In This Hospitable Land
Page 34
There had been a remarkable increase in the number of weapons available. A recent raid on a nearby gendarmerie had yielded a startling array: American Remington, French Hotchkiss, German Mauser, and assorted English rifles; Sten guns; hand grenades.
Food supplies remained problematic although local peasants and farmers and the townspeople of Vialas provided as much as they could. Whatever food the Maquis obtained was prepared amidst the chestnut trees, decreasing the chance of smoke from cooking fires being noticeable by German spy planes.
Everyone knew to go into hiding under the chestnut trees when a plane passed overhead. The broad branches and big leaves provided excellent cover.
André and Alex quickly learned the daily routine.
07:00: Reveille (without a bugle!) and toilette.
07:30: Breakfast (which far too often consisted of the dreaded bajana).
08:00: Free time.
09:00: Physical training.
10:00: Military instruction.
11:00: Work and patrols around the camp.
13:00: Lunch (bajana again, this time with a little meat added in).
13:30: Siesta.
15:00: Sports (sometimes soccer; sometimes la pétanque—a version of boules or bocce).
16:00: Work and patrols.
19:00: Dinner (bajana yet again, with noodles or potatoes, a little bread, and perhaps some locally grown strawberries).
19:30: Free time (which many used to play belote, a card game).
21:30: Lights out (or, for those so assigned, overnight guard duty).
Despite built-in rest periods it was a demanding schedule. The brothers were surprised by the intensity of the training and labor. One night after a particularly long day of backbreaking work, André told Max, “My aching muscles speak to me with a heavy accent.”
André took great satisfaction in becoming part of the camp. He participated in all its activities with a will, even learning how to take his rifle apart, clean it, and put it back together again.
More startling still he was willing to take orders—unlike in the Belgian army—because he believed in the cause.
Before long the Sauverins were sufficiently well-trained and trusted to go on perimeter patrols, swiftly learning to scout for German and Milice dispositions. It was always nerve-racking though, particularly when the Maquis received advance warning of their would-be tormentors’ movements.
Because they were older than most of their compatriots, whose average age wasn’t much above twenty, the chief tapped André and Alex to help train the latest volunteers. He even had newcomers bunk with the brothers, forcing the Sauverins into separate sleeping quarters.
The Sauverins’ distinct personalities and aptitudes rapidly became evident. Alex’s greater physicality and handiness were put to good use in repairing the great barn and outbuildings. André, due to his experience with and ability to judge young people, was occasionally asked by Roger to sit in as he attempted to determine if a new recruit was truly against the Germans or entering Les Bouzedes as a spy.
The need for caution was great. Everyone knew the Milice kept attempting to infiltrate the ranks of the Resistance. When spies were found out they were summarily executed—just as the Vignies had been.
André was pleased to do his part in these sessions. But killings were something he prayed never to see again.
One morning the lookout watched warily, alert for danger, as two figures hiked up the cartway: enemy spies or would-be Maquis? The lookout was the first line of defense and guessed these two came fresh from the lycée. Both had unruly uncut hair and the wispy beginnings of soft, light beards. Both were wiry and gave the impression of being used to the outdoors. They didn’t carry rifles but the lookout thought it wise to let them see his.
“Hello,” he called down. “Where might you be coming from?”
“From Nîmes,” one new arrival said, voice quavering.
The anxiety was a good sign but the lookout had to follow standard procedures. “What brought you into this region?”
“They want to send us to Germany,” the second called loudly.
“And you don’t come back from Germany,” his companion elaborated.
“We’re scared,” the other continued. “Another friend signed up with the gendarmes as he was supposed to and the next week they took him from his home. He hasn’t been seen or heard from since.” The young man swallowed hard. “I’m only nineteen. I won’t wait to be taken.”
“I’d rather fight,” his companion insisted.
The lookout suppressed a smile. He knew how they felt and how naïve they were about what was in store for them. He had been just such a raw recruit a year earlier.
“How did you know to come here?” he demanded as he slowly climbed down from his semi-concealed position. How old he must appear—weathered and lined by long hours spent in the sun. Not quite twenty-five, he felt far older than a few years’ difference in age should make.
“We started walking and ran into someone who told us to come here.”
“Are you carrying any weapons?” the lookout asked.
“No,” one allowed. Both looked sheepish. “But we’ll fight barehanded if we have to.”
The lookout grinned despite himself then quickly made his face blank. “I must check you,” he said and patted them down. Their submission increased his confidence in them. Certain they were unarmed, he told them, “Head up this cartway to the big house. If anyone asks tell them the lookout sent you to see Roger. Convince him of your good intentions and you’re in.”
The two young fellows smiled broadly, stood up straighter, and mumbled thanks in the manner of abashed youth.
“Don’t thank me,” the lookout said sardonically. “Thank the Germans. And thank our glorious leader Pétain.”
Good God, Alex groaned inwardly, sitting on his cot when one of Roger’s lieutenants ushered a new youth into his presence. Why do they keep bringing them to me?
