In This Hospitable Land

by Jr. Lynmar Brock

  Max poked at the dirt and stones around his feet with a long stick. “Yes, but at Villaret…did she feel safe?”

  Was Max embarrassed? His manner seemed so strange.

  “Denise felt she and the children were as safe at Villaret as they could be,” André told him. “Why do you ask?”

  Hesitantly Max said, “I’m thinking about moving Fela there. She’s been happy with Françoise at La Planche but it seems the worse things get for our enemies, the farther afield the Milice and Gestapo go.”

  “As we have seen,” André agreed. “But why would La Planche be less safe than Villaret? Has anything happened?”

  “Perhaps.” Max drew a straight line in front of his boots then stabbed at it several times. “At the end of April, twenty Maquisards escaped from the prison in Nîmes. The Germans had four or five hundred soldiers, police, and Milice fan out all the way to Vialas to control the populace and search for resistants.”

  “Again?”

  “This was a bigger show of force than at Easter. Now they’re gone but I can’t help feeling it would be best to get Fela out of there. A neighbor of Madame Guibal’s—Fernande Velle—will gladly take her in.”

  “Sounds like you’ve decided.”

  “I’ve also received discouraging word from the same sources that tipped us off about you.”

  “Then you must move her. When?”

  “This evening.” Max got up and clapped André on the back. “But you’d better go. You know how the chief hates to wait.”

  Roger was glad to see André. Seated at his table with several associates, including two from a camp north of the mountains with whom he’d been discussing a variety of needs over several days, Roger depended entirely on the man he now rose to greet to solve a vexing perplexing problem.

  “Thanks for coming,” the chief said, shaking André’s hand heartily. “This is André,” he told the others, not naming them. “The chemistry professor.”

  The others rose now too, each one exclaiming, “Ah.”

  Roger pulled out a chair for André and told him, “We Maquis face a difficulty we hope you can help us with. We need to send messages to and from other camps, some on the far side of the mountains.”

  “I’ve done this for you many times,” André quickly put in, “and I’m happy to help again. Usually you send me with my brother.”

  “This time we don’t need your legs. We need your mind. We need a way to write down things that can only be seen by those in the know—a new kind of invisible ink that only we know how to make reappear. That way even if one of our messengers gets stopped by an enemy patrol he won’t be able to betray or be betrayed by potentially dangerous secrets. With the Free French and the Resistance working more and more closely together, it’s harder and harder for the leadership truly to know each and every one and trust them fully. We’ve been getting more and more German-army deserters, mostly from the troops stationed in Mende. Ethnically they tend to be Armenians who have felt the tug of turning tides. But could one or another of these fresh recruits be a spy? Wouldn’t it be better all around if messengers did not personally know and could not detect the contents of an important message? Besides, the information we need to exchange has become much more technical and complex. Perhaps a highly educated man such as yourself could be relied on to understand, remember, and transmit such messages faultlessly. But seriously, André, we have very few like you.”

  Roger didn’t say that camp commanders had been experimenting with shortwave radio communications for months or that the Gestapo had caught on almost immediately and were becoming more successful daily at blocking such transmissions. More dangerously, they sometimes listened in, as the otherwise inexplicable betrayal of some secret operations proved.

  André sank deeply into thought. One of the men from over the mountains soon demanded snappishly, “Well, can you do it?”

  “I’ll need a supply of particular chemicals,” André said distantly, still pondering.

  “You give me a list,” the chief said firmly and gratefully, “and we’ll get you what you need. We know of a pharmacist in Génolhac.”

  The lieutenant handed André a pen and paper. Everyone watched intently as monsieur le professeur began to write.

  He took his time with the list, thinking through every element repeatedly because retrieving chemicals entailed great danger. It could prove disastrous if a raid needed to be restaged because André left off even one significant compound.

  When he was finished he took his leave. Though it was only late morning he felt exhausted. Finding a free space in one of the outbuildings, he drifted heavily into sleep.

  Deep in the afternoon he startled awake in a sweat, realizing he might have made a dreadful mistake—not by leaving something off the list but by neglecting to consider that some of the chemicals he needed would likely be labeled under different names in a pharmacy than in a laboratory. Besides, there were potentially significant differences in nomenclature between Belgium and France.

  Hurrying back to the chief’s office, he interrupted yet another meeting to say, “I’ve got to go with you on the raid.”

  Roger laughed pleasantly. “I can’t run the risk of losing you now.” André explained his concern but Roger was adamant. “Your accent might give you away.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “Your glasses…”

  “I’ll take them off until you’ve led me into the pharmacy.”

  Roger stroked the stubble on his jaw. “It’s dangerous but I’ve put you in danger before.” Pointing to a young man he said, “You were raised in Génolhac, yes? You’ll stick with the professor. He’s yours to protect.”

  First thing the next morning, the young Maquis brought André a crust of bread with a piece of cheese and some sausage sliced onto it. The chief, impressed because the young Maquisards ordinarily showed such deference only to him, had rewarded the youth with one of his own pistols to take on the mission.

