In This Hospitable Land (63 page)

“Into the shaft,” a gendarme growled. Then he and his partners put the two men over the side of the hole and gave them a little push.

“Let them down slowly,” the sous-prefect commanded. Then he leaned over the side of the shaft and shouted to the prisoners, “Take care. No more damage to any body.”

The other prisoners slumped to the ground. One actually had tears in his eyes.

“Don’t you worry,” one of the Maquisards snarled, crouching down to leer into those teary eyes. “You’ll get your chance.”

This is awful,
Max thought. Each day seemed worse than the one before. How many more bodies could possibly be down there and how much longer would it take getting all of them out?

Every morning as Max emerged from the home of a victim’s family local authorities had arranged for him to stay in, he saw more and more people gathered at the site: friends, relatives, curiosity seekers, reporters. Throughout each day everyone waited for a visible tug on a rope line. Then big men pulled until the submerged pair of prisoners came back into sight followed—inevitably, unbearably—by another corpse or as much of a corpse as was found and fit into the basket. As the remains were taken to a metal table the onlookers gasped, gagged, keened, and wept. Meanwhile two more of the accused were outfitted and deposited into the mineshaft.

The stench hung over the open field like a fog that never lifted. André kept moving his makeshift desk farther and farther from the doctors performing autopsies. By Saturday, September sixteenth, it was surprising he could hear anything the doctors said. He threw up twice a day at least.

Dr. Bataille asked de Joly if he thought the recovery phase was almost over.

“I hope so,” he said fervently. “There were three layers of bodies all massed together…” With another tug on the rope lines the gruesome process began again. “That’s got to be the last.”

He was right. In all thirty-one bodies had been brought up from the dark depths of the mineshaft into the harsh light of day. Remarkably every one of them had been identified in spite of their severely deteriorated condition. Twenty-eight belonged to members of the Resistance and accounted for all reported missing from Alès. The surprise was the other three: collaborators who had also been reported missing but whom no one knew had suffered the same fate. The assumption had been that they had run away to escape Maquisard retribution. Now it was conjectured that they had been killed by members of the Milice or the Gestapo trying to keep the terrible murders secret.

Standing beside Sous-Prefect Spadale, Lieutenant Soustelle announced, “Now that we have all the evidence, justice needs to be done.”

André, his features distorted as much by disgust as rage, went to Max and said, “I’ve done my duty.”

“Yes,” Max responded feelingly. “Now we have our proof.”

They both fell silent studying the somber faces all around them.

“It could have been you or me down there,” André whispered hoarsely. “You or me.”

What Sous-Prefect Spadale feared most wasn’t summary judgment—that had already been rendered—but summary
justice.
He could feel the desire for retribution and the expectation of its imminent arrival and wondered,
Will this settle the score when the score is too great to be settled? Will it give us back our sanity or degrade our humanity? Restore our civilization or reduce us, as these prisoners reeking of death have been reduced, to mere animals?

Soustelle told him softly, “We need to settle this. Now.”

Spadale looked to Captain Lucien who had, after the last body was identified, conducted the brief military trial establishing the guilt of the accused. His silence insinuated his belief that this was now a local matter. And the several gendarmes present, dressed in fresh, crisp uniforms, weren’t about to prevent the Resistance fighters from doing as they wished either.

Soustelle’s Maquisards stood straight and tall beside their leader, rifles either over their shoulders, resting on the ground, or cradled in their arms. No one would get in their way.

“The convicted need to pay,” Soustelle insisted coldly. “The military panel has determined their guilt. And if anyone doubts them the proof lies there”—he pointed dramatically to a row of pine coffins—“and there”—he pointed to the families of the dead. “We have all the proof we need in their loved ones’ eyes. Besides,” Soustelle said directly to the sous-prefect, “you knew the facts before we got here thanks to the testimony of two gendarmes forced to participate in these bestial acts.” He took a step forward. “Now we must cleanse our town. It is our duty to serve justice, to bring an end to this cruel episode in our long history, and to restore our people and our beloved region to the path of righteousness.”

Soustelle stopped speaking. He could take no pleasure in what was about to happen but he took comfort in its justification.

