“Surely you don’t always just sit by when one of your people is in danger?”
“No, of course not. Michel was one of the boldest in planning rescues and carrying them out. But you must understand the dangers. Just recently an effort to gain back one of our dear friends failed. Not only is our beloved priest still in prison, he is being guarded more closely than ever. Two others are dead, a young boy has been tortured, and all has led to the imprisonment of your husband. You see, the consequences for failure are severe. It is entirely possible that to leave Michel to rely on his own wits with the Germans he is already well-acquainted with will be the safest course of action in the long run. To try a frontal assault to break him out would only get some of our own people killed; it would probably endanger him far worse.”
“What could be worse than a firing squad?” said Allison, starting to cry.
“I’m simply saying, my dear Madame Macintyre, that I cannot risk your life and the lives of others who depend on me. I would gladly risk my own life for him . . . I’m sure Lise would, as well. But until you are safe, and until I know more how my life might be used to gain his release, I see nothing that I can do.”
“I am as safe as anyone in Paris,” said Allison determinedly. “Thus you have kept your word to Logan.”
“Not until we have seen you safely out of Paris.”
“Time enough for that later,” replied Allison. “But I will not leave without him!”
“I think,” smiled Henri, “that you are maybe as remarkable as your husband.”
“No, Monsieur,” replied Allison, “just very stubborn. It’s a family trait.” She returned Henri’s smile, wiped away her tears, and took a deep breath. “Logan told me, just before they took him away, that I had to trust God for him. I suppose I have to learn to trust the instincts of his friends, too. But if you’re waiting for him to bring his wits and silver tongue to his own aid, I have to tell you, he sounded resigned to martyrdom. I don’t think he’s going to lift a finger on his own behalf. I think he’s made peace with himself, with God, and now with me . . . and is ready to die.”
Just then the doorbell rang. Henri hurried away, in case the newcomer was an unwelcome patron. His familiar greeting told the two women all was well, but they remained where they were.
“Did you know Logan well?” Allison asked Lise, following a moment of silence.
“We worked together for over a year,” answered Lise. “Henri and I and several others. A few are now in prison. One is a Jew who was taken to a camp in Germany.”
“How horrible!”
“War is ugly.”
“I would so like to understand what it was like for him here,” said Allison earnestly. “If only to grasp more fully the changes that took place in him.”
Lise smiled, apparently lost in thought for several moments. It was not a particularly warm or cheerful smile, yet Allison oddly sensed there was something in this melancholy woman she could trust.
“Madame Macintyre,” said Lise, the smile fading from her lips, but lingering as a new warmth came into her eyes, “I thought many times that Michel’s wife must be a very lucky woman. I am now beginning to see why Michel always held you in such high regard, and spoke of you as fondly as he did. Seeing you helps me understand much about the man I grew to care for.”
“It sounds like the two of you were . . . close.”
“Yes, Madame Macintyre. I would not be truthful to say otherwise. Your husband—Logan—was a close and dear friend. Before he came I had grown bitter from the war. He helped me in many ways to . . . to be a person again. He will always be special to me. But you need have no fear. No one could ever replace you for him. He was an open-hearted man who loved all those he met. But toward the end, I could tell he longed for you terribly. He had many friends, but only one Allison.”
“Thank you, Lise,” said Allison softly. “You don’t know how much your kind words mean to me. But now I think it is time for me to go. I will be back. I hope we may have the opportunity to talk again.”
“I will look forward to it,” replied Lise.
74
Incommunicado
The walls told the story.
Logan passed the long hours trying to make sense out of the poignant statements, some legible, some merely undecipherable scratchings, etched into the plaster around him with a nail or sharp rock. The prison graffiti told of courage and bitterness and fears, the final pre-death messages of those who had gone before him in the dungeon-like cells of Fresnes Prison.
Some spent the final moments of their lives making clear to anyone who cared their political stands.
Death to Pétain! one had scratched boldly. Long live de Gaulle! wrote another, and Long live the Red Army!
