Village of Scoundrels

by Margi Preus

  “Listen,” Mme Créneau said, “you can’t live on adrenaline forever.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll burn yourself into a cinder. Life is not one long rush of adrenaline. Which seems like what you’re trying to make it. It would be wise if you could learn to enjoy life as it comes—a more normal life.”

  “Is there such a thing in these times?” Philippe asked, adding, “I’m not trying to be cheeky.”

  She tilted her head, acknowledging the truth of the question. “Perhaps you’d be wise to apply yourself to your schoolwork.”

  “School!” he exclaimed. “That’s the most boring of all!”

  “Don’t you sometimes just long for ‘boring’? Just regular, boring life? The thought of it is so appealing to me, I can’t tell you.”

  He looked at her, noticing for the first time the fatigue on her face, the dark circles under her eyes.

  “Isn’t this what we’re fighting for?” she went on. “To be allowed to go back to our old, boring lives? To be allowed to go to school in peace? To learn about all kinds of things that challenge us, challenge our intellect? Our long-held beliefs? What we think we know?”

  He’d never thought of school like that, but he supposed in the study of so many things—philosophy, religion, history, maybe even math and science—there were things that would make him think in new ways.

  “Okay, I’ll go back to school,” he said.

  “Well”—Madame slipped the skein of yarn off his wrists—“not quite yet.”

  “Another assignment?” he asked, feeling the familiar champagne-like fizz of excitement in his stomach.

  “There’s been a raid. A bad one. And there are some students who need to get out.”

  “How do you propose I do that?”

  “That, my dear boy, is exactly what you have to figure out. And figure it out fast, because they need to be moved tomorrow.”

  JULES AND PERDANT MAKE A STOP

  Jules was now trying to blame their inability to find the château on some supernatural thing he called the Triangle de la Burle, a triangle-shaped area between three local mountains.

  “Strange, unexplained things happen inside the triangle,” Jules said. “And the thing is, Château de Roque is right in the middle of it. It could be that the château appears and disappears, and right now it’s just not there, and that’s why we can’t find it.”

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Perdant said.

  “No, but it’s true. All kinds of weird things happen inside the triangle. There was a man who got lost in there and showed up years later, having no idea how much time had passed. Another time an airplane crashed for no reason. I can show you where,” Jules said.

  “No thanks.”

  Perdant quit listening. He’d let the scoundrel have the gun—if he even had it, which he doubted. Probably Perdant hadn’t brought it. Now he couldn’t remember.

  Jules quit talking, too, and they walked in silence until Perdant said, “Mon Dieu, I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” Jules agreed.

  “Do you have any food tucked away in that voluminous jacket?”

  Jules dug around in his pockets and pulled out a lump of something coated with grit, sand, pocket fluff, and pine needles. He offered it to Perdant.

  “That is disgusting,” Perdant said, making a face. “What is it?”

  “Cheese?” Jules guessed. He picked off the worst of the outer coating and nibbled at it. “Goat cheese, I think.”

  “No thanks,” Perdant said. “Let’s stop at that farm.” He pointed to a nearby farmhouse. “It looks like they’re still up. There’s a light in their window. Maybe they have a telephone.”

  Jules said nothing, silently following Perdant up the trail to the house.

  A dog barked its head off. Naturally. Every farm had a barking dog, Perdant had long since realized. A ready-made alarm system.

  The dog seemed to know Jules, though, and wagged its tail and pressed its head against Jules’s leg.

  The farmer and his wife were awake. Still dressed, even.

  “Late hours for a farmer,” Perdant observed. He also noticed that the farmer moved the lantern from the window to the kitchen table, but he didn’t mention it.

  “I don’t suppose you have a telephone?” Perdant asked.

  No, of course they didn’t.

  “A glass of wine?” the farmer offered.

  “Some quatre-quart?” the farmwife added.

  Perdant and Jules brightened at the thought of the rich pound cake, made with lots of eggs and butter—the kind of thing you only got at a farm where there were chickens and a cow.