He nodded to his men. Several moved forward to grab the condemned men underneath the arms and drag them one by one to a short concrete wall beside the mineshaft.

Spadale sighed and muttered to himself, “Let this end here.”

André could hardly believe his eyes. The Milice and their collaborators—a dozen now after a very few had been released for lack of evidence—were lined up in front of the mineshaft facing a Maquisard firing squad. Did he really have to see this through to the bitter end?

“No!” cried a Milice in his mid-twenties, his whiskers unshaved and his eyes rimmed red. “They made me do it!” he shouted as his knees buckled. Then he sobbed openly.

The man standing next to him recited either a prayer or a confession repeatedly with a subvocalized droning sound. The rest of the condemned men looked defiant, staring murderously at the sous-prefect, the army captain, the Resistance lieutenant, and the executioners. They had known their fate all along.

The crowd of onlookers instinctively backed off except for several children who pressed forward excitedly. Their mothers quickly drew them back and forcibly turned them away.

Despite his natural inclination André could not avert his eyes even as this mantra played and replayed in his mind:
The heat of battle is one thing. Murder is another. The heat of battle is one thing. Murder is…

As if reading André’s mind, Max leaned close and whispered, “Execution is not murder.”

“They’re both cold-blooded,” André argued.

“This is simply necessary,” Max insisted.

“Is it?” André demanded.

“I’m sure the widows think so.”

“And who are they to judge?”

“Who else should?”

“Only God.”

“Where was your God when these men committed murder?” Max admonished him gently. “And where is He now?”

“I don’t know,” André said sadly. “But if these men are shot dead like this I’ll know He’s not here.”

Max nodded toward the people of Celas. “I bet they believe that only when these men are dead will God return to this town and this region.”

“Then He will come too late.”

It was already too late. As Soustelle lifted his hand the praying Milice grew louder but no more comprehensible. Little gasps and cries went up from the small crowd of observers.

“No!” the groveling young man shrieked as Soustelle lowered his hand and shots rang out—an initial furious barrage followed by a few scattered firings and one last final shot to each.

The bodies slumped and fell flat, some backward, some face down in the dirt. Blood poured from their bodies, pooled on and seeped into the ground. Amidst the horrifying gore André’s eyes traveled swiftly to the face of the man who had died praying. His corpse was splayed out on its back, eyes and mouth open wide, as if offering up one final plea to a God who had failed him long before this day of death.

“I suppose we need to bury them,” the sous-prefect said civilly, unemotionally.

“That’s too good for them,” Soustelle spat. “Down the mineshaft is where they belong.”

His men carried out this order immediately. Neither Free French forces nor gendarmes interfered as the bodies of the newly dead were heaved over the lip.

André could not see but could all too easily visualize what he thought he heard: flesh and bone thumping against the walls, shredding on hooks and, after what seemed an eternity, splashing down into an eternal watery grave.

“A fitting end,” Lieutenant Soustelle said gladly.

“Justice is often cruel especially in war,” Captain Lucien pronounced haughtily.

“May peace now return to our town,” Sous-Prefect Spadale prayed.

“Let’s go home,” Max suggested to André, who was confused about what “home” might mean: Le Tronc? Le Salson? La Font? Brussels? “We can finally see our mothers, yes?”

“Yes,” André managed to say before turning away and throwing up for what he hoped would be the very last time on French soil.

André, Denise, and their children had a reunion as fulfilling as André hoped and dreamed. Better still, Alex and his family joined them at Le Salson, staying in a barn owned by the absent Hugons. Being together again was especially wonderful for Ida and Katie. But there was no greater joy than Philippe’s return to the bosom of his family. Now an impressive five-year-old, Philippe was fussed over and indulged even more than in Brussels.

Only Rose’s presence could have made the Sauverins happier. André had spent some time with her and the Maurels in Alès after Celas. She was in remarkable shape and spirits for a widow of her age and wartime experience. But André had thought it best that she remain where she was pending an exact determination of the family’s living conditions.

Mamé and Tata Irene’s little cottage was incredibly crowded. The Sauverins briefly considered returning to La Font, for which all had strong warm feelings. But André wasn’t anxious to resume the incredibly hard work of farming.

