IT WAS STRANGE SEEING WIDOW HORCADA SITTING in their kitchen with Grandpère fussing around her. She and Maman were polite to each other but no more than that. She listened intently as Papa told her the plan. When it was over she sat back in her chair and wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. It seems to me the more people you tell the greater the risk that someone will talk, and you want to tell everyone.’
‘But don’t you see, Alice,’ said Grandpère, ‘everyone has to know, we need them to know, else they won’t all come to the concert will they? And how else are we going to find enough clothes for the children, eh? Then we’ve got to find a place for them to sleep the night before and a family to look after them on the way up to the hut; and they’ve all got to act like they know the children. It just won’t work unless everyone knows.’
‘I know all that,’ said the Widow. ‘But can they all be trusted? Can you be sure of them, of every one of them? Madame Soulet? Armand Jollet?’ No one answered. She went on. ‘All you need is one of them to take fright, and after all, they’ll know what’ll happen to them if they’re caught.’
‘You knew,’ said Maman quickly, ‘and so did Jo and so did Grandpère. It didn’t stop any of you doing what was right, did it?’ The Widow looked at her sharply. ‘No one’s going to give them away,’ Maman went on, ‘because if they did they’d know it wouldn’t be just the children in the cave who would suffer, it would be all of us – the whole of the village, everyone they’ve grown up with, all of us.’
‘That’s the beauty of it, Alice,’ said Grandpère. ‘Don’t you see? We’re all in it together, sink or swim. That’s why everyone has to be part of it; and they’ll want to be too when they hear about the children. There’s some good folk in this village and they’ll bring the others along with them.’
‘They’ll be frightened,’ said Maman, ‘like I was when Grandpère told me all about Jo and you and those children up in the cave; and I’ll tell you something else, I’m still frightened, but I know it has to be done and so will they. They’ll do it, you’ll see.’
Widow Horcada smiled at Maman and chuckled. ‘You’ve got some spirit in you, girl,’ she said, ‘more than you ever let on, eh?’ Jo had never heard his mother so forthright, so determined.
‘Well,’ Papa said. ‘Do we do it or don’t we? We can’t stay talking about it for ever.’
The Widow Horcada looked at him steadily and took a deep breath. ‘We do it,’ she said, ‘and may God help us.’
‘Amen,’ said Grandpère.
They spent the next hour or so compiling a list of names. ‘We’ve got to see every single one of them,’ said Papa. ‘Monsieur Sarthol first, then Father Lasalle. If he won’t help us out with the concert, then we’ll have to call it off anyway; and then Monsieur Audap to see if he’ll let the children off school on Monday. We need the children, more than anyone we need the children, all of them.’
Father Lasalle announced the concert during Mass. Everyone had been told about it by now and was expecting it, except for the soldiers of course. Looking directly at Lieutenant Weissmann and the dozen or so soldiers sitting with him Father Lasalle spoke with his usual intoning drone but also with the authority of a man who was used to commanding attention. ‘For three months every summer,’ he said, ‘our small community loses many of its men folk. As we all know, on Monday next begins the great exodus, the transhumance, the beginning of months of solitude and hard work. In Lescun it has always been thus. Now I have lived here amongst you for most of my life, long enough to know that some of these men might want to spend their last evening in the café, and that is something I would not wish to deny them even if I could. So by all means go to the café; but I want everyone, and I do mean everyone, to come here to the church afterwards.’ Jo was looking along the pew towards the soldiers; he wanted to watch their faces for any flicker of disbelief. The Corporal leaned forward and winked at him and Jo looked away quickly.
