The Dawn: Volume I

By Debra Milligan

The year is 1940. France falls. The battle for liberation begins, covertly and within the minds and hearts of French patriots. The Battle for France will one day begin, but the fight for freedom, that endless quest for liberty, is well underway.

Resistance, in all of its forms, will take on the very meaning of life as ordinary citizens smuggle Jewish orphans out of France; print clandestine newspapers; and undertake reconnaissance, armed engagement, and sabotage against the enemy. The fierce need of the human will for liberty is pitted against the tyrannies of evil, and the battle for freedom is joined.

Set within the myriad landscapes of wartime France and England, THE DAWN is the story of a French aristocrat, a U.S. Army colonel, and the woman they love. It is a tale of treachery and timeless heroism. THE DAWN chronicles the unforgettable dramas of the dark years in France, 1940-1944.

The story unfolds like the forbidden Tricolore against the backdrop of war, death, love, birth, history, and the illusion of peace.

The major characters are:

Camille Richarde:

Those two spheres of her life in Roussillon, overt and covert, public and secret, legal and illegal, created a balance within this Frenchwoman that greatly aided her in adjusting to life in Provence. Camille quickly forgot the calibrated existence that she’d left behind in Paris. The exigencies of life in Roussillon filled her with more than lists in her mind of things to do. They filled her days and nights with meaning, this profound sense of fulfillment which had theretofore eluded her. Camille began to see that a life filled with activity suggests purpose, but busyness can conceal emptiness within.

Guillaume de Vallon:

He therefore took his first tentative steps away from the life of a French aristocrat. He only vaguely perceived before him the passage which extended, like a huge, open hand of freedom. He knew that he could say nothing of these ominous visions and misty reveries to anyone. In time, he would speak to Camille of the truths that moved him now with defiance, duty, and a degree of despondence. For the present, Guillaume understood that this Frenchwoman and child formed the unspoken nucleus of his new life. Shelter them he would, or he would fail miserably at all that he sought to achieve with his new life, this embryo of self just hours old.

Arthur Carmichael:

His essence bespoke a dignity, a grace, a formal masculinity that was as magnetic as it was magnetizing . . .
Artur marched with his boots as if the path before him was preordained. The certitude and calm assurance of his movements soothed this woman, even as they seduced her. She had never walked beside anyone, and especially a man, who evinced this much purpose and decisiveness, but whose resolve was wrapped in velvet. He was a man of strong will, determination, and dominance. He could also be gentle. To Camille, his kindness and patience signified that his passions ran deep. She also sensed that his will was even stronger since it was capable of bending or, if need be, being bent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debra Milligan
• Release date: Sep 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476247038

Debra Milligan

Debra Milligan is a novelist, essayist, poet, and short story writer. She is fluent in French and has varied interests in the fine arts, architecture, history of all kinds, music, horses, hounds, the Golden Age of Hollywood, quilting, fashion, and gardening.

Book preview

The Dawn

Volume I

By Debra Milligan

Copyright 2012 Debra Milligan

Smashwords Edition

Cover design Copyright 2012

DigitalDonna.com

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your very own copy.

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Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Book One – Camille

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Book Two – Arthur

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Book Three – Guillaume

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Book Four – Operation Nottingham

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

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DEDICATION

To my wonderfully loving husband and children

And in loving memory to Bootsie

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This novel is in memory of A.E. Claeyssens; Astere Evarist Claeyssens, Jr.; Professor Claeyssens; Claey.

He was my professor, editor, mentor, and advisor during my years at the George Washington University. Although these facets of his life were unknown to me at that time, Claey was one of the unknown warriors and one of the unsung heroes of World War II. Professor Claeyssens was also a much-decorated soldier of that war. Long before he taught me the craft of writing, the art of fiction, the boldness and beauty of editing, and the mastery of my voice, he triumphed as a silent hero of America, of France, and of liberty.

Il vit pour toujours dans la mémoire.

This novel is also in acknowledgement of Madame Antoinette Washburn for training me in the disciplined art of speaking Parisian French; and of Professeur Jean-François Thibault for his unparalleled love of French language and literature; the fine arts; the correspondence among the arts; and my still beloved Analyze de Texte.

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BOOK ONE – CAMILLE

CHAPTER 1

The gray blue skies above Paris were filled with rain. A black-haired man knocked on the door of a first-floor appartement located adjacent to the Bois de Boulogne in the 16th arrondissement. It was six thirty in the morning on the fifteenth of May 1940. Dawn had broken ominously with shadows of clouds, more than clouds themselves.

A slender woman with chestnut brown hair opened the door.

Guillaume? Her voice was softly husky, tinged with fear, filled with confusion.

Bonjour, Camille. May I come in?

The woman pulled her red silk bathrobe tighter around her bodice. Oui.

She stepped aside. The man strode into the vestibule, carrying two stacks of newspapers. He set the stacks down on the hardwood floor. The woman closed the door, and clicked the lock. She stared at the back of the head of the man, and she felt a sudden rush of emotion, akin to apprehension but tinged with desire.

Why are you here, Guillaume? The eyes of this Frenchwoman moved from his face to the stacks of newspapers. "Have you gotten that newsprint from Le Figaro?"

Guillaume turned around to this woman a bit too quickly. Camille backed away from him and in doing so she sat down on a settee in the vestibule. Guillaume looked down at her. Tears filled his light blue eyes.

This newsprint is to be used to pack your possessions. You and Gabrielle must déménager, vite.

Are you serious?

