Le patron must have been making the other man in the car nervous as well, because when they stopped to dump more charcoal into the burner, that man took over the wheel. The new driver was from Senegal, a huge, six-foot-three expanse of man with wide shoulders and a long neck. He had a devil of a time folding his lanky legs up underneath the steering wheel of the sleek, small car. To fit under the roof, he’d taken off his fez, a tasseled red pillbox hat left over from his French colonial uniform. He, too, had been a trophy of a kind, a prisoner stolen from the Germans.
“That was our best raid,” said le patron, describing how his maquis freed fifty-two Senegalese POWs. He was so desperate for trained soldiers because of de Gaulle’s failure to send the promised paratroopers, le patron allowed a dangerous raid to Lyon, about sixty miles northeast, a city controlled by Gestapo.
“Les boches had the Senegalese waiting tables in their officers’ mess. Such a use for such fine fighters. Our contact told us they did not sleep near the Aryan Nazis, because they were black African. They were housed down the street and went to work by bus.”
From the hit-and-run raids Henry had seen the French do, he knew that bus ride left the Nazis open to an ambush—something the maquis were masters of.
“The drive there—très dangereux. At checkpoints our fighters pretend to present papers. They slam on the accelerator to crash the barricades. If chance holds, we run over les boches, aussi. The kidnap? Simple—as if our Senegalese brothers knew our plan. Our trucks surround bus. They disarm the guard and jump in. Pouf! Cinq minutes, c’est fini.
“Le Barbu was on that raid. A fine man.” Le patron paused. “At least he died fighting.” He became silent, looking out over a gorge to a long series of ridges, the stark white rock furrowed into eerie, looming shapes, like broken tusks.
Henry was sorry he hadn’t met the “the bearded” priest. The Friar Tuck–like minister evidently had arrived in the Vercors along with a Russian deserter and a sauce chef from the famous Maxim’s restaurant in Paris—all drawn by the growing reputation of the brave little Resistance band in the mountaintops. Henry marveled at the hodgepodge of people willing to risk so much.
“How far to the monastery, monsieur?”
“Hmmmm. Une heure. The monks live in seclusion. First they must answer the gate. I bring my friend to persuade”—he patted the Senegalese’s arm—“because I lose patience with the Catholic order. Some priests and nuns helped the Resistance, but many Church officials supported the Vichy and the deportation of Jews and political ‘undesirables.’ When we begin our republic anew, we must separate religion and government.” Grudgingly he added, “Like your country.”
He gazed out the window a little while longer before turning around in his seat. “I admire your President Roosevelt. He saw your country starve and used the government to make jobs, to stop l’avidité…hmmm. Greed, oui? In businesses.”
Henry thought of how Clayton had hated those subsidies, FDR’s public works programs, and farm quotas to control crop prices. “Handouts for the lily-livered,” Clayton had snarled. “I take care of my own.” Not everybody had Clayton’s spit, though, that kind of mean strength. Henry wondered if Clayton’s opinions about “government interference” would change if he witnessed what Henry was now seeing in France.
He turned his focus back to le patron, who was still designing a new France: “The state must control coal mines, trains, canals, and factories to make sure all Frenchmen receive the same. We must pay workers fairly. To rebuild we must work as one, not laborers for the rich. Roosevelt understands this, oui? I read about him—a great thinker. He will help de Gaulle see this?”
Henry realized that le patron didn’t know about FDR’s death. “I’m sorry, monsieur. President Roosevelt is dead.”
The maquisard’s face fell. “Zut!” He slammed his hand against the back of the car seat, startling the Senegalese driver. “Le seul Américain qui vàlait quelque chose est mort!” he said, telling the driver that the only worthwhile American was dead. “That leaves only Stalin to help France control de Gaulle.”
Henry was shocked. The Allies’ wartime alliance with the Soviet Union was an uneasy one. To most Americans, the Red leader was as bad as Hitler. Stalin and Soviet communism held an iron fist of repression over the Russians. There was no freedom there. Soviet social equality simply meant one of equal suffering.