‘Vanity, vanity saith the preacher, all is vanity,’ said Father Lasalle smiling broadly and putting his hand on his heart, ‘and I confess freely to a great vanity. As you know, for many long hours I sit alone at the organ here in the church and I practise. I have been practising some of the greatest organ music ever written and it was written by a German too, one Johann Sebastian Bach. But for a musician practise is not enough. I must perform. My music must be heard. From time to time in the past I have given recitals and so tonight, to mark the eve of the transhumance I will be giving you one of my short concerts, and I want all of you here, a gathering of the entire community, every man, woman and child. No child is ever too young for Bach.’ He leaned forward over the pulpit, his eyes raking the pews, his finger pointing. ‘And you can be sure I shall know if you’re not here.’ There was some laughter at that. And then he spoke directly to Lieutenant Weissmann. ‘The music, as I have said, will be German, Lieutenant. I know how fond you are of Bach and since it was written to glorify the God of both our peoples, you and your men will be most welcome. Catholic and Protestant, all will be welcome. Indeed, Lieutenant, I will be most disappointed if the entire German garrison is not here. Can I count on you, Lieutenant?’ The Lieutenant nodded, smiling. ‘That is kind of you, Lieutenant. I shall reserve seats for you. The concert will begin at eight o’clock and so it should be over well before curfew.’ It was a masterly performance.
Father Lasalle’s concerts were rarely well attended. That evening though the church was as full as Jo had ever seen it. But by five to eight the German soldiers had still not arrived. Jo sat next to Maman, her hand squeezing his. He squeezed back to reassure and be reassured. They would come, they had to come. Christine sat on the other side of her, thumb in her mouth, her legs swinging. The church was silent with expectation, not a murmur, not a cough. Jo turned and craned his neck. Still nothing. Maman pulled on his hand and he turned back again. The bells groaned in the tower and struck eight o’clock. Father Lasalle emerged from the vestry and looked at the empty pews where the soldiers should have been. He seemed uncertain what to do. At that moment the Lieutenant strode in, cap under his arm, the soldiers trooping in behind him. The sigh of relief was almost audible. Jo counted them in as Father Lasalle took his seat at the organ. Twenty-two. They were all there. Last to take their seats were the Mayor and Hubert. As they sat down in front of Jo he heard the doors close behind him.
The first piping notes sounded out through the church. Jo shivered, whether through pleasure or relief he did not know. From where he sat he could just see Father Lasalle’s head rocking back and forth and the back of his heels stepping neatly across the foot pedals. Even the smallest children, Christine amongst them, were immediately absorbed in the music. Hubert was lost in it, his mouth open, his head nodding, but Jo found he could not keep his eye off the clock. He knew they needed at least an hour to be sure, an hour without soldiers in the streets, a clear hour to bring the children down from the cave and to hide them away in their allotted houses. Jo ventured a look at the Corporal. He was gazing up at the roof and his fingers were tapping out the rhythm on his knees.
At long last nine o’clock struck in horrible disharmony with the organ. Father Lasalle played on. There was a certain amount of shuffling and coughing now as people became more uncomfortable and the music too repetitive to hold their attention. Jo glanced across at Lieutenant Weissmann who was looking at his watch and whispering to the Corporal beside him. The Corporal shrugged his shoulders and smiled and then took out his handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘Keep going, Father,’ Jo said to himself. ‘Keep going, keep going.’
Hubert was fidgetting now and looking around the church through his binoculars until his father put a firm hand on his wrist and pulled his arm downwards. Hubert was not so easily deterred. Much to everyone’s amusement he trained his binoculars on Father Lasalle and then on each of the soldiers in turn.
It was not far short of half past nine when the music built to a final crescendo leaving the church filled with a throbbing silence. The Mayor and Hubert led the enthusiastic applause and Father Lasalle came out to take his bows. He held up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m afraid it lasted a little longer than I expected,’ he said. ‘Good night and God bless you.’ Lieutenant Weissmann shook his hand and then came over to talk to the Mayor who nodded and turned to the audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘The Lieutenant has asked me to say that curfew is extended by half an hour tonight to allow us to get home at our ease. He asks us all to be home by ten o’clock.’
Jo danced his way through the crowd outside the porch and ran all the way home. He found Papa and Grandpère sitting at the kitchen table. Grandpère was pouring wine. ‘Are they here?’ he said.
‘Up in the hayloft,’ said Grandpère, ‘all three of them.’
‘Did you get them all?’ said Jo.
‘All of them,’ said Papa, ‘and they’re all where they should be. We did it in under the hour.’
Jo climbed the ladder at the back of the barn and pushed open the loft door. ‘Jo?’ It was Benjamin’s voice whispering out of the darkness. ‘Is that you, Jo?’
‘It’s me,’ he said, and he hauled himself up into the loft.
