by Erika Robuck
Somewhere inside, Virginia knows she should have compassion for the misguided youth who was just executed, but she can’t summon it. Not a drop. Has the war killed off her sensitivity, or has it sharpened her thirst for justice? Was that killing justice, or did it add to the scale heavy with humanity’s sins in this war? Will there ever be enough good deeds to balance the sin?
They pass the lane that leads down to the river where she and Bob met after their day trip, and soon Our Lady of Le Puy is in view.
Roger wipes his face, and Virginia sees he has been crying. War is so much worse on the tenderhearted. Or maybe it isn’t worse because they know how to love and to grieve and to atone instead of turning to stone the way she has.
“I’ll go alone to the prison,” Roger says. “We’ll need someone to stay at the car.”
“I’ll guard it,” says the maquisard with Bob.
“What’s your name, son?” asks Roger.
“Leroi, sir.”
“Thank you, Leroi.”
“Diane and I will go to the bookshop,” says Bob. “We’ll be safe there, and we’ll be able to get information from my contact.”
“Good,” says Roger. “I don’t know how long this will take, but I hope not more than an hour. I want to get back to Chambon as quickly as possible. I promised Danielle I won’t make any more trips until after the liberation.”
“Understood,” says Bob.
“If there are any problems,” says Virginia, “meet at the turnoff we just passed for the river.”
Roger agrees, and drives carefully on the narrow roads, finding a place to park just off the heart of town but with a good view of all the buildings. Knuckles white, he holds the steering wheel and closes his eyes, his lips moving in whispered prayer. When he finishes, he gives Virginia a small smile, nods at the boys in the back seat, and leaves them.
“Hide the guns under the seat,” Bob instructs Leroi. “Take a chair at that café and order a cup of café nationale. You can see the bookshop, the prison, and the car from there. Be ready to spring at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
The three of them get out of the car and start for their destinations. Virginia and Bob veer toward the bookshop, while Leroi heads to the café. Ahead of them, Virginia sees Roger speaking with the guard at the prison gate. When he’s allowed entrance, she’s overcome with nausea. She hopes the terrible feeling is only because of the circumstances, and not any premonition. Sensing Virginia’s unease, Bob threads his arm through hers.
The bookshop off the main square is tiny and easily overlooked. Dark wood panels frame the doorway, and the window display is full of books about the region and France in general. It’s a comfort to walk inside and inhale the scent of yellowed paper, linen spines, dust from many houses settled in the pages of the used tomes, and the warm, sweet tobacco of the pipe the old man at the register smokes. When the bell rings announcing their arrival, he looks up from the magnifying glass perched over the large text before him. His gaze lingers on Bob a heartbeat longer than it does on her, but quickly returns to the text.
She and Bob separate. He takes a lap that will bring him close to the bookseller, and she turns the other way, perusing the fiction shelves. She runs her fingers over the book spines, stopping when she sees the title: La vie et les aventures surprenantes de Robinson Crusoé. Smiling as she flips through the pages, she thinks of the doctor from Lyon, and the photograph of her father reading the book to her and her brother.
A fierce longing ignites in her to return to Box Horn Farm. To hug her mother. To use an indoor toilet and take a bath with hot, running water. To sleep in a comfortable bed. To eat unrationed food and drink wine until she’s drunk. Or simply to visit a bookshop in a town without looking over her shoulder. To take a car ride through the mountains that doesn’t include murder.
“That was my favorite when I was a boy,” says Bob, coming up beside her.
“You’re still a boy,” she says. “It was my favorite, too. I was in a theater production of it at my school.”
“You? Are there any female characters?”
“No, silly. I was Robinson.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“It shouldn’t. Now, who could you play? The ship’s captain?”
“That’s a good one. How about Dédé?” he says.
“My man Friday, poor kid.”
They laugh, but Bob becomes serious.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” he says.
He stares out at the street, unable to meet her eyes.
“I can’t answer that question,” she says.
“That wasn’t the absolution I was looking for.”
“I told you, I’m not la Madone,” she says, turning his face back to hers. “But there’s no one I’d rather have at my side in war than you. And, for the safety of the children and for all of us, you did what you had to do.”
He continues to stare at her until the noise of sirens takes their attention.
They look out the window and see the cars of the MPs racing past. Hurrying out to the street, they see a commotion near the bank. The MPs fan out, shoving guns in civilians’ chests, kicking in doors, bashing windows out of the cars they search. There must have been a robbery. Unsettled, Bob and Virginia rush along the boulevard toward the café, but the sight that greets them stops them in their tracks.
Leroi has a rifle from one MP pointed at his forehead, while another searches Roger’s car. Virginia utters a curse and pulls Bob into an alleyway, where they watch the terrible sight of the MP in the car holding up one of the guns. The MP with Leroi pulls his rifle back and uses the butt of it to strike Leroi in the face. He hits him so hard, Leroi’s head swings to the side, blood shooting from his nose. He collapses on the ground, where he’s kicked repeatedly.
Virginia holds Bob back, and they continue to watch the second wave of horror that greets them. Roger runs toward the MPs, begging them to stop.