Yes, Camille, there is not much time. You must pack your household, and as many of your belongings from this apartment. There is little time to waste. You must déménager as quickly as possible. You may bring your cherished possessions, and of course all of your clothes.

Guillaume looked at the pale blue upholstery of the settee. You may bring small pieces of furniture, such as this settee, but the larger pieces must stay. Of course, you will want to bring your books.

Guillaume! Have you gone mad?

Non. This man named Guillaume sneered. La drôle de guerre est finie. The Phoney War is over. Finie. Churchill is now the Prime Minister in Britain. The future does not bode well for France, and especially for Paris. It is safer for you and Gabrielle to move out of Paris now, today, this morning. Guillaume lowered his head slightly. He said in a soft, sad tone, Soon Paris will be overrun with German soldiers.

Camille felt her heart pound. Time felt as if it stood still but also raced ahead of her. I do not understand. Her dark green eyes narrowed. Yes, there have been the air raid sirens. Les Pays Bas have been invaded but—

There is not much time, Camille. In a matter of weeks, Paris will be occupied by the Germans. If you do not leave Paris soon, it will be too late.

No! Her voice was harsh, yet within the determination of her fierce denial, this Frenchwoman sensed that this Frenchman was correct. Defiant with insight and armed with information, he had come to rescue her and her child.

Where is Gabrielle? Guillaume asked quietly.

She is still asleep.

Leave her, then. We can begin to pack until she wakes up.

No, Guillaume. You and I shall go to her and tell her, Camille suddenly exhaled a weary sigh. We will tell her that our lives are about to change.

Forever, Camille.

She stood up and looked into the eyes of this man. Those sad eyes were so blue and bright, so beautiful, and so full of pathos and determination. Camille knew that she could not refuse this man his sudden, unexpected act of mercy and heroism. Guillaume had contacts, business contacts, perhaps even personal contacts, who had supplied him with this horrible information. Camille also knew that Guillaume was not a man to make any decision on the spur of the moment. She knew too well that he was methodical and systematic in his planning, precise in his organization, and flawless in his execution of any well-thought out and detailed plan. Deliberation in all of its meanings was a talent unique to this Frenchman.

I have parked a truck in the alley behind the appartement.

Once I dress, I can begin to pack. She pulled back her hair which grazed the lovely nape of her neck. Would you mind telling me where we are going?

There is my mother’s maison d'été in Roussillon. Her summer house has been vacant, Guillaume raised his hand into a fist, Since her death four years ago. We shall create a story for you.

A story?

Oui, you will need a phoney story for a false identity.

Guillaume, Camille slowly widened her eyes with a calm sense of disbelief and a controlled internal diffusion of horror. I do not understand the need for lying.

This man looked solemnly at this woman. Within a month, Camille, France will be at war, real war. With the arrival of war, everyone will learn to live in the atmosphere of falsehood. Do you understand me now?

Camille slowly nodded her head.

Guillaume released his clenched fist. His fingers stroked the down on her cheek. With the heaviness of dulled emotion, he allowed his fingers to gradually fall from her face.

Camille eyed this man and then she sighed, Who would believe our truth?

Truth is quickly becoming a dangerous commodity, Camille. During our drive to Roussillon, I shall tell you more, much more, of the coming fall of France. It will be a long trip.

I shall pack food for us, Camille looked at the stacks of newsprint.

There are more stacks in the truck, Guillaume assured her. I would like for us to leave before noon.

Camille took a few steps toward the parlor and then she quickly turned to face Guillaume. I must call Monsieur Beaumarchais.

A gentle smirk flickered across both of their faces.

Camille stated, He deserves to know that I am unable to come to work today. He has been a good employer, and a kind friend.

And you have been a good secretary, as well as a kind friend.

Their eyes met. Each person recalled their first meeting at the office of this editor-in-chief of Le Figaro.

Yes, call him. But, Guillaume held up an index finger to signal silence, Tell him only that you have a family emergency. You will be away for a few weeks. By then, Charles will have a clearer idea of the word, emergency.

May we not alert him?

He is a newspaper man, Camille. I doubt that the information would be kept confidential. Guillaume pressed his lips, maintaining his silence. He believed that Charles Beaumarchais already knew that the Wehrmacht, having conquered Belgium and the Netherlands, was headed straight for France.

Camille softly smiled. It was a gesture of sorrow and regret, veiled by amusement at her naïveté, here and now, in the rush of events which she felt swirling about her, like an unseen and unforeseen wind.

She walked quietly into the parlor. Guillaume, with his stacks of newsprint, followed her. Five hours later, it was nearly noon. The moving truck which had been parked behind the appartement cautiously pulled away from this gray stone building. The vehicle moved amidst drizzle and dark gray clouds.

C’est un jour sombre, Camille whispered. It is a dark day. She steadily pressed the small tender hand of her daughter, six-year old Gabrielle who sat beside her, and next to Guillaume.

Le jour est plein d’ombres. The day is full of shadows. Guillaume spoke deeply as he kept two steady hands on the steering wheel of the truck. The shadows have arrived to usher in the dark years for France.

Camille said nothing. She silently prayed that un ange de ténèbres, an angel of darkness, would lead them that day to their destination, and would guide France through the imminent darkness which this man so strongly believed would soon overtake France.

As the truck slowly crossed over the Pont Neuf, Camille said a silent goodbye to Paris. This city was her birthplace and her home. It was now being torn from her, even as she tried to willingly relinquish it. She gazed ahead at the open fields which still surrounded Paris during those years. Those open fields were the Elysian Fields, les Champs Élysées. Those open fields were the inspiration for the name of that major thoroughfare through Paris, l’Avenue des Champs Élysées, the most beautiful avenue in the world.