‘Léah’s fast asleep,’ said Benjamin, and in the darkness Jo could just make her out curled up tight against him, an arm thrown around his knee.
‘I’m not.’ It was Michael crawling towards them through the hay. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I brought you this.’ He was trying to thrust something into Jo’s hand. ‘It’s something you always wanted,’ he said. ‘Something you could never win. Squeeze it,’ he said, ‘and it’ll bring you luck.’ It was a chess piece, a white queen.
‘I’ve told him, Jo,’ said Benjamin. ‘I’ve told him that for tomorrow he’s your brother. And do you know what he told me, this horrible boy, he said if you were his brother he’d have taught you to play chess a lot better than you do.’
And then Jo saw Benjamin’s face silhouetted for a moment against the window behind him. ‘You cut your beard off,’ said Jo.
‘Your father’s orders.’ Benjamin stroked his chin. ‘If you want to be taken for a native, he said, then you’ve got to look like one. It seems there’s not many people round here with a red beard, so off it had to come. I feel a bit naked without it, a bit cold too. Still, it’ll grow again. It had better do, hadn’t it, or Anya won’t recognise me when she sees me.’
‘You’re staying behind then,’ said Jo.
‘Yes,’ said Benjamin. ‘I’ll see them safely over the border and then I’ll come back.’ He put his arm around him. ‘Jo,’ he said, ‘I feel surer than ever that somehow Anya will find her way here. You remember what I said to you a while back when I hurt my ankle, when the snows came and it all looked hopeless? You remember what I said? I said “Wait and pray”. Well we waited and we prayed and here we are. This time tomorrow, God willing, the children will be in Spain and they’ll be safe at last. So I shall wait up in the cave for Anya, and I shall pray.’
When Jo went down to the kitchen they were all there and Papa was crouching down in front of Christine and holding her hands. There was an edge of impatience in his voice. ‘Forget about the donkey, Christine, just remember – stay with Jo. You clap your hands when he does, and you chase the sheep like Rouf does, and if anyone asks you’ve got a big sister called Léah and a big brother called Michael. Do you understand now?’
‘But I haven’t got a big sister,’ she said, ‘and my big brother’s called Jo.’
Papa gave up and Maman took his place. ‘It’s pretend, Christine,’ she said. ‘Just for tomorrow you’ve got a pretend sister and she’s called Léah and you’ve got a pretend brother and he’s called Michael and you’ve got to look after them, no squabbling.’
‘But can I ride the donkey?’ she said and everyone had to laugh.
When she’d gone up to bed Papa stretched out in his chair and Grandpère lit his last cigarette of the day – he always had a ‘last one’, usually several of them, before he went to bed. ‘Some people,’ he said, ‘are so predictable. You know what Armand Jollet said when I told him? He said he ought to be compensated – compensated! You know what he said? He said, “If I go with you I’ll have to close up the shop for a whole day and that’ll cost me”, and his chins shook like an agitated turkey. You should’ve seen him.’
‘Money,’ said Maman, ‘it’s all that man ever thinks of.’
‘I’ve never really talked much to the schoolmaster, that Monsieur Audap,’ said Papa. ‘Always thought he was a strange fish. But he’s not. He’s a fine man. When I told him all about it and asked him about giving the children a day off school, he thought for a moment and I was sure he was going to refuse. He always looks such a miserable old so-and-so. Do you know what he said, Jo? He said the children would likely learn more in that one day than he could teach them in a lifetime. “Nothing’s important unless it stays with you,” that’s what he said; “and no matter what happens, none of us,” he said, “none of us is ever likely to forget tomorrow”.’
Jo did not even try to sleep that night, he knew it would be pointless. His mind went over the plan again and again. He tried to visualise it as the soldiers would see it. Would it all look normal to them? Would they notice all the extra children in amongst the animals? Would they catch a glimpse of Benjamin’s face and know him for a stranger? He could almost convince himself that it was going to work, that the Germans would see only what they were supposed to see: but as the night wore on a terrible doubt kept recurring. It was something the Corporal had told him a long time ago. He’d come from a village in the mountains, in Bavaria, ‘just like Lescun,’ he’d said. Well, Jo thought, if it was a lot like Lescun then he’d know that you don’t need dozens and dozens of children to drive the animals, he’d know you can do the job with a few men and a couple of dogs and he’d know too that the flocks and herds were moved out separately and not in one great, chaotic bunch. The more Jo saw it through the Corporal’s eyes the more he worried, and by dawn a multitude of nagging doubts had eclipsed his hopes. He faced the day ahead with a deep dread welling inside him.
