In This Hospitable Land (58 page)

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.

“Let’s celebrate,” Roger suggested, reaching into a small cabinet and pulling out a bottle of wine from which he poured three glasses. He raised his in a toast. “To André. I couldn’t be happier about what this fine man has done tonight.” Then, turning to the younger resister he added, “And to Max, who was good enough to bring André to us.”

Denise had been feeling hopeful since the night in Vimbouches. André’s certainty that the war was almost over had worked its way into her breast. Though still unconvinced the girls should serve as messengers, Denise felt emboldened to bring them with her to Champdemergue. Having taken to cleaning and mending clothes the Maquis sometimes brought her she had decided this morning to return the bundle herself.

The children were thrilled, then terrified. But the day was beautiful. Denise sang all the way.

The camp was a bit of a shock. “Primitive” was too generous a description. The mostly young men looked ragged and unclean. Some carried rifles.

The girls marveled as Denise recovered and began greeting and chatting pleasantly with the Maquisards. She told Ida and Christel that they were just frightened kids themselves.

But one slightly older man started talking to the girls and petting their heads, which really scared them especially since he spoke a foreign language. After he smiled and left, Denise explained he was a deserter from the German army, probably starved for affection. That only confused the girls more. If he was German, wasn’t he the enemy?

Sadly André and Alex weren’t there, having gone back to the Guins for a bit. Denise and the girls had so looked forward to surprising them.

A few days later Cristian celebrated his second birthday with a little noontime party Tata Irene and Mamé made for him. They wouldn’t say where they had gotten the ingredients to bake a chocolate cake—or how they had kept it from the Sauverins.

Just after the
fête
several young strangers appeared at the door asking for Denise. André had sent them to see if she wouldn’t let Ida carry a message to Vimbouches.

Whether because she felt hopeful, because Vimbouches was so familiar to Ida or because of the young people’s pleasant faces, Denise no longer objected. She would leave the decision to Ida herself.

Privately she explained to her eldest child that she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to but that if she thought she could do this it would be a great help to the war effort. She also said Ida was now big enough to take on the responsibility.

The thought of carrying a secret message excited and scared Ida equally. But since her father had recommended her for the mission she said yes. Wouldn’t he be proud of her?