“Keep him out of trouble,” the lieutenant said, “until we can find him a permanent place.”
“When will that be?” Alex growled. He hated playing nursemaid.
“Soon, we hope,” the lieutenant said, chuckling as he strode away.
For a minute Alex was morose. But the new recruit trembled, bewildered and fearful, so Alex took pity on him. “What’s your name?” he asked as pleasantly as he could.
“Jean-Philippe…”
“Uh-uh-uh!” Alex cut him off with a cautioning wag of his forefinger. “First names only please. It’s not wise to let anyone know too much about you—not even your roommates.”
“Just Jean-Philippe then.”
“Good.” Alex examined the youth closely. There wasn’t much to him. “And what did you do? Before I mean.”
“I was a student. But I’ve always done farmwork too on my folks’ small place. In the off-seasons I apprenticed myself in woodworking, building cabinets and chairs.” The young man suddenly collapsed onto his cot. “Oh God,” he cried, his lower lip trembling. “I hope my Pa is okay. I tried to get him to join the Resistance too but he just kept saying, ‘Everyone needs to eat. I must stay and do my part.’ Do you think the Milice will take him?”
“Not a farmer. Not yet.”
“He’s not in good health.”
“Then they’ll never want him.”
Jean-Philippe wiped at his nose. “So what exactly is it we do?”
“Many things. Senseless things.” Jean-Philippe looked so downcast Alex backtracked. “I mean things that may seem senseless but they all have a purpose. Our job is to obey the chief’s orders, even those we don’t understand. You think you can do that?”
“I guess.” The young man lowered his face into his hands.
Alex stood up, uncertain what to do or say next. “We’re all in this together,” he tried. “We just do the best we can.” He moved toward the door. “I’ve got some business to attend to. But don’t worry. You’ll find out all you need to know soon enough.”
During his siesta on Thursday, November sixth, André lay on his cot staring at the ceiling, feeling a little down as he always did on the anniversary of his father’s death. This was the third year of such dispiriting remembrance and the pain never seemed to diminish as supposedly it would. Instead as time went by André missed Louis more and more.
One week hence Denise would turn thirty-four and the day after that, André would reach his forty-second birthday. He hated not being with his family, especially on such occasions. But he was inexpressibly glad that, Louis aside, they were all still alive.
By late November the chief was bogged down in the paperwork required to coordinate all the new recruits. He hated paper-pushing but one did what one must.
His office was now fitted out with two more tables and additional benches and chairs. As he worked his various lieutenants, assistants, and subordinates kept coming in and going out, occasionally laying yet another piece of paper on top of Roger’s increasingly messy mass of notes, memos, messages, and maps.
“Chief? André to see you,” one aide announced.
“Send him in.”
Sensing rather than observing André’s arrival, Roger raised one finger to acknowledge him but went right on working. Finally finished, he stood up to offer André his hand.
“We have a problem that requires immediate attention,” the chief told him. Then he turned to the others in his jam-packed office. “Please excuse us for a few minutes.” Everyone else left and Roger told André, “I’ve got information that the Vichy government has placed spies in our area. We’ve got our eyes on two newcomers who seem to fit the bill but we’re not absolutely certain. I’d like you to go out to investigate. The rest of the Maquisards I’ve assigned were all raised in these mountains so they know their way around, but whether or not these two fellows really are spies…I need you to query them and see what you think.”
“You mean before we do anything to them.”
“Find out who they are, where they came from, who sent them—if anyone did—and what they know. After we bring them in—if that’s what you recommend—well, we’re certainly not going to be able to send them on their merry way.” Roger fixed his gaze steadily on André. “Are you up to it?”
André looked back at Roger just as directly. “I’m here to do whatever you tell me.”
“Thank you,” the chief said gravely. “There’s just one other thing.” Roger broke into a broad grin. “Remember to wear your glasses. They make you look like an intelligence officer. Someone not to be trifled with.”
It was André’s turn to smile. “No problem. I have to wear my glasses to see anything.”
They laughed together but within seconds Roger said, “There’ll be four others in your squad. Jacques is the designated leader. He already knows the role I want you to play.”
“I don’t know him,” André said warily.
“He comes and goes frequently. But I trust him and you should too. Don’t let his manner put you off. He can be a little gruff.”
André grinned again. “That’s all right. I’ve had plenty of experience with that kind of character.”
The paths were dry. The air was brisk. With no wind, they didn’t feel the cold. With little idle chatter and a steady pace, the small squad arrived in the hamlet sooner than expected. There was the typical handful of dwellings with smoke curling up from the chimneys of three. No one thought it would be difficult or time-consuming to find their quarry.
Coming down a far path a solitary farmer returned from one of his small fields. As Jacques advanced alone to ask if he knew the men they were looking for, the farmer slowed and looked about, confused and distressed. But Jacques swiftly put him at his ease and the laconic fellow nodded meaningfully toward the hamlet’s smallest house.