Camille could not believe that she would no longer see that avenue or the tree-lined streets of Paris. She could not believe that she was fleeing this city. She could not believe that this abrupt journey would take her away for very long. Soon, she thought. I will return to Paris.

Camille felt a shiver of shame that she was abandoning this city to an unforeseen enemy. She knew that she could not do anything in the event of invasion or war. She could only pray, and pray she would for the deliverance of Paris from the oncoming Germans. She felt a flicker of hope that somehow the weeks ahead could prove Guillaume wrong, but she sensed with a cunning instinct that Paris would fall, and with it, France.

The solitary vehicle drove cautiously throughout the countryside of France. It headed easterly and then southward through the Rhône Valley. After three hours of driving, Guillaume pulled the truck to a stop in Dijon, near a pasture of purple and golden flowers. He assisted Camille and then Gabrielle in exiting the truck. These three people walked along the paths beside this pasture of flowers. They surveyed the vast farmland surrounding the city of Dijon, this ancient Roman settlement which had led legions on this road from Lyon to Paris.

Two hours later, the truck passed by Lyon as the journey progressed due south. Camille thought of her father who lived in Lyon, this major city and the capital of the département of the Rhône. She wanted to speak to him, to embrace him, to tell him where she was going, but she knew that her words would only upset him. She rode in silence as tears filled her eyes. She lowered her face to hide her tears.

These people were following the path of the Rhône River as it led toward the Camargue delta. They would not arrive at the delta, but would veer to the east, and travel into the region known as Provence. This mission of mercy would last nine hours before this moving truck arrived in the village perché of Roussillon. After about six hours of driving, this truck passed through the town of Valance. This town marks the definitive boundary between the north of France and Provence.

Camille rolled down the window, and she felt the warmth of the dry air. Those sensations were nearly impossible in Paris. Camille turned to Gabrielle to tell her daughter about those new tactile discoveries, but she saw that this young child had fallen to sleep beside her. Camille leaned down and gently kissed the soft brown curls on the head of her daughter as it pressed securely against the firm arm of her mother.

Camille gazed silently out of the windshield. She stared at the beauty of the lush green fields and the vineyards, but she did not truly see them. She was thinking of the people whom she had so abruptly left behind her in Paris. She wondered how they would fare in the weeks ahead, should Germany succeed in capturing Paris and, with it, France. It dawned on this Parisienne that she was moving far ahead, emotionally and physically. She was leaping quickly, within this leap of faith, through a secret mission to a future in which she would be without family and friends. She would be among strangers, and she would be a stranger.

Camille solemnly kept her eyes on the single-lane roads which Guillaume handled with ease. Occasionally, she glanced tenderly at her daughter who dozed comfortably on the bench seat between herself and Guillaume. Camille was grateful that this child had eaten sparingly to avoid queasiness during the journey in this truck.

Half an hour passed. Gabrielle awoke. She peered out of the window by her mother. She cried out,

Ah! Regardez les fleurs! Ah! Look at the flowers!

Camille turned her face and saw a field of crimson red poppies and white daisies which spread for miles before her eyes. Beyond the carpet of red and white blooms were billowing white clouds in a celestial blue sky. Camille smiled and took the hand of her daughter. This Parisienne believed that they would always remember that field of poppies and daisies, the bright white petals and their cheerful yellow centers, and those big, puffy white clouds in a picture-perfect sky.

Camille thought of how the sky could appear to be perfect when life on earth was far from it. She felt suddenly filled with anxiety. Only looking at her daughter soothed her mind. Gabrielle had settled back against the seat and was sleeping once again.

Camille gazed at the field of flowers to her right. She looked over at Guillaume. He was studiously watching the road. Camille wondered if, a native Provencal, Guillaume had probably routinely experienced these wondrous landscapes. She needed not distract him from driving to point out routine sights.

To her surprise, Guillaume quietly uttered, Oui, Camille. C’est magnifique.

Camille softly smiled. She knew that this Frenchman was too intent on driving safely to fully enjoy this vista of nature. She nevertheless appreciated his comment. There were not many topics which they could discuss without becoming anxious or upset or distressed. Camille understood that this day and its journey of rescue were as deeply disturbing to Guillaume as they were to her. She set her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, attempting to nap. She did not fall to sleep, but she did doze in a semi-conscious state of half-waking, half-slumbering.

Guillaume glanced at Camille. He hoped that she would nap, but he knew that this woman could rest her eyes but not entirely fall to sleep. She always kept a portion of her waking self alert, even when dozing during the day.

This journey was not serene, nor would it not invite calm, comfort, or repose. Guillaume had been silent, but soft-spoken whenever he’d addressed Camille or little Gabrielle. Many troubling thoughts occupied his mind. He did not wish to alarm these females any more than he already had, arriving at dawn with dire predictions and the intense instruction to déménager. Guillaume believed that there had occurred only one truly tense episode during that morning. Those moments now felt like a chimera to him within this dismal dream, this phantasm in which he was the bearer of unreal but real news.

Camille had insisted on packing her phonograph recordings. Guillaume had sternly but repeatedly informed her that the maison d’ été was without electricity. There was therefore no way for her to play her phonograph. Camille agreed to leave the phonograph, but she insisted on wrapping each of her many twelve- and ten-inch record albums. Guillaume warned this Parisienne that the shellac records would not survive the trip. She then quite literally put her foot down.