  Bouncing around well past Vialas, the truck that the chief, André, André’s bodyguard, two other young men, and one of Roger’s lieutenants traveled in joined cargo-laden carts and bicycles also heading toward the market of Génolhac. It was still quite early when the men from Champdemergue reached the outskirts of town.

  “There,” Roger told the lieutenant behind the wheel, pointing out a bridge.

  The lieutenant stopped the truck, applied the handbrake, carefully took hold of a small package on the front seat, and slipped out of the cab.

  “What’s going on?” André asked through the small opening between front and back.

  “We want to create a little diversion,” Roger answered easily. “With explosives.”

  “Explosives?”

  “The charge isn’t great enough to create real damage,” the chief assured the chemist. “Just enough noise and smoke to distract any lurking police from our primary mission.”

  The lieutenant leapt back into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and roared off.

  “Slow down,” Roger commanded. “This is supposed to be an unthreatening rattle-trap.”

  The lieutenant reduced speed. Several minutes later they heard a muffled blast. Then they saw the police race past.

  Upon entering town they eased onto a side street from which they could see the pharmacy distinguished by a green-cross sign. The elderly pharmacist unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. The Maquisards were in within seconds.

  The pharmacist understood immediately. White-haired, with the ruddy face and jelly-like jowls of someone long accustomed to eating well and drinking too much, he whined about losing money but one look at Roger’s implacable face silenced him. Why risk health as well as wealth?

  André slipped his glasses back on and went right to the shelves in the rear as if he knew just where to find what he was looking for. Examining labels with professional assiduity he handed the bottles he wanted to his young protector, who placed them carefully into a produce carton.

 
When a customer came in Roger slid behind the counter and whispered heatedly to the pharmacist, “Tell her to come back later.” Flustered, the pharmacist hesitated. “Tell her now. And make it sound normal,” Roger hissed, pushing the terrified pharmacist forward.

  As the customer drifted back out, André grabbed one last bottle from a high shelf.

  “Okay,” he announced. “I’ve got everything.”

  “I hope so,” Roger said. “I don’t think we’ll be shopping here again.”

  Back in the truck André began to sweat. “It all went by in a flash,” he said wiping his brow with both hands. “I didn’t have time to feel nervous. But I sure feel nervous now.”

  Everyone laughed sympathetically, knowing just how he felt.

  As the squad hiked back into camp, the good news spread quickly. Tired and depleted but also encouraged and enthused, André was immediately conducted to a room in one of the outbuildings that had been cleared out except for a large counter—boards set on sawhorses—a short bench, a couple of chairs, and several lit candles. Unusually, the room had been swept, making the dust still clinging to cobwebs in the corners of beams overhead stand out.

  Weary as well, the chief told André, “Keep me informed.” Then he was gone.

  The burden weighed on André, but as he sorted through the pharmacy booty his excitement returned and his energy rose. Though he had no prior experience with anything analogous to this task, his record of successful experimentation encouraged him. Still he wished he had a chemistry textbook on hand—something to refer to besides memory.

  No matter, he would have to proceed by trial and error—almost the definition of scientific endeavor. But given the limitations of time and materials each error would be costly and possibly his last.

  But as he began manipulating chemicals he found himself amused and intellectually engaged. He had never given invisible ink a prior thought. If he really could figure this out…well this was no academic exercise but potentially a significant contribution to the cause.

  He labored deep into the night, measuring and mixing, writing down a word or two once in a while, taking note of every chemical effect produced and ways they might be improved.

  On other paper he tested his “ink.” The first efforts discouraged him. Sometimes the writing simply wouldn’t disappear. Another time it became invisible and stayed that way.

  He adjusted the quantities of chemicals repeatedly. Then he had a sudden inspiration: the bottle he had grabbed at the last moment. A fortuitous discovery: André added it to the mix and the word he wrote next became mostly invisible. Unfortunately the pressure of his pen’s steel point left an impression that with concerted effort could still be discerned. Perhaps if Resistance camp commanders were instructed to press lightly…

  Somewhat encouraged, André held up the slip of paper allowing it to dry thoroughly. Then he blew on it to make every last vestige of the word fade away.

  Success!

  Stunned, André sat back heavily on a chair almost afraid to try to restore the writing. He was running out of ideas. If this didn’t work…

  Choosing a candle that burned steadily, producing wispy black smoke, he held his prayed-over piece of paper above the flame, wafting it gently back and forth through the heat. After ten seconds he pulled it away. The smoke left a smudge but hadn’t adhered to the shape of the letters—which was good. Neither had the letters reappeared—which was bad.

  André wasn’t about to give up. He held the paper still closer to the candle. This time it smudged the paper more sootily—and the word began to come through in a deep, legible brown.

  Promising, promising…

  André rubbed his finger across the word. The soot smeared—bad. But the word stayed firm—excellent! He brought the paper extremely close to his face, peering at it as a mostly blind man might. He even took off his glasses to explore the results more minutely.