  They pulled up chairs to the table, where they were each served a generous slice of cake. Perdant was given a small tumbler of wine, and Jules got one of milk.

  The cake was so delicious, and Jules was so hungry, that he momentarily forgot to pay attention to the conversation. When he tuned back in, he was alarmed to hear Perdant saying, “. . . sure you haven’t had any compulsory-labor dodgers or anti-patriots come around here?”

  The farmer shook his head.

  “What about Jews?” Perdant said. “Seen any Jews?”

  Jules lifted his head. What a rude question to ask someone who was feeding you cake, he thought.

  “I don’t know . . .” the farmer said. “What do they look like?”

  Perdant abandoned this line of questioning and gave himself over to his cake, chewing without further comment.

  Jules knew Perdant was a little hard of hearing, but he wasn’t sure he was so deaf that he couldn’t hear the shuffling of shoes on the floor above, and the tiny mouselike scraping sound of coat hangers on a closet rack.

  »«

  Upstairs, Henni and Madeleine were as far back in the closet as they could get, wrapped in the farmer’s coats, with their feet in his boots.

  The shearling coat in which Henni was hiding tickled her nose, and although she clamped her lips together and quietly slid her hand over her mouth, still, she convulsed in a sneeze. Stifled, but audible. Afterward, she held her breath, listening for footsteps on the stairs.

  Instead, she heard chairs scrape against the floor, the sound of something being poured into glasses, low voices speaking French—Henni couldn’t catch the murmured words.

  Then, clearly, she heard the policeman say, “. . . seen any Jews?”

  If there was an answer to that, Henni didn’t hear it, the words covered by the steady ticking of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs. She thought of Max. She wished she could warn him that the policeman was out prowling. She imagined going to visit him at the château where Céleste had taken him.

  She knew that château. She had seen it on one of the first days she’d been in Les Lauzes. She and others from the Beehive had been sent to help harvest apples.

  “When you are finished with your task, you can eat,” they’d been told. Whereupon all the kids shimmied right up into the trees and immediately started stuffing themselves with fruit.

  From her vantage point in the tree, Henni could see the world—or this world, anyway: beyond the orchards, the fields, their haystacks glowing golden in the sun; the lazy cows, flicking their ears against the flies; the hay wagons trundling along, pulled by gentle oxen; the hazy distance . . . Somewhere, in some other village, every windowpane was rattling from the steady thud of explosions, howling sirens, the wailing of children. All over, the war raged on. Here, on nearly every farm, in houses and churches and schools and shops, all over the plateau, people were waging a different kind of war. A kind of secret war.

  Henni’s eyes traced farm fields, windbreaks, farmhouses, barns, and on a far-off hill, the tumbledown ruins of a long-ago castle.

  What had happened to the people who had lived in that old château? Had they, like she, been swept away by forces beyond their control?

  Remembering the place, she once again thought of Max, sheltering there. She imagined their hands claspi
ng, then too quickly sliding apart. “Remember to stay alive,” she wanted to tell him. Then, wrapping the coat around her and Madeleine, she dreamed a coat of protection around him, and over all the children hidden on the mountain.

  IN THE LIGHT OF THE MOON

  For a long time after the soccer game everyone sat on rocks or in the grass behind the château, watching the moon rise from behind the distant peaks.

  Someone had picked a basket of wild plums; leeks and onions had been found in the overgrown garden. There were loaves of rye bread and a large wheel of cheese.

  This was all shared, and in the midst of it, Max felt something like fingers brush the back of his neck. He turned, but no one was there. It must be the breeze, he thought, a breeze that proceeded to whisper in his ear. He sometimes thought he heard Henni’s low, serious voice, reminding him to stay alive.

  “I plan on it,” he answered. He almost felt her hands on his—they rested there just a moment before the cool night air lifted the warmth from his fingertips.