Not that he could avoid it altogether. Delighted to be surrounded by so much life, the Bastides could now keep their crops for themselves but needed extra hands for the myriad chores in their newly expanded household.

Each day and night the children delighted. The grown-ups reveled in watching them play so well together. Philippe was thrilled to discover in Cristian a male Sauverin to pal around with.

In some ways little Christel—a great big six-year-old—had developed most in hiding. Geneviève began teaching her again—an education too long interrupted. The most-changed Sauverin was Geneviève. Her haughtiness and self-regard had so diminished throughout the family’s exile she no longer felt removed from or superior to the less-educated, poorer rural folks with whom she had lived so long. Nor did possessions hold the meaning and importance they once had as evidenced by what she had given away after Alex had brought word of Yvette Brignand’s bridal plight. Geneviève had immediately sent her husband back to Soleyrols to tell Yvette to go into her trunk in the rafters of the Brignands’ barn and pick out and tailor as necessary whichever dress she wished for her wedding.

Even more startlingly, as a gesture of thanks for taking good care of Philippe, Geneviève had given her big diamond engagement ring to Edouard Ours’ fiancée. And Alex approved. The gesture impressed him.

Mostly encouraging news reached the Sauverins easily now but the war continued. Recently named “Reich Plenipotentiary for Total War,” Joseph Goebbels exhorted all Germans to fight with the utmost fanaticism, symbolized by a new “flying bomb” campaign.

When would the exiles be able to go home? Impossible to say. But they took heart after learning that the Belgian Parliament had met in a formal session in Brussels on the nineteenth of September—for the first time since May 1940.

Freedom brought out lots of emotions in the French. One local farmer—always a bit crazy—appeared under the windows of the Bastides’ little house to sing, “When you shit, you’re alive!” Whenever the Sauverins saw him coming down the path they hid in the Hugon barn until he left.

Tata Irene suffered frequent fits of deep personal sorrow despite the many distractions. As the war wound down throughout France she realized she might never know where her husband was, whether or not he was alive, or if she would ever see him again.

Sunday, September twenty-fourth, André and Ida once again joined Irene in a nearby meeting of the Society of Friends. André’s quest for peace not only in the world but in himself had been sorely tried by recent events, causing him to enter the meeting’s humble abode tremulously.

A dozen people were already seated quietly in a circle. André was impressed by the traveling pastor’s short introductory speech expressing gratitude for restoration of French autonomy and the end of immediate suffering. After reading several brief Bible passages aloud, the gentle pastor announced a period of silent worship.

This Quaker practice intrigued André most and in the event had the most significant impact on him. Though he had meditated on God in the past, no previous experience compared with the power he felt in this group’s shared deep concentration.

Before falling silent the pastor had encouraged everyone to speak freely if and as the spirit moved them. André listened dumbfounded to others speak without volition as if simple vessels God used to communicate the underlying unity of humankind and the universe’s quest for harmony, compassion, and generosity. Then the spirit spoke directly to André.

This is it,
he thought involuntarily.
We want the ability to think for ourselves, to worship as we will—to learn directly from the Lord, not always and only from a priest who reads his sermon or Bible passage as if it contained instructions for the week ahead. We must join together with those who also know there is no one path for faith, who seek to learn perpetually…

He had always hoped to find himself a ready receptacle for “inner light.” Seated amidst these humble, thoughtful devotees, he believed that what he had sought on what proved the miserable morning of May 10, 1940—the face of God—was finally within reach.

Back at Le Salson he tried to explain his experience to Denise and, daringly, Alex, who was unsurprisingly skeptical. Remarkably, though, his brother wasn’t entirely dismissive.

“We’ll see,” Alex said quietly. “We’ll see.”

André still hadn’t heard back from the Free University. More worryingly, Denise had written to many relatives in Belgium and received no response of any sort.

Nonetheless Wednesday, September twenty-seventh, was a day of celebration: Ida’s tenth birthday. Sadly Rose couldn’t be there. Unexpectedly, though, Max and Fela drove up on Max’s motorcycle and brought a big surprise: news that they would wed in October when Max hoped to get a three-day pass from the army.

