by Margi Preus
“We must be on our guard against believing and spreading the word that all is lost,” he said. “It is not true that all is lost. Gospel truth is not lost. The word of God is not lost. Faith is not lost.”
Céleste pressed her eyes shut. “All is not lost,” she repeated.
“The duty of Christians,” Pastor Autin said, “is to resist the violence directed at our consciences with the weapons of the spirit. We must do our duty without conceding defeat, without servility, without cowardice. We will resist when our enemies demand that we act in ways that go against the teachings of the Gospel. We will resist without fear, without pride, and without hatred.”
“We will resist,” Céleste whispered to herself. “Without fear.”
After that sermon, Céleste had felt calm. Here was someone who knew what to do. Even if the whole world had gone mad, there was one man who knew what was right and was determined to live it. She felt a sense of purpose. She felt that everyone felt the same way, although no one spoke of it again. They simply began to live it.
»«
Now, as she and M. Mouroux pedaled deeper into the night, the anxiety she’d felt for days peeled off her shoulders and drifted away like a loose scarf, disappearing into the darkness. Her constant companion, fear, which had clung to her with its sticky fingers, was at last torn away in a rush of acceleration as the bike sped downhill and over a bridge. The last shreds floated away as they coasted through wide fields with mountains rising beyond, hazy and distant. Gone.
Wasn’t it ironic, she thought, that it had taken doing the thing she feared the most to lose her fear?
The road leveled; they resumed pedaling. At least a couple of hours must have passed by the time Monsieur Mouroux turned onto a smaller, rocky road and a little later onto an even smaller, rockier trail. They were still bumping along as best they could when a figure stepped out of the trees ahead of them and shouted, “Halte!”
THE BARN
Céleste’s heart came to a shuddering stop along with the bicycle. Mouroux put a foot on the ground to steady the bike. Céleste’s foot touched ground awkwardly a moment later.
“Come with me,” the man said, his voice as rough as his appearance. Céleste couldn’t help but notice the rifle slung over his shoulder.
Céleste and Mouroux followed him into a farmyard, and from there into the barn, wheeling the bicycle with them. Her suitcase, empty except for a change of clothes, she left strapped to the back.
Lacking moonlight, it was darker inside, but it didn’t take Céleste long to realize that the barn was not full of animals. The smell of damp wool, unwashed bodies, dirty hair, and the breath of many people who’d consumed a great deal of garlic and a certain amount of wine hung in the air. Instead of the snoring of animals, she heard a soft cough, then the sounds of people rising from sleep. There was the flare of a match, the glow of a lantern being lit, and soon the red pinpricks of lit cigarettes surrounded her.
Faces emerged from the gloom—men’s faces. Rough, unshaven men, all talking at once.
“Are you hungry?”
“We could make you a sandwich.”
“Thirsty?”
“The boss will be back in the morning. You can talk to him then.”
“Shh, leave her alone so she can go to sleep!”
Céleste let out her breath—which felt as if she’d been holding it for days. These were friends! The men and boys who’d joined the resistance. They were maquisards, tough as the thickets, woods, and mountain terrain for which they were named. They could also be, apparently, thoughtful and kind, Céleste noted, as they came carrying food, water, and piles of blankets. Even a pillow!
Now she felt her exhaustion. The thought of stretching out with a blanket and a pillow after days of cramped travel and hours of bicycling was so heavenly she almost swooned.
She noticed M. Mouroux lugging away a blanket of his own, chuckling a little as he went to find a spot to sleep for himself.
The maquisards went off to their sleeping places, several of them without their bedcovers now, she supposed, and the barn grew still.
Covered in warm blankets, with the fragrance of the night still in her hair, Céleste thought once more of the feeling that had come over her on the bike ride. That feeling—what was it? Hope, she thought, before drifting into sleep. It must be hope.
AT THE BORDER
Philippe rolled off the couch at the abbé’s house, tucked in his shirt, and splashed water on his face to wake up. Then he checked to make sure his travelers were ready. They were, fully dressed and nervously waiting for the priest to return from his reconnaissance to tell them the coast was clear.
Philippe and his travelers had arrived earlier in the day and, from the attic window of the abbé’s home, had looked out at green, rolling hills dotted with cows and, farther away, a few chalets. One could not fail to notice the barbed-wire fence separating them from the peaceful idyll. From the look on the couple’s faces, Philippe knew he did not need to tell them that between this house and those green hills there was still plenty of danger: patrols to dodge, border guards to avoid, and that endless stretch of barbed wire to negotiate.
He reminded them again what they had been told when they’d left Les Lauzes: You’ll have to leave behind your suitcase and belongings. I can’t take you and your bags. You have to go under the barbed wire one at a time, and you mustn’t worry about your companion. Once you are in Switzerland, don’t talk about how you got there, your guide, or the people who helped you.
“The border of France and Switzerland is patrolled by French and Swiss, of course,” Philippe said, “but you can’t rule out running into German military police.”
The door opened and the abbé came in, breathless from hurrying to tell them the patrol had passed. “The next one will be in about twenty minutes,” he said. “Go now!”