At breakfast he recognised the same anxiety in Maman’s eyes. Papa and Grandpère were still arguing on and on about who would be best to stay with the children in the hut and guide them over the mountains. Grandpère said that he was fitter, that Papa’s coughing could give them away. Papa said he was younger and that anyway he knew the mountains better. At one point they were going to do it together, but Maman would have none of that. She said it was silly for two of them to take the risk of getting caught. In the end it was Papa who had his way.
Léah and Michael looked awkward in their country clothes. They ate ravenously and in silence. Christine just stared at them and refused to eat her breakfast. ‘Time to go, I think,’ said Papa. Benjamin finished his coffee and stood up.
‘Monsieur, Madame,’ he said, ‘I hardly know you, but before we leave I want to thank you and through you all the people of this village for what you have done and what you are about to do. What has happened here in this little place, whether it succeeds or whether it fails, is evidence enough, if any were needed, that no one will ever suppress the power for good, for compassion in the hearts of men and women. I have one regret though, that my little Anya is not yet here. But when she comes I shall tell her, I shall tell her often so that she can tell her children. Such things should not be forgotten. And now if you will allow me I will say a prayer. It is the last prayer we Jews say before we leave the Synagogue.’ He closed his eyes. ‘And the Lord shall be king over all the earth. In that day shall the Lord be one and His name be one.’
Rouf lay stretched out like a carpet by the stove with Léah crouched beside him stroking the top of his head. She leaned over and kissed him.
‘Jo,’ said Papa. ‘You’d better wake that dog up. We can’t move those sheep without him.’ Jo whistled and Rouf woke, a look of resignation on his face. He yawned noisily and Léah laughed and sat back on her haunches as he stretched, shook himself awake, and then led them outdoors into the yard.
The streets were already full of sheep noise, a cacophony of bells and bleating and, claiming a bass line in the raucous choir, the cows bellowed and the donkeys brayed. The first flock came past them, Laurent driving them with his stick. He was leading a heavily laden donkey that stepped daintily over the cobbles. He winked at Jo as he passed and grinned. He was enjoying every minute of it. He had two of the cave children with him. They looked for all the world just like the village children around them. Like them they carried switches and sticks, like them they whistled and shouted and clapped. Two more flocks and a herd of cows came by, and Jo counted at least another five children from the cave.
Now it was their turn. Hubert was sitting on the wall laughing and pointing as they gathered up the sheep in the yard. Jo shouted to him to open the gate and he began to flap his arms and whistle. Michael followed his example at once with uninhibited enthusiasm. When Benjamin too turned shepherd Léah seemed to warm to the idea and joined in as well. As he left the yard Jo turned and waved to Grandpère and Papa – they’d be coming on behind with the pigs and the donkey.
By the time they reached the Square Jo saw that the flocks had bunched together and every street leading into it was thick with sheep and cattle. The noise was deafening, an incessant chorus of animals punctuated with whooping and whistling and barking. Jo saw a sheep burst through the front door of Monsieur Sarthol’s house, a dog went in after it. Jo never saw what happened for his eye was taken by something far more worrying. Three soldiers, one of them the Corporal, were standing on top of the wall by the war memorial and watching everything that passed through the Square below them. Jo looked away quickly and whooped even louder at the sheep. A cow was rubbing itself against the corner of the café and the soldiers were laughing. Benjamin was keeping his head down as Papa had suggested he should, but to Jo his shepherding looked somehow forced and stiff. And then he felt Léah clutching his arm. She had seen the soldiers and was looking up at them, her eyes wide with terror. The Corporal was looking right at her and the sheep would not move on. There was nothing Jo could do. There were sheep behind him, sheep in front of him, sheep all about him. The Corporal had let himself down off the wall and was scrutinising them closely. He had noticed something – Jo was sure of it.
