Topaz - Leon Uris [92]
Primitive ancient troglodyte houses built in the cliffsides were still used by the peasants during the grape-picking season.
Montrichard! The Hill of Richard the Lion-heart, named after the King of England who stopped there on his return from the Crusades.
These days it sat in sadness, for France had fallen.
The nation was divided in half. A few kilometers to the south of Montrichard, where the Cher flowed in its gentle course to Chenonceaux, there was now a border. Montrichard was in Occupied France. Beyond the border, a sham government of collaborators with the Germans had established its capital at Vichy and was led by the once honorable Marshal Pétain.
When France fell, André Devereaux was twenty years old and an apprentice lawyer in his father’s office. The elder Devereaux, a landholder of considerable means, was now the head of a long-honored family in the district.
The Château Devereaux stood on the west edge of town, on the road to the Castle of Chenonceaux, and consisted of twenty-eight rooms, modest as chateaux went in that area.
Life was orderly. As the only son, André lived in preparation to assuming the family responsibilities in an area no longer given to upheaval.
The only thing that marred this pastoral existence was the sudden, tragic death of André’s mother which orphaned him as an infant. It was an automobile accident for which his father took the blame and an overwhelming burden of guilt.
As a sensitive boy, the longing for his mother, complicated by his father’s self punishment, set off a conflict of emotions.
Some two months after the fall of France, André looked up from his desk late one morning to see his best friend, Robert Proust.
Robert’s behavior seemed strange and nervous.
“What goes?” André asked.
“Could you come to lunch at La Tête Noire?”
“Certainly.”
“There is someone I want you to meet.”
“What’s so mysterious?”
“You’ll see.”
Later, at La Tête Noire Restaurant, Robert led André to a secluded table. There sat a lean, handsome young man in his early twenties. He was introduced as Jacques Granville from the nearby town of Blois. Jacques had been an officer during the fighting, but had escaped capture and returned to his home.
“Robert said you are an old friend,” Jacques said, uncorking the wine.
“Yes,” André answered. “We went to the school at Pont-Levoy Abbey together.”
Jacques poured the wine. “We are all schoolmates then. It is my school, too.”
Robert Proust, a small, plain, shy fellow, sipped the wine nervously. “Jacques, Monsieur Granville, has many connections in Blois to ... help people.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Robert here said I could speak freely with you.”
“But of course.”
“We are helping Jews,” Robert said.
“What do you mean, helping them?”
“I am half-Jewish, as you know,” Robert said.
“I never really thought about it,” André answered.
“Things are getting difficult, very difficult, for the Jews in Occupied France. The Germans are no-good bastards. First, public humiliation. Now their property, beatings. God knows what next. Many of the Jews in Occupied France are trying to cross the border into Vichy France. We are establishing an underground railroad.”
“Why?”
“They are Frenchmen,” Jacques Granville said eagerly, “and they are in trouble. Other Frenchmen are turning on them as things grow more difficult.”
“That’s disgraceful,” André said.
“Robert suggested I see you because I understand your father owns several farms along the Cher River.”
“Yes.”
“Would you be willing to help Jews?”
“Of course,” André answered without hesitation.
Proust and Granville drew deep breaths, exchanged looks. Jacques leaned forward on his elbows. “It could be dangerous business.”
“The Germans can go to hell. I hate them,” André said. “What do you need of me?”
“Can the tenant farmers on your father’s farms be trusted?”
André mulled. “We have four small farms on the Cher. Two of the men I would vouch