I will allow you to transport me and my daughter out of Paris for who knows how long. But I will not leave behind my music.

Guillaume had inwardly sighed. If Camille Richarde had not loved music, he likely would not have had any association with her, and he would consequently not be driving her and this beautiful child to Provence. Camille clung to her phonograph albums and he understood why she did so. The music that she loved was a cherished part of her life, and an unforgettable part of their past. Who was he to deny her the possession of those objects which held such precious memories? Those memories meant far more than the things themselves? Guillaume informed his conscience that he lacked compassion, but he did not know how to gain any emotional insight on that woeful day.

Guillaume grimaced as he glanced left, and the setting sun cut across his line of sight. He cautiously and very slowly steered the truck toward an aqueduct just outside of Montélimar.

Oh, how beautiful! Camille gazed at the beige and gray rock. Yet the design is so functional.

Guillaume smiled. One must recall that the Romans invented concrete. I believe the aqueduct was an excuse to use yet more of that material, as well as to provide better roads for collecting taxes.

Camille nearly laughed. Guillaume, you always criticize the Romans. Yet there would likely not be France, or Paris, if the Romans had not been here first. We are passing through land which they once ruled.

Land which the Germans will soon conquer and rule, thinking they are the Romans. Guillaume bit his lip, thereby cutting short the tirade mounting within him.

He exercised deliberate care in pulling the truck to one side of the aqueduct. With meticulous movements, he turned off the engine and exited the cab of the truck. He observed the two-lane road, and he felt thankful that there was no traffic on that late Wednesday afternoon. He needed a rest. He walked to the passenger side of the truck.

Come, he said to Camille. Let us make a walk.

Guillaume took the hand of Camille and helped her out of the truck. He then lifted Gabrielle in his arms and placed her onto the ground.

Look, Gabrielle, Guillaume pointed with his index finger, There is a castle here in Montélimar, this Frenchman widened his eyes as he spoke.

Is there a princess living in it?

No, Camille took the hand of her daughter. They walked beside Guillaume on the aqueduct road. We no longer have princesses in France.

Or princes, Guillaume added quietly, Or kings, or queens.

Why? Gabrielle yawned as she stared around her at the rugged mountains made of dark gray rock. She’d never seen such large, stark landforms.

How does one explain the French Revolution to a six-year-old child? Camille glanced at Guillaume.

I find it rather difficult to explain to adults, Guillaume shrugged. His face was sadly solemn in spite of his casual gesture.

Guillaume patted the head of Gabrielle and pointed in the direction of the castle. Gabrielle, if you look in that direction, up on that hill, sit the Château des Adhémar and its castle.

The château is so big, Gabrielle exclaimed. Does it belong to you, Oncle Guillaume?

No, Guillaume gently took the hand of this little girl. They walked to the center of the aqueduct. This château is Romanesque architecture, the last of its kind in France. The castle has been rebuilt as Renaissance.

Camille smiled very briefly. Guillaume could lecture her, and Gabrielle, or anyone, for hours on architecture. Do not mention the Gothic, she silently warned herself.

Camille strolled beside this Frenchman. As she watched him, holding the hand of this little girl, and ambling freely, Camille realized that they, the three of them, had never spent time outdoors together. She stared wistfully at the resplendence of the setting sun as its ray struck the dark green water of the Rhône River.

Guillaume spoke distinctly and proudly. The family of Adhémar de Monteil took control of this castle in the 12th century. Then the pope--

Oui, Gabrielle, Camille eyed Guillaume. The Pope needed the castle when this part of France became part of France again. Camille turned to Guillaume. It is quite impossible to tell any phase of French history to a child below the age of twenty.

Guillaume smiled ruefully. Very soon, they would all be living more of French history, and this phase of it which would prove equally impossible to explain to any child or adult. Guillaume chose to forego mentioning this disturbing prophecy. That castle has been destroyed more than once during its long life. It has seen a lot of war.

And it will see more of it, non? Camille kissed the small hand of Gabrielle. She walked with her back to the truck. Guillaume followed. As they neared the vehicle, Camille turned to this man and said with wonderment, It is so beautiful here, Guillaume.

Look, Gabrielle, Camille exclaimed, At those fields of lavender. They are not quite in bloom, but soon there will be bright purple flowers covering the land.

Gabrielle nodded as she peered over the end of the aqueduct. She did not see any purple blooms, but she imagined them in the way that her mother explained them to her. This child then turned slowly to her mother and said quietly, Maman, j’ai faim.

Of course, you are hungry, Gabrielle. Because we are too, Guillaume opened the door to the cab of the truck. It had been over two hours since their casse-croûte, their afternoon snack. Guillaume patiently assisted the females into the cab, and then he announced, Do you know, Gabrielle, that there is more in Montélimar than an ancient, worn-out castle? Here in Montélimar there is. . . Guillaume held up an index finger for silence. He paused for dramatic effect, and then he announced, Nougat!

Ah! May I have some, Maman?

Oui, mignonne, Camille glanced coyly at Guillaume. Maman would like some nougat too.

Camille had hopefully wondered if there might be a chance for them to stop to purchase some of the nougat which every French child knew to be definitive proof that God had made France just a little better than the other countries of the world.

Oncle Guillaume will buy you a box, Guillaume smiled, But it must last, he intoned, At least until the next box appears in December. Guillaume smiled to Camille, Nougat is one of The Thirteen Desserts of Provence which we always enjoy at Christmas.