Why Hubert chose that moment to perform Jo never knew but he pushed his way through the sheep and began to leap up and down like a wild thing; and then raising his arms in the air he growled at the sheep like a bear. The Corporal pointed and laughed and the other soldiers laughed with him. Hubert saw it and performed his bear act again, but with redoubled vigour. All around him the sheep panicked. They pushed and shoved and jumped over each other and at last the great flock began to move again up past the baker’s shop. Jo slipped around the back of Léah, ostensibly to chase a sheep, but this way he’d be between her and the soldiers so that she could not see them and they could not see her. He dared not venture another look at the soldiers until they’d left the Square behind them. When he did turn round the Corporal was looking straight at him. Jo turned away quickly and played shepherd again.
So the chaotic cavalcade wound its way slowly out of the village and up towards the hills beyond. They could see the circle of mountains ahead of them. All around him Jo could see and feel the exhilaration and relief. The ruse had surely worked. The cave children had passed undetected under the nose of the Germans. The worst must be over. Even Rouf seemed to sense the triumph. He was chasing his tail and he only did that these days when he was high with happiness. But Jo could not share in the general elation. He could think only of the patrols they might meet before they reached the high pastures and the hut; but worse he could not get out of his head that the Corporal had guessed what they were up to. There had been a look in his eye – he was certain of it – a knowing look. ‘We must make it look like a fête, a holiday,’ Papa had said. ‘We don’t hurry it, we enjoy it.’ And so they did. They reached the plateau by lunchtime. They picnicked by the stream and the animals browsed hungrily in the lush grass. They did not wander far because they did not need to.
It was proving almost impossible to keep the cave children away from each other. Benjamin spent his time persuading them to stay with their newly adopted families, but in spite of all he could do they seemed always to gravitate to each other again. It wasn’t that the language was a barrier between them and the village children – after all some of the cave children were French – but there seemed to be an instinctive reserve that kept them apart.
It was only when Hubert appeared lumbering across the stream, four children clinging to his back, that they all found a mutual source of fun that brought cave children and village children together. Hubert, the great giant, had to be hauled down and held down and it took almost all of them to do it. In the pile of children on top of him they were all allies in the one cause. Michael and Laurent clung to the same leg and were shaken off. They rolled away together giggling before returning once more to the fray.
The afternoon climb was slow. It was steep now, up along narrow, tortuous tracks, where the sheep could only move in single file. The pigs hated climbing and were forever trying to wander off, and the cows too had had enough of it now. For many of the children the adventure had lost its early magic. Their legs ached, their feet hurt, and many of them had to ride. Every donkey now – every horse – was carrying at least one child. Christine insisted on sharing a donkey with Léah. Michael’s leg had lasted well until he stumbled and fell. He limped on for a bit until Hubert noticed him. He led Michael to a rock and crouched down in front of it. Michael climbed on and rode Hubert all the way up.
And so they came at long last to the high pastures, the horses first, then the sheep, the cows and last of all the reluctant pigs; and in amongst them all the hundred or so men, women and children who had brought them there. They lay down, man and beast, side by side, in silent exhaustion. They drank from the spring by the hut or from the stream that flowed from it. Michael and Jo cupped their hands in the spring and drank until they could drink no more. When Jo looked up the cave children were already being led towards the hut. ‘Come on,’ said Jo and they stood up.
‘Is that Spain over there?’ said Michael looking up at the peaks.
‘That’s Spain,’ said Jo. They parted at the door of the hut.
‘Don’t lose my queen will you?’ said Michael, and he went into the hut with the others.
When Jo turned round Benjamin was standing in front of him, Léah at his side. ‘I’ll be seeing you later then, Jo,’ he said. Léah reached up and kissed him on the cheek. And then she was gone. He heard Papa’s voice from inside the hut. ‘Is that all of them? Have you counted them in?’
‘That’s all of them,’ said Benjamin. ‘All we’ve got to do now is wait until dark.’
Papa emerged from the hut and closed the door. ‘You’d better get back down the mountain,’ he said, and then his mouth fell open. He was looking over Jo’s shoulder. Jo turned. Coming out of the trees were three soldiers. Everyone had seen them now. No one moved. No one said a word. There was no doubt about it, the one in front was the Corporal.