Jacques waved to André and the others to join him. The farmer, dismayed, put down his walking stick to show he wouldn’t put up a fight. He knew now that this was about the war but supported neither the Resistance nor the Vichy authorities. He just wanted to be left alone.
“Can I go?” he asked nervously.
Jacques nodded. The farmer scurried off.
“The men we’re after moved in just last week,” Jacques told André as the resisters followed him to the door in question. “The other fellow says they’re farmers but I don’t think he believes it—or cares.”
Jacques banged on the door and without waiting for a response walked into the house followed closely by André. The others stood guard outside.
“Who are you?” a man about André’s age asked as Jacques barreled past. Tall and thin the man was obviously, understandably, annoyed and discomfited by this intrusion. His hands were rough as a farmer’s, which stood in his favor, but his speech was not of the region. He cursed in Cévenol but even to André his accent sounded off—definitely from somewhere beyond the Lozère though possibly from within the Massif Central. Certainly from the south of France.
The second suspect entered from the back. He too was middle-aged but heftier than his companion. His soft, round stomach hung heavily over his belt. Maybe he’d done hard work in his life long ago. Impossible to picture him laboring in the fields today.
“New to the region?” André asked neutrally as Jacques looked on menacingly.
The fatter “farmer” answered yes, but sounded suspiciously tentative.
“Well, welcome,” André said.
Jacques smirked.
“Thank you,” the thinner man replied in a reserved tone.
“What brought you here?” André asked genially.
“The war.”
That response seemed surprisingly quick, even glib, as if well-rehearsed.
“It’s hard always having to search for food even when you have the right ration coupons,” the fatter one said. “It seemed easier to find a place and grow our own.”
His ample girth gave his answer the lie. He’s never worried about food in his life, André thought. Bearing down he inquired, “How long do you plan to stay?”
“Say, what is this?” the thinner man demanded irritably, sticking out his jaw defiantly. “You come in without so much as a ‘How do you do’ and don’t tell us who you are. What gives you the right to interrogate us?”
“What do you plan to grow?” André persisted calmly.
If anyone addressed me that way, Jacques thought, impressed, I’d sock him in the jaw.
“What a foolish question,” the fat one said. “We’ll grow whatever’s grown here.”
“So you’ll plant chestnuts,” André said cagily. “When?”
“In the spring of course,” the thinner one answered.
Now André knew they were lying. Imagine planting a tree in the spring and hoping to harvest from it that fall!
“What about wheat?”
“You can’t grow that here,” the same man answered speedily. “It’s too high and rocky.”
“Oh?” André said caustically. “Then why does the government demand to know the size of everyone’s wheat fields?”
“You can go now,” the thinner man told his uninvited guests, opening the door.
“After you,” Jacques said agreeably, gesturing to the armed men just past the threshold.
“You can’t make us go,” the fat man wailed. “We live here!”
“Get your coats on,” Jacques said, “unless you’d rather be cold.”
The two “farmers” looked at one another uncertainly. Jacques settled the matter by opening his coat and showing his revolver.
“Wait a minute,” the fat one said to Jacques, disappearing into the back room.
“Follow him quickly,” Jacques urged.
André raced to the door.
The fat man reappeared, saying flatly, “I’m ready now.”
André stood aside. The burly man hesitated then went back to the front room.
As Jacques delivered the suspects to the
three other Maquisards, André slipped into the back room. Swiftly sizing it up he tugged aside a curtain uncovering a small paneled door set in the rear wall. Though he pulled at a knot in the wood panel beside it, the door remained shut. Then he pushed at the other side and the door swung open.
André looked in then put in his hands and felt around. He pulled something forward.
Jacques appeared in the doorway in time to catch a glimpse of glinting metal: a small radio receiver and, damningly, a transmitter.
“That seals it,” Jacques said. “Unless radio signals stimulate crop growth.”
Jacques brought out the radio equipment. Flanked by Maquisards, the thin captive opened his eyes wide, boring into his fat friend with hatred and rage.
The resistants started walking the suspects up the path. Jacques stayed in the rear but no one followed them. The man Jacques had spoken to first must have told the other residents something was up. Perhaps they didn’t care—or realized there was nothing to gain by interfering.
“Where are you taking us?” the thin captive complained. “You have no right.”
A young Maquis pushed the butt of his rifle into the spy’s ribs as if to say, This is all the right I need.
There was a good deal of grunting and groaning from the duo as they were hurried along. Then they began to stumble now and again, slowing the little procession.
Finally the fat man stopped. “My legs are giving out.” With no more warning he struggled toward a big flat rock at the side of the path and collapsed onto it.
Though angered by the delay, Jacques realized it had been a long day for his men too. “Okay,” he called out regretfully. “Everyone rest.”
The Maquis unslung their rifles and sat on the ground. Jacques remained standing but unbuttoned his coat to keep his pistol handy.
“Hey you,” the slender spy said, pointing at Jacques. “This your operation?” Jacques nodded. “Then why all the mystery? You can tell us now. We’re out of the village.”