In This Hospitable Land (19 page)

“That’s where we can keep all the foodstuffs we’ll need on a daily basis,” André said.

Then came two bedrooms, each containing an ancient armoire, tall and severe, and a large wood-framed bed covered with a canvas mattress filled with old straw. In the middle bedroom an extra bed had been improvised with two chairs facing each other to support a number of boards.

“I suppose the children will have to sleep here two to a bed,” Denise said.

“Not ideal but it might suffice,” André suggested.

Last and largest was the common room: kitchen, dining room, living room, and playroom in one. The kitchen part, running along a section of the back of the house nestled into the hillside, featured a long refectory table and a sideboard that had stood in place since the 1700s. The wooden chairs had seats of canvas or straw and reeds. Most had holes in them.

“Two of us can sleep here. Again not ideal,” André said, “but if we can make do…”

The only source of heat was an open fireplace in the common room—a huge space lined with large stones, with a great mantel above it and a solid chimney venting into the sky. The fireplace was the only place to cook food or heat water in kettles hung on a metal rod stretched above the fire.

“We can get a woodstove too,” André recommended. “Perhaps Alex can have Lucien Mauriac look into it or Alex might find one himself in Florac.”

Denise lingered in the back of the kitchen, looking.

“There’s no running water,” André answered before she could ask. “We’ll have to use chamber pots.”

Not ideal.
But Denise understood they couldn’t have everything. She didn’t even mind that there were no window curtains since privacy was not an issue with no near neighbors. Besides she would be able to purchase material in Vialas to sew curtains of her own for some domestic warmth in the otherwise primitive setting.

“It’s one of the very few farms with electricity,” André said encouragingly. “At least we can have a little light at night. Maybe we can even get a radio.”

After long thought Denise said, “I think this will be all right for most of us. But I’m concerned for Louis and Rose. It’s quite a trek up the hillside.”

“I thought that too,” André said grinning. “But here’s a solution: the little house across from the café. The Brignands have agreed to let us use it rent-free—their contribution to the struggle of refugees like us. It’s just two rooms, but I think my parents will be happy there. It’s level with the road. It already has a woodstove for heat and cooking.” He looked at Denise and said quietly, “Of all the places I’ve seen, this is the largest and most remote. Hopefully we’ll not be obvious to the Vichy authorities or the Germans.”

Denise smiled and nodded her head in agreement.

Looking around they were silent, each lost in their own thoughts, until someone outside called out, “Hallo!” Gustave Chatrey pushed open the door. A gnarled, grizzled older gentleman, he was no longer interested in working the slopes of La Font or gathering the plentiful chestnuts. These days he found living in the village far more agreeable and was pleased to think someone might make the farm productive again.

“We’d like to rent your place,” indicated André.

“I am a hunter of long habit,” Gustave Chatrey responded. “Of rabbits and pheasants and the occasional deer. I ask only for the game. And you must give me half the apples and chestnuts you gather as is the tradition. Agreed?”

André asked, “How much do you think that will be? What quantity?”

“Between twenty and twenty-five hundred kilos,” Gustave allowed. “That’s what we used to collect anyway.”

“Is that the apples and the chestnuts?” André asked.

“Just the chestnuts.”

“And is that the whole or half?”

“No, no, that’s all of it.” The old farmer saw André’s troubled expression. “It’s some work without doubt. But you’ll see it’s possible. I’ve done it.”

Gustave showed them his hands rough and calloused from decades of hard work.

André gave Denise a look as if to say,
The quantity of chestnuts is fantastic, all to be picked by hand.
Denise tried to answer also with her eyes,
We must do what we must do and you know how hard I’ll work to help you!

“Naturally,” Gustave added, “the property must be cared for. But the first year at least I can help you. I’ll show you the best way to pick the chestnuts and dry them.”

As he described the age-old drying process, Denise foresaw the demanding labor that lay ahead.
But,
she thought,
La Font is available and viable. It can be made to meet our needs and André believes it’s the best we’ll find.

Gustave repeated his willingness to help get them started, smiled and held out his hand.

Very briefly André turned a questioning glance on his wife. She replied with a quick nod of agreement, encouragement, and reassurance.

André took Gustave’s hand and said, “We’ll take it.”

The old farmer grunted and gave André’s hand a hard but friendly squeeze.

“Good,” he said warmly. “The pact is made.”

Walking home after church, Lucien Mauriac tried not to think about ongoing air battles between the Luftwaffe and the RAF. The loss of so many fighter planes was almost unimaginable but the loss of human life troubled him more deeply. Those numbers too continued to rise. To distract himself he called to mind the astonishing discovery by four schoolboys of wall paintings thought to be ten thousand years old at the Cave of Lascaux. Shouldn’t the people of the world concentrate on preserving such cultural marvels rather than destroying everything humankind had struggled across countless millennia to create?

Passing the Porfile place he was startled by a piercing shriek. Geneviève was chopping logs to fit inside the woodstove and the wedge holding the steel head onto the shaft came out, letting the ax head fly into her leg. Blood flowed copiously as she sat on the ground in shock.