It was beginning to feel like liberation was only turning the world upside down instead of righting it.
“Regardez.” As the car descended a sharp slope of primroses and butterflies, le patron pointed to a huge, glistening lake. Jutting out onto it was a flowering peninsula with a little white rectangular castle. It had pretty pointed slate roofs, courtyards, and geometric gardens within its walls.
Henry peered out the window. “Wow. Who lives there?”
“The monks.”
“In something that fancy? I thought monasteries were about giving up the good life to pray,” Henry couldn’t help wondering aloud.
“Hmpf.” Le patron snorted. “Exactement.”
Well, thought Henry, they certainly should have been able to feed Pierre decently.
The Senegalese banged hard on the door of the gate. Ten agonizing minutes passed before a robed monk appeared and asked with a down-turned head what they wanted. Henry’s heart pounded so loud in anticipation and hope that he couldn’t hear what the monk was saying, his voice muffled by his hood.
Le patron was getting agitated as he listened. Henry’s sense of foreboding grew. When the monk closed the gate, the maquis leader shook his walking stick at it and paced back and forth, threatening to come back with some plastique to blow up the wall.
Henry didn’t need to translate le patron’s tirade. Pierre was not there and perhaps had even been turned away. Henry picked up a rock to hurl into the lake, sending a slice of pain through his ribs. He crouched to catch his breath, to contain his panic.
Only the Senegalese kept his head. He noticed several nuns laboring up the road, carrying baskets heavy with wild strawberries. They almost ran away as the African dashed up to them. But when he bent himself over in a large ceremonial bow, they stopped. Watching, Henry rose. Le patron grew still as well.
After a few moments, the African came back. Le patron translated as his Senegalese companion explained, the two languages overlapping each other. Trois enfants. The sisters had taken in three children. Deux filles. Two girls brought to them by their governess when their parents were deported. The teacher had returned recently to take them into her home.
Et le troisième? And the third?
The Senegalese glanced at Henry. Un petit garçon. “Il s’appelle Pierre.”
Henry caught his breath with joy. Where? Where is he? Why the heck was the African soldier being so slow to tell him? Why did he look sad?
In a torrent of words Henry could not understand, the man explained more. Henry couldn’t wait for the translation. He grabbed the Senegalese by his blue jacket. “Where? Where is he?”
Gently, le patron pulled Henry off. “Gone, lieutenant. Run away. A month past. They know not where. He spoke very little, so no clues. We would know if he had returned to the Vercors. He is lost.”
NO! Henry’s search was not over just because he’d run into a dead end. He rifled through the conversations he’d had with Pierre, searching for any mention of family other than that in the Vercors. There was none. Where would he go? Henry gazed along the lake, thinking, trying to imagine the mind-set of a brave but distraught child. If he were Pierre, where would he go?
Wait a minute. The lake itself seemed to provide an answer for Henry, at least a place for him to continue his search for Pierre. Last year, as he came out of Switzerland, a lake and a wise woman had sent him on his way home. Could Madame Gaulloise somehow still be alive? Le patron had said prominent women had been released in prisoner exchanges. Maybe she had been, too. Of all the people in the world, she was the one he could trust most to help him think through the possibil
ities of where Pierre might have gone. If the Gestapo had sent her to prison, it would have been Ravensbruck. Maybe she met Pierre’s mother there. Maybe.
Henry had nothing else to go on. “How far is Annecy from here, monsieur?”
“Annecy? Hmmm. Trente kilomètres.” He pointed up the road.
Thirty kilometers. That would be about eighteen miles, Henry reckoned. No problem.
“Pourquoi?”
“There is a lady there who might be able to help me.”
“I do not have charcoal to travel there and return to my people.”
“That’s all right. I can walk. North up this road?”
“Oui.”
Henry shouldered his bag, wincing. But it would be all right. The bandages kept his ribs tight. It probably was just bad bruising. Besides, a cracked rib would heal as long as he didn’t hit it again.