Camille immediately thought of Christmas. She wondered if she would be able to travel to Lyon to spend the holiday with her father who lived with her older married sister and her family. Camille wondered if she and Gabrielle might still be living in Roussillon. If so, she would need to learn to make those thirteen desserts.

But of course, Camille thought quickly and in a dismissive manner. By Noël, Gabrielle and I shall be back in Paris. This trip is but a sojourn, and there will be no war.

As Guillaume drove away from the aqueduct, Camille attempted, with a touch of defiance and a great deal of growing uncertainty, that her thoughts were accurate. She sensed that they were not in touch with the present reality, a state of being which felt to Camille most eerie and illusory.

Guillaume drove away from the aqueduct. His now-swarthy face wore a sweet, charming smile as he contemplated the wonder of nougat. He decided that the tension of the day had been greatly mitigated by simple delight over a traditional and delicious French candy.

The sun had long ago set and darkness now enveloped the moving truck as it drove very slowly down a narrow road which was more of a pathway than a road. The roads into and around the village perché of Roussillon had not been built for vehicular traffic. This heavy duty truck experienced a bumpy ride on a soil-compacted path which then gave way to an even bumpier ride on a limestone driveway.

Gabrielle was asleep, full of nougat, roasted chicken, and brown bread. She did not move as the truck squealed to a stop in front of a rather large stone house. Camille tried to get a better view of the structure, but the hazy light of a half-moon was nearly extinguished by the blackness of the night sky.

If you will please wait here, Camille, Guillaume said politely. I shall open the door.

Guillaume disappeared down a stone pathway. A wrought iron gate creaked open, and then shut. Camille stared out of the window of the truck. She glanced up and saw many stars in the black sky. She felt weary and lost. Her perspective had been turned around several times during this trip which had steadily moved south by southeast for over seven hundred kilometers, or about 450 miles, through the valley of the Rhône River to this small town in Provence. This abrupt journey had taken all day and into the night.

Camille stroked the soft brown hair of her child. A sense of serenity and order gradually overcame this Frenchwoman. She believed that she could do whatever was necessary to protect herself and her daughter. She had no idea what those actions might entail; she felt too disoriented to clearly and properly contemplate any activities or decisions.

Camille tightly closed shut her eyes. She felt overwhelmed by a dizzying barrage of emotions: confusion, bewilderment, fear, mild panic, a sense of rage at the outrageousness of fate, a fate which had not yet revealed its ugly hand. It became clear to this Parisienne, as she sat in this truck in the starry dark, that she did not know anyone in this region. She did not know how to explain to her very young child the reasons why they had come to this house, this strange house in a strange part of France.

She believed that she had to calmly explain to her daughter that they would be safer there in Roussillon, but Camille did not know how to speak to this child of safety unless she also elucidated the frightful dangers which had forced them out of Paris. The concept of war would be new to Gabrielle. The reality of war was somewhat new to Camille. She had not believed, along with her fellow Parisians, that war was coming to France. And yet, she now knew that it was on its way.

Guillaume was not a man of hysterics or outlandish designs or actions. He had acted with deliberation and diligence and determination. His resolve proved to this Frenchwoman that his words were true, his behavior necessary.

Camille decided that she would explain to this young girl only events and information as they became necessary for discussion. Too much information would be as damaging as too little for this sensitive, intelligent child of six. Camille then pondered the safety of her child and her self in this large rustic house. This Parisienne was not convinced that they would be safe. She knew that the good intentions of one brave, gallant, resolute man could not prevent misfortune from entering this domicile or her life.

She suddenly saw the small orb of a soft glow in the window at the front of this house. The creak of the wrought iron gate then sounded, and Guillaume gently opened the door of the truck.

Camille, Guillaume whispered, Please go into the house. I shall move the boxes.

Bah! Camille exhaled. And what do I do, sit and wait? Perhaps watch?

She jumped from the cab of the truck and stared into the darkness surrounding her. There were no street lights, no building lights, no neon lights, no decorative lights, no billboard lights, no cars with lights, no lights at all. Even the hazy glow of the half-moon was dimmed by the blackness of the sky. The valiant stars twinkled with persistence, but those orbs of fiery determination were far too far away to illuminate any pathway.

Let me carry Gabrielle into the house, Guillaume said tenderly.

Camille took a few steps back to allow Guillaume access to the sleeping child. He gently and carefully lifted this little girl from the seat. She rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her out of the cab of the truck. Camille pulled a dark red knitted shawl from atop a pile on the floor of the cab. She carefully draped the shawl over Gabrielle.

Guillaume pressed his head against the soft hair of this child as he slowly walked and carried her into this house. Camille stared into the cab of the truck. She eyed the floor where she had placed blankets, baskets with food, a small valise with toiletries, and bottles of water. Her feet had been cramped during the journey, but she had insisted upon packing those provisions. She now felt thankful for her foresight in even this modest planning.

She felt tired as she timidly stepped back from the truck. She took a few steps more behind her and glanced up. There, beneath a very large, very old pine tree, Camille spotted a shaft of pale moonlight slicing through the boughs. Those weighty boughs were laden with pine cones. In the steady breeze, the boughs swayed slowly and ponderously. Waves of chartreuse pine pollen fell upon Camille, and she suddenly began to loudly cough.

Camille! Do not stand under that pine tree.

The sharply stern voice of Guillaume startled Camille. She walked quickly from beneath the pine tree and away from him.

Are you walking back to Paris? Guillaume commented wryly as he watched her march toward the limestone drive.