“No,” Bob hisses.
Roger pushes the MP kicking Leroi, and a shouting match ensues.
“Has Roger lost his mind?” says Virginia.
The MP exchanges angry words with Roger, while Roger tears the Red Cross flag off the vehicle and shakes in front of his face. The one searching the car shouts, holding up the gun from the back seat. Roger’s face goes white. He doesn’t fight when they slap him with handcuffs. Virginia can almost feel the blow when they punch Roger in the stomach and drag him and Leroi away. In the shadows, she leans her head back against the wall, trying to stay clearheaded and in the moment, but the memory yanks her out of time.
It’s as if she’s back in the Lyon doctor’s office. Books and papers litter the floor, the furniture is overturned, the doctor has a black eye. As she falls to her knees, digging through piles to find Robinson Crusoe, he thrusts a poster at her. Her wanted poster.
“I told the Gestapo you were only a patient,” he says. “I said I didn’t know anything else about you. But they’ll be back. They knew things. So many things.”
“The priest. I told you!”
“I don’t know anything about anyone. Not anymore. All I know is you must go.”
“How can I leave?”
“Lyon is our home, not yours. You’ve done what you can.”
“But there’s more to be done.”
“Not by you. Now, go!”
Disoriented by the vividness of the memory, it takes Virginia a moment to recognize Bob in her face.
“Diane!” he says. “We have to go. Now!”
He drags her several feet deeper into the alley before she comes to her senses and follows of her own accord.
Through the narrow streets they rush, weaving in and out of alleys and side roads, along bricks walls, up and down hills. They turn a corner, and Our Lady of Le Puy appears massive and imposing. Worried she’ll b
e sick, Virginia pauses and puts her hands on her knees, but soon continues forward to catch up with Bob. They hurry until they’re out of town, collapsing at the riverbank.
“How will we get back?” she says. “I can’t run—not with my leg—especially not all the way to Chambon.”
“There’s a Maquis group a short distance away. They have a car. They can take us.”
“We’ll get stopped. I know it.”
“There’s a priest with them. He can put on his cassock and put the cross in the window to show he’s on church business. He has forged travel papers.”
“No,” she says, feeling dizzy. “No priests.”
Her vision blurs. She has a sudden image of Abbé Alesch looking on with ice-blue eyes. The frozen Pyrenees looming.
“Diane,” Bob yells, grabbing her face. “Stay with me. He’s a good man. It’s all right. We’ll get back to Chambon. But if there’s to be any hope for Roger or the Maquis, we must go, now.”
* * *
—
True to Bob’s word, the priest gets them safely to Chambon by nightfall. They drop Virginia in town to find the head of the Secours Suisse, Auguste Bohny, to see if he can help. With Auguste, she makes the terrible trip to the Le Forestiers’ place to tell Danielle what happened. The woman is hysterical. At least the children are all in bed, so they don’t know what’s going on.
Virginia stays with Danielle, while Auguste leaves them to find Pastor Trocmé. Between Auguste’s position as a Swiss representative, and Trocmé’s ability to find common ground with just about anyone, Auguste assures Danielle they will bring Roger home. Virginia is not optimistic.
“I knew it,” Danielle says over and over again.
“Stay strong,” Virginia says. “Roger can easily say he didn’t know about the gun. With Auguste and Pastor Trocmé vouching for him, there’s a good chance he’ll be all right.”
Maybe if she says it, it will be so.
The strain of the day makes her feel like a frayed rope about to snap. She’s glad when Pastor Trocmé arrives with his wife, Magda, and they take over care of Danielle. Virginia slips out and walks home, but the sight of the MP’s face in the second-floor hospital window again makes her feel sick. She takes a side road so he can’t see her and nearly collapses once she’s at the Salvation Army house.
There, waiting for her, is Dédé. He wraps her with a blanket and shows her the meal Léa has left her, and a bottle of wine she has no idea how he procured. Edmund has already set up the wireless and waits for her. She leaves the food on the table, takes a long drink from the bottle, and starts the terrible transmission to HQ.
Chapter 36
Virginia’s core team is assembled at her place, discussing how they might rescue Roger, when they receive a knock at the door. Edmund admits Auguste Bohny. Auguste’s face conveys the awful news before the words emerge.
“Roger Le Forestier has been sentenced to death.”
Gasps and curses are uttered around Virginia. She keeps hold of her emotions.
“Pastor Trocmé is breaking the news to Danielle. Though I do not wish to convey his message to you, I must. Pastor Trocmé sends a stern reproof to the Maquis who brought firearms on the trip, reminding you that those who live by the sword will die by it.”
The room is silent.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, putting on his hat and leaving them.
She’s afraid to look at Bob, but she doesn’t have to. He exits through the back door.
While the others fold in and console one another, she leaves to follow Bob. It takes her a while to find him, but the smell of his cigarette and the glowing ember at its tip lead her to where he sits on a boulder overlooking the valley. The sky is cloudy and gray, and the grass smells sweet from a rain shower that passed through earlier that day. She climbs the boulder and sits next to him.