“Alex,” she called weakly.

The mayor of Bédouès couldn’t tell if she was aware he was standing there. Alex came on the run from the other side of the house and the two men stooped to help her.

“You certainly didn’t miss—your leg I mean,” Lucien said lightly.

“I suppose you’ve seen cut legs before,” Geneviève said flatly, without amusement.

Turning to Alex, Lucien quietly told him they must stem the blood loss quickly.

“I’ll take care of that,” Geneviève announced. She pulled off the scarf tying back her hair and the mayor helped her bind her leg clumsily, trying to tighten the scarf enough to staunch the flow without cutting off all circulation.

As he and Alex helped Geneviève hobble toward the house, blood spurted from the sodden material and Geneviève fell into a swoon. Lucien supported her while Alex clasped his hands tightly around the leg. The scarf slipped to Geneviève’s ankle, leaving the gaping wound exposed to dirt. The cut’s red, fleshy edges throbbed with the pulse of pumping blood vessels.

The mayor held Geneviève under the arms. Alex lifted her legs, pressing the scarf against the wound. They carried her into the kitchen area and set her down carefully on a short bench.

“It really doesn’t hurt,” Geneviève said, amazed and bewildered.

“She needs a doctor,” Alex said.

Geneviève chuckled a low chuckle. “You don’t believe in doctors.”

“There is no doctor in Bédouès,” Lucien said anxiously. “Or even in Florac anymore. Because of the war. They’re all away, in hiding or forbidden to practice by law.”

“What does the big book of homeopathy say?” Geneviève asked.

“I think she’s delirious from blood loss,” the mayor said softly to Alex.

“We need to wash out the wound,” Alex said. Positioning Geneviève’s hand to hold the scarf in place he went to the sink for soap and a pan of water. “Is there any medicine available?” he asked the mayor as he bathed the wound gently.

“I’m afraid not,” Lucien replied, impressed by Geneviève’s bravery.

“Then I’ll have to use some wine to disinfect the leg,” Alex fretted.

“I hope not good wine!” Lucien joked as Alex fetched a bottle. Geneviève still didn’t smile.

After the application of wine and a fresh clean cloth the men carried Geneviève to bed.

“Now you are truly one of us,” the mayor said sympathetically. “You’ll see: even without stitches or medicine your body will recover with its own natural powers. Just like ours.”

“Oh that’s nice,” Geneviève said, beginning to drift away. “Funny. It hardly bothers me at all. And I’m glad of the excuse to get some rest.”

Alex’s night was long but Geneviève’s was longer. Katie had a hard time too, calling her father several times for reassurance her mother would recover. Alex was only grateful that Philippe—still too young to understand fully—slept in a blissful peace.

In morning’s first light Alex examined Geneviève’s bandage. White oozed around it.

Roused by increasing pain, Geneviève whispered, “It’s not doing so well.”

Alex unwrapped the cloth. Red streaks showed above the wide-open, festering wound.

Geneviève was afraid to look. Hovering by the bedroom door, Katie couldn’t wait to see—until she really did. Catching the merest glimpse of the bloody cloth, Katie blanched.

“I don’t feel so well,” Geneviève confessed. “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.”

“Just stay still and rest,” Alex counseled tenderly. “I’m going to see if anybody in the village knows anything about medicine.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Geneviève responded weakly. “I’m not going anyplace.”

If only Geneviève had said that with a hint of humor.

Alex asked Katie to stay with her brother. “Don’t leave the house. Or stay out front.”

“Yes, Papy,” Katie replied, impressed by the gravity of the situation.

“That’s a good big girl. Be sure to listen for your mother. Bring her anything she wants.”

“I’m just going to try to sleep,” Geneviève said. “Maybe that will help.”

She drifted off again without another word.

Alex did not return until the sun began casting shadows into the valley.

“Oh, Papy!” Katie called as soon as he appeared. “Maman is not good. But she says she’ll be happy again when you get back.”

“Well, I’m here,” he said comfortingly, giving Katie a kiss on the cheek and Philippe a pat on the head. Then he hurried into the bedroom.

Geneviève was moaning softly and twisting uncomfortably, using her unaffected leg to try to change position and ease the pressure on the injured one. Alex had tied another clean rag around the wound but that rag had long since soaked through. The yellowish pus of infection seeped around it.

Alex felt Geneviève’s feverish forehead. When she opened her half-lidded eyes more fully, they were rheumy and red.

“I’m glad to see you back,” she said hoarsely.

“I tried to find a doctor but Lucien was right. I did find some alcohol—cognac—better than wine for bathing the wound and getting rid of the infection.”

Geneviève smiled a vague half-smile. “I don’t know whether that will do the trick but at least it will smell better than the wound.”

Alex unwrapped the leg again, tipped the neck of the bottle over the cut, and drizzled a little dark liquid up and down the wound. Geneviève clutched the bed as the alcohol burned into the infected area. Tears sprang from her eyes as she cried out in a tiny high-pitched whine that caused Alex to stop pouring. He blew gently on the leg, hoping to ease the impact of the liquid still running into and around the exposed flesh.