I will if I must.

Guillaume opened the rear doors of the truck, and then he turned swiftly to Camille. He immediately felt ashamed of his flippant question. He walked to her and took her hand into his hand. With a courteous bow, Guillaume said, Camille, please forgive me for my foolish words.

Camille stared with sullen silence at this Frenchman. His words had not been foolish, but his lack of consideration was inane, if not tasteless. Camille chose not to pronounce those distinctions. I am tired, Guillaume. We are both tired. This day has been long and, Camille lowered her face, Frightening.

I understand that this day has been appalling for you, Guillaume bit his lower lip. I only ask that you remain reasonable.

Camille laughed as she raised her head. Soyez raisonnable, she murmured. Be reasonable. That request is most often made when one has little reason to be reasonable.

Their eyes met in accord.

Guillaume took a rag from the back of the truck. He gently wiped the pine pollen from the long cardigan sweater on Camille. She quietly said, Thank you, monsieur.

They stood for a few moments, gazing up at the sky.

The stars are abundant here in the night sky, Guillaume said quietly. There are no other lights to drown out their brilliance.

Camille nodded. Her night vision had not yet adjusted to such stark, utter blackness. She looked with sadness at Guillaume.

There is no reason or logic to anything which I have done today. All of my actions have been purely out of instinct, or at times, female intuition. Is it reasonable for you to expect reason from me after I have been overcome by pine dust?

It is pollen, and it is noxious. I have nearly cut down that tree more than once.

But this tree is so grand, so majestic.

It is so full of pollen. However, the thing does provide shade for this side of the house.

They looked at one another. Camille realized that in the weeks ahead, the reasons for her swift departure from Paris would become clear to her. She calmly said, I thank you, Guillaume, for bringing me and Gabrielle to this refuge.

Guillaume closed his eyes in an attempt to stop his tears. He felt a tear trickle from each eye. He looked at Camille to ascertain if she’d noticed his woeful sadness. She was gazing at that pine tree. He smirked and then he gaily laughed.

It is a magnificent tree. You will appreciate it better in the light of day.

Oui, Camille nodded slowly. She would appreciate many things better in the light of day. It dawned on this Parisienne that the light of day would comprise the maximum amount of light in this house in Roussillon.

She walked to the truck as Guillaume grabbed hold of a lantern from inside the cab. He turned a valve, struck a match, and lit the lantern. The soft hiss of the kerosene sounded eerie and terrible and magical.

Guillaume guided Camille with the light of the lantern through the wrought iron gate. She walked through a stone passageway, a patio of sorts, and up to the front door of the house.

You may enter, Camille, Guillaume held out his hand.

She walked into the house, through the foyer, and into a spacious room. She felt suddenly overcome by the silence of this house, its isolation at the end of this limestone driveway, and by the pitch black darkness which enveloped everything on this chilly night in the middle of May 1940. Camille comprehended that she and her daughter had just undertaken a dramatic, nearly opposite, change in situation and location. Camille could envisage no place less like Paris, a city so filled with illumination that it is called La Ville-Lumière, the City of Light.

Il fait nuit. It is dark. Camille spoke quietly and gravely, as if to convince herself that she could cope with this coal-black void of light.

Yes, it is very dark here, Guillaume handed Camille a small suitcase. We must unload the truck.

This Frenchwoman then became occupied with that work, but never would she forget those spectral visions of the vast black sky; bright white twinkling stars; hazy pale yellow half-moon, and that gigantesque pine tree, with its swaying waves of yellowish-green powder falling onto her.

Two hours later, these two adults stood in the parlor, looking intermittently at one another. For a few minutes, Guillaume paced around the piles of wrapped and boxed belongings. He slowly, softly rubbed the black stubble on his chin.

I must go now, Camille, Guillaume announced as he stopped in his tracks.

Camille glared at him. Il est minuit.

Guillaume began to pace again. Yes, it is midnight.

Guillaume checked his wristwatch. He looked fixedly and fiercely at a large, very tall grandfather clock which stood proudly at the other end of this room, a spacious room which was the parlor of this summer house. Just a week earlier, Guillaume had purposely set the weights of that clock to work. He took a forceful step toward the clock. The first chime sounded, as if in obeisance.

Guillaume stepped back into his path of pacing. He walked softly but steadily in a broad oval in front of Camille.

Camille sat on the edge of a softly upholstered sofa. She eyed Guillaume and then she looked at Gabrielle. This beautiful child was sleeping blissfully. At the sound of the chimes of the grandfather clock, Camille listened, as if in a daze. She could not see the splendid walnut wood of the huge standing clock which was located by this sofa. She was comforted nonetheless by the mellow sonorous chimes, all twelve of them.

Camille warily watched Guillaume as he paced the tile floor. Surely, she intoned, You cannot travel now. Her eyes and voice implored this weary man to stay with her and Gabrielle. There is no need for you to leave. We can arrange some bedding for you on this sofa.

There is a man whom I must meet here in town, at the top of the hill which is the town of Roussillon. He is expecting me; presently, he waits for me. I will stay with him. There are plans which I must discuss with him. I can tell you no more for now.

Camille nodded faintly. She looked around her at the piles of wrapped possessions, and at the boxes and boxes of items, fragile and durable. It would take her days, if not weeks, to unwrap, unpack, and sort out all of these things. She would then have to try to find places for them in this strange house.