Others seized the moment to decry their bitter disappointments: Jean Aubrac—betrayed by a friend! mourned a Frenchman condemned to the firing squad. And, Marie Bonnard—I hope my little Suzanne is well, lamented a patriotic mother; an unidentified cynic simply said: I don’t mind dying; it’s a rotten world, anyway.
An American flyer took the opportunity to calculate the pay he was saving by sitting in prison. And below his computations was an especially odd inscription: Sgt. Helmut Mölders, to be shot for aiding and abetting the enemy—but my only enemy is the Führer! “An interesting point of view for a German sergeant to hold,” murmured Logan. Yet he realized at the same time that in a sense Germany too was an occupied country, with many inside its borders also struggling to regain their freedom in different ways.
Some of the inscriptions attempted to lend hope to future sufferers. One, quoting World War I poet Rupert Brooke, especially touched Logan in his melancholy moments: If I should die, think only this of me: that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England. It was signed, Lt. Bruce Dexter, Flight Officer, RAF—condemned to die, March 10, 1941.
A priest had painstakingly etched the Lord’s Prayer into the wall, and Logan read the words over and over, grateful for some piece of the Scriptures to sustain him. How he wished he could remember more than mere fragments of an occasional verse here and there! But he used the long, silent hours trying to force back into his mind the bits he was able to recall.
I ought to leave something behind too, Logan thought. A man contemplating death can hardly avoid the urge to pass along some “final message” as a statement of his own enduring personhood. But as yet nothing had come to him. So he passed day after day—he soon lost count—in the cold, filthy cell, the only break from his solitary confinement coming when they dragged him out for interrogation.
“I am Captain Logan Macintyre, service number GSDQ 985617,” he would say doggedly, over and over, revealing nothing more, despite their brutal questioning. He would never betray his friends. He was ready to die. But when the moment came, he would die alone. He would take no one down with him.
Von Graff himself officiated at the sessions on frequent occasions, though two brawny S.S. sergeants were called upon to perform the actual beatings and other tortures at which they had become highly skilled.
“Who is your commanding officer?” demanded the general.
“I am Captain Logan Mac—”
A swift clubbing from one of the sergeants was his only reward for such determined stubbornness.
“Who is your Paris contact?”
“I am Logan—” But another vicious thrust drew blood from his eye.
“Your hometown, I believe, is Glasgow. What is your address?”
“Logan Macintyre, service number—”
This time an ironlike fist to the midsection doubled Logan’s body and he crumpled to the floor in semi-consciousness.
“Come now, Herr Macintyre, why do you put yourself through this? We already have names—Lise Giraud, Jacques Nicolet, Jacques Tournoux, L’Oiselet—Why suffer these needless daily ordeals? You have only to give one word of confirmation.”
“I know none of these you speak of,” gasped Logan in a faint whisper.
Von Gr
aff grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, with the help of one of the men, yanked him back up into his chair. Then he angrily took him by the throat and shook him violently. “You’re running out of time, you idiot!” he cried. “Don’t you care that I am a general in the S.S.? Talk before I give the order to have you shot!”
“I doubt anything I say will change your plans, General,” replied Logan, gaining back his breath.
“And you care nothing for life?” shrieked von Graff. “Talk, I tell you . . . save yourself!”
“I care for life, General . . . but I am also prepared to die.”
“Bah! You are a stupid fool!” yelled the general, striking Logan’s cheek with the back of his hand. “You will tell me what I want to know. And then you will be shot for your insolence!”
Von Graff turned to leave, saying to his henchmen as he walked away, “Give him some more motivation, then return him to his cell.”
An hour later they dumped Logan in a heap on the hard, comfortless stone floor of his tiny cell.
He tried to muster up some pride in himself for not talking, even if only pride enough to give him strength to endure another day’s beating in silence.