Philippe turned to the couple, noting the pallor of their faces. “It will go fine,” he said, encouraging them, “as long as we all keep our heads. Now follow me—at a distance, as usual.”
He stepped outside first and walked down the dirt driveway and onto the gravel road, listening to the crunch of his footfalls and little else.
It took all his willpower not to look back to see if Armand and Lucile were following. Since he could neither hear nor see them, they must have been trailing well behind. That was fine, as long as they caught up to him before the patrol did.
When he arrived at the bigger, asphalt road, he stopped and waited, relieved to see the road was empty and the patrol nowhere in sight. And even more relieved when he heard the couple coming up behind him.
“Lie down in the ditch, there,” he whispered, pointing to the ditch on one side of the road. “Stay completely still until the next patrol passes by—probably in about five minutes. Don’t get up until I come and get you.”
The couple disappeared down into the ditch. Philippe settled himself on his belly in the ditch on the other side of the road.
This was the time he reviewed what would happen once the patrol passed by, but, unbidden, the picture of Céleste walking with her suitcase crossed his mind for the umpteenth time. He really hoped she wasn’t doing anything illegal. She was too young to be taking such risks, he thought, then imagined her laughing at him for thinking that. “I’m as old as you!” she’d say, and he’d say, “No you’re not.” Then she’d say, “Nearly!” and let loose with her silvery laugh. At sixteen she was a year younger than Philippe. That seemed ages younger somehow. Plus, she was a girl. Ooh, it would really get her dander up if he were to say that to her!
He became aware that the dew had seeped through his clothes, giving him a chill. How much time had passed? What was going on? He’d lost track of time and now wondered . . . was it taking too long?
It was quiet. Too quiet. It would be better if there was a little wind to rustle the leaves—some noise to help cover any sound they might make. Then, as he was thinking this, there came the thudding of boots on pavement, each footfa
ll like the ticking of a time bomb. Tick. Tick. Tick. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound grew closer. Philippe smelled cigarette smoke, heard low voices murmuring—he couldn’t make out the words.
At last the footsteps and voices receded. Philippe got up and signaled to his travelers in the ditch to follow him.
Across the asphalt.
“Shh!” Philippe whispered.
To the fence.
“Be careful,” Philippe instructed as he held the wire for Armand. “As soon as you’re under,” he instructed, “run. Don’t wait for Lucile. Run to the first Swiss soldier you see. Make sure he’s Swiss.”
Armand was through, and running, disappearing into the darkness. Good.
Next Lucile. Philippe lifted the wire and she started to crawl under it. Philippe’s mind flitted to Céleste’s suitcase. He pictured it: her knuckles white where she gripped the handle. That suitcase wasn’t full of clothes—he was sure of it. It was full of contraband. Or money.
He looked at the nurse. Hurry up! he thought. How long had she been struggling to get through? Once again, he’d lost track of time for a moment.
The crack of a rifle shot nearly lifted him off his feet. Then shouts: “Arrêtez” (French) and “Achtung!” (German).
Floodlights lit up the scene: the nurse’s rear end, still on the French side of the border, and Philippe’s face, squinting against the bright light and confused by the orders being shouted in German.
The nurse wriggled her way back to the French side of the fence—wisely. The first shot had only been a warning. But they might have shot her if she’d tried to keep going.
One of the French patrols was speaking to them. Philippe didn’t have to even listen to know that he was saying, “You are under arrest.”
TOO MUCH TIME TO THINK
Philippe could sleep on trains, in barns, on floors, on the damp ground. He could go for long stretches without food. He didn’t mind deprivation. In fact, he kind of thrived on it.
So the hard cot in the damp jail cell, the scratchy blanket, the dull food—none of that bothered him. What bothered him most was there was too much time to think. Especially about what he didn’t want to think about: His mistakes. His failures. He replayed over and over how things had gone wrong. He had gotten distracted and hadn’t been paying attention. He was inept. It was his inattentiveness and impulsiveness that had gotten him into trouble. Just like his father always said it would.
He thought of his home in Normandy, the sound of the surf in his ears, and the wind whistling around the cliffs, sending spray flying from the crests of the big waves.
Before Philippe had left home, he and his father had argued. Philippe had been recording the movements of the German navy and sending information to the Allies. When his father found out, he said Philippe was like “a toddler playing with a powder keg.” Philippe said that at sixteen he was old enough to know what he was doing. His father said that Philippe was putting not just himself but his whole family at risk. “Or are you too stupid to even know that?” he’d shouted.
Philippe said something back—now he couldn’t remember what—that had caused his father to slap him across the face. Philippe barely felt the sting—the white-hot shock of it, the prickling ache that followed. This time his own anger had reached the boiling point. Steamlike rage whistled through him, and he put the full force of it behind his closed fist as he slammed it into his father’s gut.
It felt like he’d hit a brick wall—his father still had a naval officer’s physique. Philippe wondered if he’d broken his hand. Then, seeing the bigger man doubled over, he felt a momentary sense of glee—he’d actually gotten strong enough to inflict pain! Next, a sense of remorse swept over him as he realized he was now no better than his abusive father. Then fear. He’d never hit his dad before, and once the man recovered, he’d beat the stuffing out of Philippe—or kill him.