That Max had joined the army was also news. After Celas he decided he couldn’t rest until the last Nazis were out of France. Soon he would leave the Cévennes to meet up with de Lattre de Tassigny’s army to serve in the medical corps.

The next day the mailman paid a rare extra visit. It wasn’t Monday but what he had in hand seemed so important he had gone out of his way to bring it before his next scheduled delivery.

“A letter for you,” he called out gaily to André, waving it in the air. “It’s from Brussels, Belgium, for a Professor Sauverin. Such an official-looking envelope. All typed up.”

André’s eyes opened wide when he saw the return address. He read over the letter quickly and smiled with deep satisfaction.

With a nod, a wave, and one last wink, the mailman said, “Good luck, Professor.”

Denise watched André carefully until he finally called out joyfully, “The Free University of Brussels is ready to reopen. They want me back!”

“When?” Denise asked encouragingly though she worried about the danger.

“As soon as I can return,” André declared, beaming. “Classes resume in mid-October.”

“Who tells you this? Alexander Pinkus?”

“No, not Pinkus. The faculty secretary.” André’s face fell. “I hope he’s all right. The letter’s quite explicit that Brussels still isn’t one hundred percent safe. What do you think?”

“I’m thinking of the children,” Denise said anxiously. “Should we stay on here while you go back? Oh, I would hate to be separated from you so soon again.” Denise threw her arms around him. “I would hate to be separated from you
ever
again!”

“I know, I know,” André said.

“How will Christel react to a place she doesn’t remember? How will Cristian respond to a place he’s never been?”

“One step at a time,” André counseled calmly. “We’ll talk. We’ll think.”

The adult Sauverins returned to Soleyrols and reunited with the Brignands in a flurry of hugs and kisses. Yvette showed her wedding dress, almost unrecognizable to Geneviève after the adjustments for Yvette’s slighter frame.

“Beautiful,” Albertine remarked repeatedly, caressing the dress. “So beautiful.”

“Yvette chose well,” Geneviève said, smiling.

Albertine insisted that after making a few repairs she would return it. But Geneviève wanted the Brignands to keep it.

“It has far more meaning for you than it ever had for me. Besides, I only wore it to parties and teas. I no longer think about such frivolities.”

Albertine pressed a meal upon the Sauverins. Afterward she accompanied them to the cemetery in Vialas to see Louis’s grave.

Everyone remarked on how well the grounds were kept. The Sauverins were overwhelmed with emotion and stunned to see a plain marble marker embedded in the ground where Louis had been laid four years before.

“We felt we must do something,” Albertine explained, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Quite a few of us contributed from both Soleyrols and Vialas.”

Standing side by side, sighing and misty-eyed, arms around each other’s waists for support, André, Denise, Alex, and Geneviève read the simple, moving inscription:

Louis Sauverin

1869–1940

Rest in peace here in this hospitable land

Visiting his father’s grave shook André and summed up his experience in the Cévennes: great losses in the midst of untold kindness. Was this what God intended for His children?

Day after day, reports from the front sounded optimistic (“Americans attack the Siegfried Line,” “RAF bombers destroy dikes in Holland, flooding German defenses,” “Allies sink German mini-submarines off the coast of the Scheldt,” “Heavy day and night raids rain death and destruction on Berlin”), but there were many reverses and it was discouraging to hear similar reports repeatedly. How often could the Allied Expeditionary Forces break out of Belgium into the Netherlands and the northern plains of Germany?

One afternoon while the adults sat inside and the children played outside, a shriek stopped all hearts, froze all thoughts.

“Christel!” Denise cried racing out. Everyone followed in her wake.

The accident resulted from Ida and Christel’s desire to help. André had offhandedly remarked in their presence that a large part of the ground near the spot the spring emerged from underground was perpetually wet, slippery, dangerous. Without telling anyone the sisters had gone off to find a large stone to plop into the mud so the spring water would run down onto it instead of flowing into the ground. Locating the perfect stone they had excitedly lifted it together. But while being awkwardly maneuvered into place it had slipped, dropping onto bent-over Christel’s thumb with a sickening thud, surprising and then frightening her with pain.

The bone was badly broken. Nothing could be done but to wash the finger and wrap it in a cloth to heal—a sad reminder that war wasn’t the only danger the family faced.