How easy it would have been just to say the names . . . Henri Renouvin, Major Rayburn Atkinson, Gunther. Thank goodness he didn’t know Lise’s real name! Of course, maybe Henri wasn’t Henri either. No doubt they had both changed their names by now, anyway. Henri could hardly leave his bookstore, but Lise would be long gone from her apartment. Poor Henri! thought Logan. What if he has to abandon his dear books to the underground?
So many times his friends were right on the tip of his swollen tongue—names, places, addresses, plans, code words. They would understand if he talked . . . how much could a man bear? They would have changed everything! Why shouldn’t he tell what he knew? They would all be safe by now. . . .
But then in the midst of his thoughts of capitulating, he would catch a hazy image of someone’s face, and he would remember—he loved them, and he could die for them!
So instead of pride, his feelings turned to mere thankfulness.
He had made it through another day. Maybe by tomorrow the general would finally give up and the execution squad would come for him and he wouldn’t have to face it again. Yet it seemed that every day, when the booted feet of death made their daily ritual march down the outside corridor at five a.m., they always stopped at some other poor bloke’s cell. He wondered if the men they took instead of him had been tortured to the extent that they looked upon a bullet through the heart as a welcome relief, or as a terrifying moment of eternal doubt.
He was glad that he was at last prepared to die. He hoped when the boots stopped at his door, he would be able to walk out into that open yard with head held high.
Many times in the dark, solemn hours his mind had turned to old Dorey Duncan. How close he felt now to Allison’s dear old great-grandfather! Logan had spent enough time in other jails in his past. But now he thought of Dorey, perhaps because, like him, he did not deserve to be here. He wondered what Lord Duncan had thought about during his months of imprisonment. He had never spoken much about that time. But he must have thought of Maggie, from whom he had been so cruelly separated. He knew that Dorey’s time in prison had ended in something close to insanity, thinking he had lost her forever. Logan could see how this existence could foster insanity. Yet he had enough to hang on to keep his brain somewhat intact. He knew how it would all end. He didn’t have the anxiety of uncertainty. He knew Allison was all right and that she loved him. And Logan finally had his relationship with God to sustain him as well.
He had told Allison that she could entrust him to God without fear, and now he himself must cling desperately to the truth of those words.
He gave his spiritual state before his Maker a great deal of thought in those quiet moments. But he couldn’t shake one nagging fear. Eleven years ago, he had turned to God another time when he lay dying. He had felt so sincere back then. Yet the years that followed only served to reveal how shallow his commitment had really been. He had given himself to God in becoming a Christian in much the same way he had given himself to Allison in marriage—with surface emotions and mere mental assent to the truth of the Christian gospel. He had said “I believe,” yet had held back his deepest self. He had never confronted the surgeon’s scalpel in God’s hand and willingly said, “Remake me according to your pattern . . . cause my character to reflect the image of your Son.” In short, Logan now realized that though he had prayed the prayer of belief, he had never truly given his heart—totally and unreservedly—to the Lord. He had given a piece of himself, but not all. He had misunderstood the Christian life just as he had misunderstood the basic nature of marriage, by never grasping the foundational necessity of total, sacrificial commitment. Thus after eleven years, both as a Christian and as a husband, he was still essentially the same Logan Macintyre. The transformation of his character to reflect his Maker—the fundamental essence of spirituality—had still not begun.
He was afraid, therefore, that as he now sat in prison, his thoughts of renewed commitment toward Allison and toward the Lord might be but another last-ditch effort to reprieve himself. Whether the rest of his life was a matter of weeks, days, or possibly even hours, he wanted, even in that short time, to make what beginning he could to surrender his whole being to the transforming might of God’s love. No more bits and pieces of his personality, no more convenient commitment, no more halfhearted prayers, no more keeping his own image of himself intact. He had played so many roles, worn so many masks, been called by so many names. It was finally time to lay them all down in order to become the man he had really been meant to be all along. No more running from one unreal identity to the next. The time had come to become the Logan Macintyre of God’s perfect design.