  It worked, he thought allowing himself a small sense of satisfaction while guarding against exhilaration. Yes he had done it—once. But no experiment could be deemed a true success until the results had been replicated. After all, if his new “invention” was to be useful, he couldn’t be the only one capable of whipping up a batch.

  He tried making more of the potent brew from scratch and again met with success. Now, however, when exhilaration was finally warranted, he felt totally spent. And he had a pounding headache—the inevitable outcome of his intense concentration and the strain.

  But before he could rest he had one last task to accomplish. On another piece of paper he wrote a comparatively long sentence: Let this be the path for words that must remain secret.

  Watching the ink dry and the sentence fade away letter by letter, he smiled with profound satisfaction. He had been extremely careful not to apply much pressure and that had worked too. The paper looked entirely blank—very important since he didn’t want anyone even to suspect any writing was there. Only with the application of heat from a small candle or a stick of burning wood plucked cautiously from a fireplace…

  Almost somnambulistically he strode toward the great barn and pushed open the door to the chief’s office. Roger’s secretary sat at his desk writing, not even stopping when he glanced up at André with an expectant lift of an eyebrow.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you give please this to the chief?”

  André handed the secretary the happy results of his concerted efforts. Peering at the slip the secretary looked puzzled, even annoyed. “You want me to disturb the chief at this time of night with a blank piece of paper? After the day he’s had?”

  “It’s a message only he can understand,” André said wearily. “I promise he’ll be glad.”

  André went right back to the bed in which he had tried to sleep the previous night. The other occupants of the room snored voluminously but André was too tired to be troubled by a little noise. Still his shoulders and back ached and his eyes burned from all that careful measuring and the constant exposure to fumes loosed by the burning of soft wax and tallow candles.

  A knock on the door startled him from his stupefied state. The others woke too, grumbling as one of the chief’s lieutenants burst in and marched straight to André’s rack.

  “The chief needs to see you. Now.”

  It would have been better had the chief been allowed to sleep. At an hour like this Roger was foul-tempered. And he was not alone: in addition to his secretary, the two Resistance fighters from the north were there.

  The chief’s eyes kept flitting over the frustrating piece of paper in his hand as if they would suddenly discover whatever if anything André had inscribed on it. Roger had been so excited when his secretary had delivered it into his hands he hadn’t even glanced at it before ordering him to rouse the visitors from the north. Now Roger feared he had been made to look a fool but knew André wasn’t one to play childish games.

  There was a short rap on Roger’s chamber door. The lieutenant entered with André.

  “André,” the chief bellowed, rising to his full height. He waved André’s paper in the air and jabbed at it repeatedly with his forefinger. “Is there a message on it or is there not?”

  André smiled. “Oh, it’s there.”

  “Okay then,” the chief insisted, turning confidently to the doubting northerners and then back to the professor. “So how do we read it?”

  “Goodness,” André said sorrowfully. “I was so tired I forgot to explain. Just hold it above heat briefly and the ink will appear like magic.”

  Roger snapped his fingers at his secretary who reached toward the fire, drew out a taper and held it for the chief. Roger waved the paper over it watching intently.

  Nothing appeared. The chief tried to be patient but forbearance wasn’t his strong suit. Unable to help himself he cast a dubious glance at André. But monsieur le professeur didn’t wither or cower.

  “Try again,” the Belgian suggested gently.

  This time the chief passed the paper over the small
flame more slowly and a little more closely. Much to his surprise what looked like brown ink began to appear and darken. Letters became discernible then formed themselves into words: Let this be the path…

  “You’ve done it!” the chief crowed in wonder and admiration, waving off the secretary and his taper, clapping André on the back. He turned to the northerners. “Satisfied?”

  “Of course,” they replied.

  “Then for God’s sake let’s all get some rest. In the morning we can use André’s miraculous ink to write out a message you can bring to your commander with a bit more safety than before—for you, for me, for all of us.”

  Everyone moved to leave but the chief gestured André to stay. Then Max Maurel appeared at the door. Roger waved him in.

  “What’s this I hear?” Max asked André as if floating on air. “You’ve done something new to thwart the Germans?”

  Confused, André said, “I seem to have lost track of time. Did you…?”

  “Yes,” Max replied.

  “And all…?”

  “Went very, very well.”

  Roger had no idea what these two were talking about—and couldn’t have cared less. “Your friend here,” he told Max, “has developed an invisible ink for our messages.”

  “Merveilleux.”

  Max couldn’t stop smiling. Roger wondered what could have put him into such a good humor at such an ungodly hour and demanded to know.

  “It’s my particular friend Fela,” Max explained, blushing. “She’s safely tucked away in a new place. Which makes me feel much better than I did.” Trying to cover his embarrassment, Max asked, “Any medical problems since I left?”

  “Happily, no. When you go away the men know not to get sick.” More quietly he told Max, “I’m glad you’ve taken care of your Fela.”

  The young man blushed again. Suddenly the chief found himself thinking of his own wife and child back in Mende. But even in this newly convivial atmosphere he knew it would do no one any good for him to reveal his inner turmoil. Besides, this was a hopeful moment. Thanks to André, so much more seemed possible and within reach than just a few hours before.