“Don’t say it isn’t my fault,” he says.
While he smokes, they stare out to the horizon in silence, gazing upon the stony Pic du Lizieux. She hears him sniffing and thinks he might be crying.
“Tell me what happened to you in the Pyrenees,” he says.
“Why?”
“I need to hear it. We’re so close to liberation, and I’m depleted. I’m sick over Roger.” Bob’s voice catches. “I need some kind of inspiration.”
“How could you be inspired by a coward, running away with her tail between her legs?”
“Stop,” he says, banging his fist onto his knee. “Stop calling yourself a coward.”
Bob’s coming undone, she thinks. His war sins, his guilt. It’s cracking him to pieces. She knows how he feels.
“Why was it so bad?” he continues. “I need to understand.”
“I guess it’s because there’s always something in me that feels bigger and stronger than human beings, but there’s no way to feel more powerful than a mountain.”
“That’s not it, and you know it. Not all of it, anyway. Tell me the truth.”
Here we are, she thinks.
In her last mission, this was the time the dominoes began to fall, and she fled. But she will not flee this time. No matter what happens.
Bob slips his arm through hers and draws her closer to his side. She allows herself to relax against him. She takes a deep breath.
“When we set out,” she starts, “the night sky over the Pyrenees was crystal clear. But all I could see were my friends’ faces. Klaus Barbie had begun capturing and torturing them, trying to break them to get my address, while an MP hunted me. They had been informed by a double agent. A priest.”
Bob curses.
“You see why I didn’t want the priest to drive us?” she says.
“Yes.”
“And do you know that, as we speak, that very MP is in the hospital in Chambon?”
Bob flinches and starts to climb to his feet.
“Later,” she says, holding his arm.
Once he settles, she continues her story.
“HQ had been urging me to return to London, but they finally ordered it. The Allies had crushed the Germans in North Africa. The Nazis were spilling into the unoccupied zone. My doctor friend told me the Gestapo were onto me. He showed me the wanted poster with my face. And in my panic, I fled. I fled France instead of staying. I left all my people to the dogs to save my own skin.”
“You were ordered,” says Bob.
“When have I ever let that sway me?”
He looks away from her because he knows it’s true.
* * *
—
It’s November of 1942. There are three men who also found their way to the Pyrenees guide, two Frenchmen and a Belgian she’s almost sure are fellow agents, but who keep as quiet about their situation as she does. Her last fifty-five thousand francs gets them the guide, rucksacks with canteens of water, meager food supplies, and heavy boots. She agrees to be the interpreter; she’s the only Spanish speaker among the refugees.
Virginia passes out uppers, explaining to the guide that they’ll help them stay awake and suppress their appetites. He waves it away, but the others take them.
Without ceremony, they begin.
The guide tells them the climb will be steepest on the French side. They are at six hundred meters, but they will peak at about three thousand. Though the Spanish side will be a more gradual descent, it will be harder. The air is thinner, and the snowdrifts are waist deep.
Virginia takes in this information and communicates it as soberly to the others as she’s able. She has one sock for her stump and can’t imagine what it will look like after this trip. A sudden, sharp longing to remain in France, to find a new identity and return to her people in Lyon, rushes at her. She has sent countless downed pilots and agents along this circuit, but now that she’s the pawn in the game, she’s shocked to find how unequal she feels to the task.
Aside from the guide, breath already comes hard and fast for them. Their guide is petite and light, sure-footed and fit. She wonders how many times he has done this. Will he be able to get them safely to the other side? Every time a dog howls or a searchlight flashes, they crouch low. There are border patrols they’ll have to avoid on the ascent and descent. Snow they will have to survive at the peaks.
As the fragrance of crushed pine needles under their boots rises, a heavy, wet fog descends. The craggy, mossy rocks cause them to stumble. In spite of the protests of her fellow refugees, she situates herself last in the procession so they won’t notice when her limp worsens. Soon great silver firs surround them on all sides, and they reach the snow. A dusting, two inches, four inches, a foot. In drifts, snow seeps into her boots, making her good foot feel as numb as her prosthetic.
A little voice in her mind jabs her.
You should have listened to Vera and left Lyon before the winter weather. Then you wouldn’t have had this much snow to contend with. Your network wouldn’t be in such danger.
Try as she might, she can’t silence this hateful voice. It accompanies her on the sharp climb, along with the ghosts of her people.
Not ghosts, she tells herself. They might not be dead.
If that’s true, why do they haunt you?
Struggling through many hours, they reach a summit and stop to catch their breath, but she can’t. The air is too thin. It’s like a fist around her throat. The coming winter has made a frozen, terrible beauty of the landscape. She wants to turn back. They are so alone in the wilderness. They drop their rucksacks, massaging their bleeding shoulders. The men struggle to breathe around her. The guide watches, unmoved. It takes every ounce of training she has to steady her heart and suppress her panic.
She’s certain she’ll die out here. Her frozen body will be passed by hundreds of others on their escape. She’ll be stuck and stiff until the thaw, when she’ll rot and slide down a cliff and get buried in the mud.
And she deserves it, for leaving her people.