Le patron noticed Henry’s grimace and grimaced himself. “I am sorry, lieutenant.”
Henry took his hand to shake good-bye. “It is all right, monsieur. Pas du tout. I have war wounds, too. Je comprends.”
“Ah, oui.” Once more, le patron studied Henry’s face. “What then shall we do?”
“Pardon me?”
“You know not your catechism? When John the Baptist preached the coming of Christ, he told the people they must change. The people asked, ‘What then shall we do?’ And John answered, that the person with two coats must give one to him who had none; and likewise with food. It is from the gospel of Luke. You make me think of it.”
Henry was surprised. “I thought you did not like the Church, monsieur.”
“The Church, oui. I did not say that I did not have faith.” Le patron smiled. “There is work to do. You remind me of that. Merci.”
He kissed Henry on both cheeks—a strange gesture for such a gnarled and brusque man. But Henry knew it to be the highest tribute. He gave his. He stepped back and saluted. “Au revoir, patron.”
Le patron and the Senegalese warrior climbed into the German commandant’s car and headed south. Henry turned northward and once again set off on a French road, not knowing what he would find at the end of it, a stubborn hope his only compass.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the heart of Annecy, Henry stood by a canal threading its way through the city. Just as the lake was cradled within mountains that rose sharply from its shores, the canal was framed tightly by rose and gray-green stucco buildings. Pots of geraniums, hanging from wrought iron balconies and bridges, reflected as red dots in the still waters as the entire street replicated itself upside down in the blue mirror. Moored boats floated in water and clouds. Here and there snow-white swans drifted by, asleep, heads bent under wings. Henry was amazed they hadn’t been stuffed for Sunday dinner. Annecy’s aura was so peaceful, so intact compared to the destruction of Vassieux. Maybe Madame was all right after all.
Henry had never really made it into Annecy before. He’d hidden in Madame’s elegant house on its edge. But he remembered that the canal linked the lake with a river. Her walled mansion was by a river. So he followed the canal. Along the waters came the sound of conversation, laughter, dickering. He began to see people with baskets, filled with fish or handfuls of rutabagas or onions.
“Il y a des oeufs à vendre!” A man trotted by Henry and shouted across the canal to a friend that there were eggs for sale.
The friend started jogging a parallel route. “Et quoi d’autre? Tu sais?”
“Des cerises!”
“Superbe!” The man darted across a bridge to join the other and the two continued to lope down the street.
Eggs for sale. And cherries. Henry followed.
Around a bend the small street opened into a square jammed with people and carts. Nothing was in abundance, but the townsfolk seemed ecstatic that any food was for sale. Henry couldn’t get near the egg vendor, so many crowded him. But he did approach a woman selling milk from huge tin jugs. Her donkey cart was pulled by a massive dog. It looked mighty antsy harnessed up, clearly unused to the job. There was no way Speed would stand still for pulling that thing, thought Henry. He wondered what might have happened to her pony—confiscated, eaten?
“Combien?” Henry asked how much for a cup.
“Avez-vous votre carte de rationnement?” she asked.
Henry had no ration card.
The woman shrugged. “Tant pis.” Tough luck.
Henry looked over at a wagon with knots of dark flat bread and started for it.
“Vous ne pouvez pas acheter du pain si vous n’avez pas une carte de rationnement.” The woman stopped him, saying he’d need a ration card for the bread as well. She looked him up and down coldly, assessing.
Henry tried to gauge what she was thinking. She was slim, angular, her skin sallow, but with ten more pounds on her she’d be rather pretty. He couldn’t tell her age exactly, but she was probably not much older than he was. It was her slightly cunning expression that aged her.
In a lowered voice, she offered to sell him a ration card for bread for 150 francs. Henry wondered how she’d come by it. Was it stolen, or counterfeited? How much trouble could he get into for using it if he were caught?