  Céleste and Sylvie sat together, watching the night creep in, feeling the warmth of the day dissipating. Except for a song thrush repeating its trilling verse over and over, and the occasional wild warble of a nightingale, it was quiet.

  “Do you ever wonder . . . ?” Sylvie said. “We have spent so much time doing things that in any other time would be wrong: forging papers, smuggling people, money, contraband, documents . . . When the war is over and peace returns, will we be able to tell right from wrong?”

  Céleste couldn’t answer. This day! she thought. It was as if all the years of the war had been encapsulated into it: the horror, the cruelty, the sorrow, the arbitrariness of it all. Why that house and not another? Why some people but not others?

  She looked around at the maquisards, their faces dark silhouettes against the moon. Here and there a button or a watch face glinted in the moonlight. They are waiting for something, Céleste thought. What?

  While they waited, the maquisards were discussing unfair Vichy and German policies. Léon couldn’t resist a joke. “The German barter system works great!” he said. “We give them our wheat, and they take our coal.”

  There were some chuckles, and Léon leaned over to Céleste and whispered, “The suitcase?”

  “I’ll get it,” she said, rising to go.

  AT THE FARM

  Jules said something to the farmwife in the local patois, and Perdant reminded him to “speak in French.”

  “He only asked if he could have another piece of cake,” the woman said. She plopped a large slice onto a plate and, with a smile and a wink, slid it across the table to Jules.

  Jules tucked in and, trying to cover any sound that might be coming from upstairs, chewed as noisily as he could, smacking his lips and uttering little sounds of pleasure. He fidgeted in his seat, making the old wood chair squeak. He let his knife and fork clatter against the plate, too.

  When Perdant gave him a sidelong glance, he toned it down a bit.

  Perdant finished his cake, refused a second slice, and got up. “Now,” he said, “if you could tell me where Château de Roque is located, I would be obliged.”

  The farmer’s eyes and Jules’s met briefly.

  “But, why?” the farmer asked. “It’s abandoned. No one lives there.”

  “Nevertheless,” Perdant said.

  “Well,” said the farmer, “it can be hard to find in the dark.”

  “Just give me directions and we can manage,” Perdant said.

  “Next road on the right, turn up, then take the first left for one or two kilometers.”

  “Oh,” said the farmer’s wife. “I think it’s the second left.”

  “Is it? Or is it a right turn that then goes left?” the farmer said.

  When it was clear the conversation was going to continue in this vein, Perdant pulled Jules outside, leaving the farm couple still arguing over the directions with each other.

  “Well, at least we got something to eat,” said Perdant, and he let out something that sounded almost like a giggle.

  This surprised Jules, but he felt it, too, the kind of relief that comes after a tense situation that could have gone badly but didn’t. He felt light. Laughter bubbled out of him.

  “I’m not totally deaf, you know,” Perdant said.

  “Eh?” Jules said. “What did you say?”

  This wisecrack made Perdant guffaw, and the two of them strolled back down the road into the night, laughing like idiots.

  THE YELLOW SUITCASE IS OPENED

  Céleste dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom, her mind already wrapping itself around her pillow, the desire to collapse into bed almost overwhelming. But then there, under her bed, the yellow suitcase—the suitcase she had promised to bring to the maquisards. So she quietly pulled it out from under the bed, tiptoed back down the stairs, and opened the door.

  She was surprised to see Philippe coming up the walk, brushing his hand along the tops of the peonies.

  “Philippe!” Céleste exclaimed, holding the door open for him. “I can’t believe it!”

  He stepped inside, and she pulled him into the small dining room and shut the door. “I heard you were arrested,” she whispered.

  “Guess they decided I was too young to bother with,” he said.

  She reached out and gingerly touched his black eye. “Looks like someone bothered with you.”

  He gave a little shrug. “It could have been a lot worse,” he said. “Listen, do you know how to sew?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t have anything to wear!”

  That explained how she always managed to look so stylish, Philippe thought, even these days when clothes were hard to come by. He’d always assumed her parents could afford black-market clothing and had things shipped from Paris. Maybe she didn’t live in such impossibly rarified air as he’d thought.