As Camille surveyed these boxes and wrapped objects, she realized that they were the sum total of the remnants of her life in Paris. Those possessions would, for a long time, serve as her physical reminders and as the keys to memories and vestiges of a life she had rudely, almost cruelly, abandoned, in the surreal belief that her life in Paris would come to an even more rude and cruel end within a matter of weeks.

As Camille stood there, in the flickering light of the lantern, she silently acknowledged that she had never been to Roussillon. She had only heard of this town, and this house, from Guillaume as the place where he’d passed so many summers of his youth. She and her daughter were now situated there, amidst these vaguely organized and unevenly assembled piles of possessions.

Camille stared at the carefully wrapped remains of her former life. She stonily reminded herself once more that her life in Paris had been truncated that day because of a prescient prediction that war was coming to France and that the French Army was not going to defeat the invader, the Germans.

Camille perceived that, beyond that day, she would require much faith to pin onto this belief, a belief which as yet had only traces of truth and the glints of clairvoyance. As if by rote, she counseled herself that she needed to believe in things unseen. There she was, clinging to things seen, things material, things tangible from of a world which would, one day soon, come to a baneful, shameful end.

I do not know what to say, Guillaume. Camille looked up this man. He stopped in his invisible path of footsteps.

You need not say anything, Camille. You have acted most nobly. Your deeds are worth several thousand words.

And so are yours.

Camille stared at Gabrielle, curled up on the sofa with the soft knitted dark red shawl covering her small body.

Guillaume quietly intoned, There is a full-sized bed, with a coverlet, in the bedroom to the rear of the house. Gabrielle will sleep more comfortably there. Guillaume checked the level of oil in a green glass lamp on a trunk in front of the sofa. He then lit the lamp.

Camille watched the sudden flare of the oil and the acquiescence of the fire into a steady flame. She said nothing. She did not fear being alone, but she did fear darkness, at least unexpected darkness.

You will have another hour or so of light from this lamp. There are candles in the study. Guillaume pointed to a room adjacent to this parlor.

I shall sleep on the floor by my daughter. The voice of this Frenchwoman was calm, tired, and defiant.

Guillaume let out a long sigh. I do not wish to offend anyone, Camille. It has been a very long day for you, and for me, and for little Gabrielle. There is much for me to do within the next few weeks. There are reasons why I must be gone from here. I must secure the château in Grasse. I shall try to return here by early June. Please do not ask me for certainties which I cannot give to you.

But without electricity, I do not know what to do.

Guillaume twisted his sensuous lips into a brief, sardonic grin. Never have I known you, Camille, to be without resources for whatever you need, or for whatever you discover that you need. You and Gabrielle have enough provisions for at least two weeks; and the money from your bank account—

All of it.

Guillaume remained silent. He knew that he need not, and ought not, tell this women to be frugal with money, least of all her own. Camille Richarde was the most prudent, practical Frenchwoman he’d ever met.

There are shops in town, at the top of the hill. The weekly marché is on Wednesday, Guillaume grimaced, Which of course was today. Guillaume looked at Camille with tenderness but he spoke with bold decisiveness. You will find firewood outside the rear door, in case of the unpredictable Provencal storm.

Guillaume rubbed his temples. He knew so much more than Camille did about the weather and climate of Provence. He believed, however, that this Parisienne would quickly learn all that she needed to know to live well and wisely in the south of France. He had faith in her ability to adjust and to persevere and to prevail over the most difficult situations. He understood that he had just handed her an extremely difficult and painful situation.

Elle fera de son mieux, Guillaume thought. She will do her best. He knew the best from Camille Richarde was indeed excellent; he also knew that excellence would be required from this Frenchwoman in the coming months, if not years.

Guillaume took hold of a dark green woolen blanket which had been placed on an arm of the sofa. He leaned over and planted a soft kiss upon the head of the sleeping child. He stroked her hair and whispered, Bonne nuit, mon ange doux. Good night, my sweet angel.

Camille watched this man secure the woolen blanket around the shoulders and reclining body of this little girl, his sweet angel.

Guillaume stood up and glanced uneasily at Camille, I am quite certain that Gabrielle will delight in the barn. It is a treasure trove for children.

She will find mice there as well as treasures?

Guillaume shrugged, Perhaps you might locate a cat.

Yes, Guillaume, along with my new name, and my new life story, I shall become a cat lover.

Guillaume wiped his eyes of some pine pollen. You love all creatures, Camille.

She raised her dark green eyes to him. She believed that, had she loved this man in the way that he’d hoped, or expected, or needed, her life might be quite different on that night. Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, Guillaume took a small, tentative step toward Camille. Tenderly, he patted her shoulder.

I shall return in approximately two weeks, Camille. I will do all that I can to help you and Gabrielle. If you can not trust me, then I can not do much at all.

I trust you, Guillaume, Camille said with composure. She glanced at her young daughter. Silently and with the innocence of a sleeping child, Gabrielle was the light of this new life for this Frenchwoman. She had been the light of the old life, that routine of existence in Paris which was no more for Camille. This Frenchwoman now gazed somberly into the hazy light from the oil lamp.

Guillaume stared fervently at Camille. A dark intensity, with sullen or somber intent, played upon his face as shadows from the wavering lamplight cast a chiaroscuro about his head. He became veiled in his own gloom. His wide forehead narrowed down to a solidly built, square jaw, a jaw which confidently held his emotions in check. Guillaume knew that this Frenchwoman seated before him knew how to disengage the practiced machinery of his stoic mask, and to reveal to him, as well as to her, the raw emotions which smoldered beneath the mask of this Frenchman. Guillaume was a man of few faces, but many emotions. He wished to conceal as many from this Frenchwoman as possible that night, and so he bowed and said,

Please excuse me now, Camille, for a short while.