Philippe turned and ran, stopping at home only long enough to throw a few things into a bag. From there, he just kept running. And running.
Running right into jail—just like his father said he would. Because he’d been stupid. Just like his father said he was. So, in attempting to prove his father wrong, he’d proven him right. And now he had plenty of time to replay both scenes, over and over—the one with his father and the one that had just happened at the border. What he could have done differently. What he could have said differently. He’d messed up getting the nurse over the border, probably because he got distracted.
At least she was still all right. Still in jail, but she hadn’t been deported or—at least when he’d last caught a glimpse of her—beaten up. And he’d been able to warn her to keep quiet. There were often spies planted in the cells.
His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a couple of unfriendly-looking men. They wanted to ask him “a few questions,” they said.
As they escorted him into a small bare room with unpleasantly stained walls, Philippe tried to remember something one of the Jewish boys at Sunnyside had told him.
“Relax your muscles,” his friend had said, explaining how he’d withstood being beaten for seventeen hours straight. “If you tense up, you get hurt. If you can completely let your muscles relax, it doesn’t hurt as much.”
Philippe reminded himself of this as the two interrogators shut the door behind him.
8.
LATE JUNE 1943
PERDANT NABS JULES
Inspector Perdant sat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting. La Crapule had not showed up for any of his preassigned meetings with Perdant, and Perdant was not about to let it go.
He knew the little rascal delivered goat cheese and things he foraged in the forest—mushrooms, berries, and the tender, curled tops of young fiddlehead ferns—to the hotel restaurant, so Perdant parked his car across the street and waited. And, there! The scoundrel was just coming out of the back door of the hotel.
Perdant stuck his head out of the car window and yelled, “La Crapule! Come with me!”
“What, now?” Jules said.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Perdant’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Do you have an appointment for some illegal activity? Black marketeering, perhaps?”
Jules didn’t respond, and Perdant reached over and swung the passenger-side door open. Jules got in, clutching his empty gunnysack as if he wished he could climb into it and throw himself off the nearest bridge.
“You haven’t come to your meetings with me,” the policeman said.
“Oh, did you mean to start right away?” Jules said with wide-eyed innocence.
“No, I meant next year,” Perdant said. “Of course I meant to start right away! Now, what have you got for me?”
“What have I got?” Jules stared at his gunnysack.
“Information.”
“What kind of information?”
“Noticed any odd behavior?” Perdant said. “Seen anything strange?”
Jules thought. “Monsieur Devidal has a cow with only one eye. And I saw some kittens just born that are all black on one side and white on the other—it’s the strangest thing you ever saw.”
Perdant groaned. “I’m talking about people—people!—involved in illegal activity. I know you know who they are. For instance, you know Jean-Paul Filon, right?”
“I guess maybe I met him,” Jules said.
“And you know where he lives, don’t you?”
Jules screwed up his face as if thinking.
“The Mousset farm, isn’t it?” Perdant prodded.
Jules shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.
“I know you know where it is, so let’s go.”
JEAN-PAUL’S PERSONAL MISSION
Jean-Paul had gotten up early that morning, not very well rested. He’d caught a cold that had migrated to his chest, and he’d awakened coughing several times in the night.
Even so, he was happier than he’d been in a long time. The anticipation of what he was going to do that day energized him, and he even sang a little song w
hile he made his bed.
He cast his eye over the table in his room, empty except for the falsified documents he’d finished the night before. On the seat of the chair sat his rucksack, ready for the day. His jacket hung on the back of the chair.
One of the newly forged identification cards he put in his own pocket; the other documents he slid into concealed pockets inside his sleeves and the shoulders of his jacket. A demand to empty his pockets would turn up nothing. A more thorough search would be another matter, of course. For the short trip to Mme Créneau’s, he could probably just carry the papers in his rucksack with his books and notebook, but better safe than sorry, he thought, as he stepped out into the cool morning air.
He glanced at his watch. A sneeze caught him in mid-glance, and he checked his pocket for his handkerchief.
He wheeled his bicycle out of the farmyard, giving a wave to M. Mousset, who was just heading into the barn. Once on the road, he got the bike rolling and swung himself onto the seat, then coasted down the hill in the bracing air. He took a deep breath in and immediately started coughing. He coughed so hard he had to pull over and stop until the coughing fit passed. What if he started coughing like that in class? He didn’t want to go all the way to Clermont-Ferrand and spend the class period in the hall, coughing. Nor did he want to disrupt class or in any way draw attention to himself. He simply wanted—badly, powerfully, achingly, overwhelmingly—to become a doctor. And now, thanks to his forgery skills, he had transformed himself into Jean-Paul Lafour, medical student.
He’d have to stop at the pharmacy and get some throat lozenges. As long as everything went smoothly, he’d still have time to drop off the papers before he had to catch the train.
Everything did not go smoothly. There was already a line at the pharmacy. The elderly lady ahead of him went on and on about how she used to get the little white pills, but now the pharmacist gave her the big brown pills, which were hard to swallow, and what happened to the little white pills she used to have?