  “I wonder if I could enlist your help,” he said.

  Céleste raised an eyebrow. “Possibly . . . What do you need?”

  “Do you think you could sew a bunch of Scout uniforms in a hurry?”

  “How much of a hurry?”

  “Before daybreak?”

  “Philippe!” she exclaimed, laughing. “It’s almost daybreak now!”

  “I’ve managed to scrounge . . .” Philippe mumbled as he began to pull items out of his rucksack. “Khaki shorts, berets, kerchiefs. What I’m short on is shirts. But Madame Créneau gave me some parachute silk—” He looked up into her incredulous face. “Come on!” he said. “Get your sewing things and let’s go! It’ll be an adventure!”

  Céleste thought perhaps she’d had enough adventure for one night. On the other hand, maybe she could learn more about this mysterious daredevil. Maybe some of his fearlessness would rub off on her.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “You know Château de Roque?”

  Céleste laughed and, putting two and two together, said, “Ohhh . . .”

  She left the room, returning a moment later with a sewing basket over one arm and the suitcase in the other hand.

  “Let me carry that,” Philippe said, reaching for the suitcase.

  She hesitated before giving it to him.

  “There’s not a bomb in here, is there?” he asked, holding it to his ear.

  “I hope not!” Céleste said. “I don’t know. I don’t dare open it!”

  “Should we look? Aren’t you curious?”

  They stared at the suitcase. Then Céleste nodded. With Philippe here she felt braver.

  Philippe set the suitcase down and flipped open the fasteners. With his hands on the top, he looked up at Céleste.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “Yes! Open it!” she whispered.

  He opened the case, and the two stared in disbelief at the contents.

  “Just like Christmas!” Philippe whispered.

  “Just what we always wanted,” Céleste agreed, ogling the stack of rumpled khaki shirts.

&n
bsp; “What else is in there?” Philippe asked.

  They rummaged through the contents. “Soap. Medical supplies. Bandages,” Céleste said.

  “This is meant for the maquis,” Philippe said, eyeing Céleste.

  Céleste tried to look innocent. “I think it’s okay if a few shirts go to our Scouts, don’t you?” she said. “It’s an emergency.”

  Philippe snapped the suitcase shut and picked it up, and the two of them crept outside, shutting the door quietly behind them.

  “I saw you, you know,” he said as they walked toward the street. “You and your suitcase.”

  She tilted her head to look at him. “Yes,” she said. Of course, she’d seen him, too.

  “This suitcase”—he paused to hold it out so they could regard it—“was the reason I was arrested.”

  “What? How?”

  “I was so worried about what you were carrying in this thing, I didn’t pay attention, and I got caught. So I would like to ask you, for my sake, not to go on any more missions.”

  “Maybe it’s you who shouldn’t go on any more missions,” she said. “Anyway, aren’t we on one now?”

  He laughed. “I guess you’re right. It’s so pleasant, though, it seems almost like a date.”

  Céleste ducked her head, hoping that in the darkness he couldn’t tell she was blushing. Then, in a rush, before her courage gave out, and to change the subject, she asked, “How do you do what you do? I mean, you must be fearless.”

  “Fearless?” Philippe said. “No. I’m afraid all the time—I think you have to be. But I guess I kind of enjoy it. It makes me feel, I don’t know, alive.”

  “Being afraid just . . . scares me to death!” Céleste said.

  They veered from the streets onto a forest path, walking so close, Céleste’s arm brushed against his. It felt as if tiny sparks ignited along her arm, and she remembered thinking how he reminded her of a smoldering fire.

  “Why do you do it?” Céleste asked him.

  “I like the work; I’m glad I can help people,” he said, smiling. “Sometimes there’s even a little money in it. But I guess mainly it’s selfish. Although I tell myself I am rescuing some other poor soul, in some way it’s my own poor soul I’m rescuing.”