Again his thoughts turned to Dorey. It had been years since he had recalled that day just before the old family patriarch had died. He’d called Logan into his room, and Logan remembered thinking it odd that he should be thus singled out. Dorey had, of course, spoken with every member of the family of that day, but at the time he hadn’t even been a member of the family. Lord Duncan lay on his bed, the life slipping slowly from his worn-out physical frame and into the new body awaiting him.
“Did I even tell you how much you remind me of myself when I was a lad?” he had asked in a weak, yet still determined voice.
Logan shook his head.
“I could laugh at life,” Dorey went on, “and I was such an expert at running from it when necessary. But you’re starting out on a better foot than I—you’ve seen your need for God while you’re yet young. You’ll likely be just fine, lad.”
He paused and let out a long sigh, which revealed that there was more on his mind than he had let on.
“But . . .” he continued in a moment, struggling to voice his concerns in a way the young Logan could grasp, “maybe because we’re so alike, I fear more for the pitfalls of life that you may face. I’m ending my life, and you’re just starting yours, and . . . Oh, but perhaps it’s wrong of me to be so gloomy.”
“I respect what you have to say, sir,” said Logan.
“I guess what concerns me, lad, is that I think we are both adept at finding the easy way of life,” Dorey continued. “I did it with a joke, a dance, and a glass of ale. You had your schemes and gambling tables. And I wouldn’t for a moment suggest that God would ever want to take away that twinkle in your eye and your love for a good time. Yet sometimes the way God lays out for us is not an easy one. But it will always be the best one.”
“I know that now, Lord Duncan,” Logan had affirmed confidently, “now that I’m a Christian.”
“I pray it is so,” the old man had replied in a retrospective tone. “But becoming a Christian is only the beginning of the road, not the end of it. That step is but a door that opens into a new way of life. It’s easy to walk through the door and then stop. Many people do just that, continuing in their natural ways, think
ing that they have taken some miracle cure with the step of salvation, and that’s all there is to it. I ran from God before I knew Him. But there are some who run from Him after they know Him. We all have our ways of avoiding what God wants to do with us, inside our hearts.”
“Are you saying you are afraid I’m not sincere in my decision?” asked Logan.
“If only sincerity were all we needed!” Dorey replied. “My father used to say, ‘The road to nowhere is well-paved with good intentions.’” He chuckled softly at the memory from so long ago. “’Tis a long road ahead of you, lad. You’ll be needing daily refills on that sincerity to make it last, especially on those uphill runs when the going gets hard.”
How right he had been!
But at the time Logan had accepted his words with the cocky confidence of a new believer. He had, despite Dorey’s warning, assumed that his initial decision would propel him along. When its power had waned, he had taken it as an indication that he had gone as far as possible with his life as a Christian. It had been easy to rely on his own power. Yet it wasn’t sufficient to keep the dissatisfaction from gradually creeping in—with his jobs, his marriage, his home . . . and with himself. Without even realizing it, he had started to run again, just like Dorey said—a Christian running from God. His very life of intrigue, which contained so many ready-made identities, served him with a wealth of hiding places. His real self never had to surface if he so chose.
But that was yesterday.
Finally his eyes were opened to the true nature of his need. His time might indeed be short. Nothing could change that now. The consequences of the life he had chosen were his to face, and his alone. But from now on he could make the decision to follow God’s way rather than his own, even if the arena for such a change had to be lived out solely in his own attitudes from within a tiny prison cell. Dorey had said there would be no easy way.
So if the execution squad came for him tomorrow, he knew with assurance that they would not be taking out the same man that had been deposited in this cell so many days ago. They would not be blindfolding Michel Tanant, or Trinity, or L’Escroc, or Lawrence MacVey—poor von Graff would be robbed of his moment of victory. For the man who would go to his death was a new man. Not born again, for that had happened eleven years ago. But a man at last aware enough of his own weakness to surrender his whole heart to the One who had called his name back then on the road to Stonewycke. Now he could pray, with whole worlds of deeper meaning and firmer intent, the same prayer he prayed then: “Help me, Lord, to become a true man.”
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