countryside. Past the shuttered windows of sleeping farmhouses, past the dark lumps of cows lying in fields, past horses quietly swishing their tails.
It was lovely to be awake and alive in the night, moving through the lavender-and-thyme-scented air, listening to the whir of the wheels, the wind in her ears, inhaling the smell of the countryside, of green growing things. Of kitchen gardens growing the herbs to season future stews.
Wrapped in the blue silk of moonlight, she felt . . . She couldn’t explain how she felt. Whatever it was, she drank it in, breathed it in, felt it rush across her skin. What was she feeling?
Words from one
of her pastor’s sermons came back to her. It was something she’d thought of often since that day, the day after France surrendered to Germany on June 22, 1940.
It had been a Sunday, and outside the church, people wandered about like hens, with a certain aimlessness of purpose—as if they didn’t know what to do or where to go. Go inside? Or stay outside, blinking in the June sun? And clucking like hens:
“France capitulated, surrendered.”
“De Gaulle is gone—to England.”
“Germany occupying the northern part of France.”
“And what will happen here? Surely the government here will have to collaborate with the Nazis.”
This is what people were saying, but what everyone was feeling was: What will become of us? Will we be engulfed in war? Will the tanks and bombs and machine guns find their way even here? Are we to be ruled by a totalitarian regime? By fascists? And who will we be in the face of this horror?
Céleste was nearly vaporous with fear. Her mind, like everyone else’s, was whirling with anxiety and questions. Her hands were cold, though it was a warm day, and she tucked them under her armpits, which made her mother give her a little disapproving shake of the head.
How her legs carried her into the church she couldn’t say. Somehow, she found herself inside, the familiarity of the cool granite slabs underfoot helping to tamp down the anxiety. The sound of the organ filled the big open space all the way to the vaulted ceiling, as if to leave not a crack for doubt or fear.
Both pastors were there, in full pastoral dress, indicating their solidarity in whatever was going to be said. When Pastor Autin climbed the stairs to the pulpit, the congregation fell silent. And when he began to speak, you could have heard a pin drop.