His stomach growled loud enough for her to hear. She smirked. Henry tried to decide if he should spend the equivalent of three dollars for the card. He’d have to pay more for the bread itself. He’d already eaten three cans of Spam, taking him down to nine. He better save them for days he was crossing open country. “D’accord,” he agreed, explaining he only had American dollars.
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. For a moment a desperate eagerness crossed her face before she adopted a nonchalant disinterest. She could not change American money, she said, what did he take her for, a bank?
Henry began to see the game. The smallest bill he had on him was a fiver. That would take him down to $191. As he considered, he noticed the dog’s ribs, her toe tapping nervously. What was he going to do, chintz a girl who obviously had lost her farm horse, whose dog was skin and bones, and who was that worked up about the idea of five bucks? His good heart got the better of him.
Henry pulled out his five dollar bill and looked over at the bread cart again. The loaves looked dry and hard. He’d sure love a cup of that milk. Would she give him a cup for a pack of Camels?
Again, the girl’s eyes widened momentarily at his offer. Then she veiled them, looking down, pretending it was a big imposition on her, but she could see he was hungry, so out of pity she’d take the cigarettes. When she gave him the tin cup and took the cigarettes and money, her hands trembled.
Henry sat down on his bag with the milk and the tiny loaf. The milk tasted slightly sour, but he needed it to get the barley bread down. When he handed the cup back to the girl and strode off, he heard her snigger and say to the bread girl what a fool he was. She would have given him all the milk for one pack of Camels. She planned to make eighty francs off each individual cigarette.
Henry kicked himself. The sea captain had said that he could live off those Camels for a month if he were smart about it. Well, he’d better wise up, hadn’t he, if he expected to eat in France.
“Monsieur?”
A boy about Pierre’s size and age stopped him. He held a long flat basket laden with big, gorgeous cherries for sale. “Vous voulez acheter des cerises? Une poignée pour quinze francs?”
Fifteen francs for a handful of cherries. That was only thirty cents. Henry did have two quarters in his pocket. And a half pack of gum. The boy looked so hopeful. Henry’s resolve to be more money savvy instantly faltered—this boy reminded him too much of Pierre. Henry would just be more careful about his money tomorrow.
He asked the boy if he would take fifty cents, American. He handed him the gum, a gift.
The boy grinned, delighted. “Pour moi?” he asked.
Henry nodded and asked in muddled French if he needed a ration card for the cherries.
The boy shook his head. Most fruits and vegetables were not rationed, just meat and eggs, and bre
ad, and milk, and wine, and sugar, and paper, and leather, and coal, and…The boy trailed off, perhaps realizing that it was easier to say what was not rationed.
He wrapped a handful of the deep red fruit in a scrap of newspaper.
Henry was about to ask the boy where he lived when a woman fluttered up in great excitement over the cherries. She must have heard Henry talking with the boy and spoke to him in English. “Excuse me, sir. I must see the year’s first cherries.” She was well dressed, but like them all, thin and pale. A flush of happiness lit up her face as she surveyed the fruit. “Mon Dieu. Elles sont belles.” She patted the boy’s face, telling him that his farm must be doing well, that he brought her hope for a better season, of France blooming again.
The boy beamed back. “Oui, madame, elles sont excellentes cette année.”
She purchased two handfuls, the boy heaping them. Henry was startled to see tears on her cheeks as she gently balanced the cherries. She turned to him, with a smile that was both embarrassed and jubilant. “Today, my son’s name is on the list of released prisoners. He is coming home. I will make a clafoutis for him with them. It is his favorite. He loves cherries, since he was a boy.”
She tiptoed away as if any jostle might bruise the precious fruit. “My son is coming home,” she said to anyone she encountered. “My son.”
People parted to let her pass.
Watching, Henry’s throat tightened. He remembered Lilly’s face when she saw him standing in their driveway, alive; Madame Gaulloise’s voice when she spoke of her own son in a Nazi POW camp; Pierre’s mother explaining why she risked her life to work in the maquis—for her son’s freedom.
Then he recalled crawling over the wall to Claudette’s orchard, when he was starving—what a gift the cherries growing there had seemed.
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