Bien entendu, Guillaume. I thank you for this journey.

I regret, he said with deep concern, That you do not yet know the ultimate destination of your journey.

Camille smirked. I have come to believe that our destination is life, whatever it may hold for us, even with rude and unexpected turns along its pathway. I do not know whether you hold such a belief. And yet, Guillaume, today, and tonight, you appear to have taken a determined path to meet your destination, whatever it is. I hope that one day you shall inform me of it.

Camille realized within the utterance of her words that, for the first time during her more than seven years of knowing this man, he had displayed a fixed purpose in life, and a definite direction, even though she had not a clue as to where this direction led, at least not after that day of 15 May 1940.

You have been a hero this day, Guillaume. The voice of this Frenchwoman was warm, less direct, and almost sultry with emotion. Her gaze was tender upon his darkly handsome face. Vous nous avez données un gîte; et vous nous avez mises a l’abri du péril and du mal. Je vous remercie.

You have given us a refuge; and you have sheltered us from danger and from harm. I thank you.

Guillaume closed his eyes, fighting his tears. He knew that Camille Richarde did not ever thank him unless it was beyond her ability to repay him. Many were the times he had heard her polite refusal: Non, je vous remercie. No, thank you.

He gently wiped away a tear from the corner of each eye. He then opened his eyes. He saw Camille, seated demurely and erectly on the sofa. Her head was bowed and her delicate hands were folded and pressed against her stomach, in prayer.

He waited until she looked up at him. His eyes searched her eyes in a confirmation of their alliance.

I shall never forget this day, Camille said solemnly and sadly.

Nor shall I, Camille.

Guillaume bowed once more to her. His movement was in slow reverence, filled with humble grace. As he straightened to his full height of nearly six feet, the courtesy of his movement contained a tacit touch of hauteur.

Camille smiled wistfully at this Frenchman. She watched as, with a slight nod of his head, he turned from her. He walked steadily and quietly into the foyer, and out of the sight of this woman.

Camille heard his footsteps stop at the front door. Quietly and deliberately, Guillaume opened the door. Just as quietly and deliberately, he closed the door behind him.

Camille bent over and kissed the soft brown curls of this child who was now quite alone with this Frenchwoman, her mother. Camille sat up and then she slowly closed her eyes. In the flickering lamplight of this spacious, shadowy room, she wept. Reasons were many as to why this Frenchwoman wept in this hour past midnight on that singular evening of her life. The largest reason, however, had nothing to do with reasons of the mind. It had to do with the heart which held its own reasons as to why the life of this Frenchwoman and the life of this Frenchman were now entwined once more.

~~~~****~~~~

CHAPTER 2

At first, life in Roussillon, indeed all of life itself, felt bewildering, confusing, and frightening to Camille. There were too many things to adjust to, and this Parisienne felt, by the end of each day, that she had made little or no headway into making a life for herself and for Gabrielle in this nearly-empty, spacious house. The French use the verb, tatonner, to describe the act of feeling one’s way, and Camille believed that her every step was a tâtonnement, a groping, with only necessity as the guidepost for herself and for her six-year old daughter.

Maman, il fait nuit, Gabrielle held onto her mother as they sat one night on the sofa in the large parlor of this strange house. It had been one week since their arrival in Roussillon. The most basic rudiments of a routine had been established by this Frenchwoman for herself and her child.

Yes, mignonne, it is dark. In Paris, we had many lights around us all through the night. There are no lights here in the countryside.

Camille embraced her child. She wondered if soon there would be any lights left in Paris. She had lit two candles and set them upon the wooden trunk in front of the sofa. Their flames feebly wavered as they burned in unglazed, rust-brown candlestick holders. Camille was fearful of lighting the propane lantern, preferring instead to light candles each night for illumination.

Will Oncle Guillaume come to visit us like he did in Paris?

I do not know, Gabrielle. He is busy helping other people. He has to be gone from us for a while.

Who will help Oncle Guillaume?

Camille stared at the wide eyes of her daughter. They were a striking bright shade of blue, beautifully shaped in large ovals, but they were now filled with fear. Camille caressed her daughter and calmly stated, I think that Oncle Guillaume knows how to take care of himself. But if he needs us, he will come to us.

Gabrielle smiled, pleased that this Frenchman would return to them in time of need. Is it time for us to get ready for bed, Maman? I am tired. Gabrielle made with her hands, their palms pressed together, against her tilted head.

Camille smiled and softly sighed, I am tired too, Gabrielle, and, yes it is time for bed.

The grandfather clock had just chimed nine times. Camille was grateful for this clock, for its constancy and dependability; but, at the same time, she resented it for being too constant a reminder of the passage of time, on every hour and on the half hour.

What shall we do tomorrow?

The soft voice of this child was expectant, and full of wonderment. Camille felt cross with herself for not looking forward, as her daughter so eagerly did, to their next day. She felt confounded each morning by a running list in her head of things to be done; and she felt defeated each evening by the knowledge that those things had not been completed, and the next day would bring a new list of tasks. J’ai des tas de choses à faire: I have a lot of things to do. This phrase formed an unyielding refrain in her mind.

Daringly and almost by hazard, Camille decided to mentally toss into the air the list of things to do. She did not even bother to see where this list fell. I was thinking, Camille stroked the soft brown curls of the child’s shoulder length hair, We could begin to make plans: plans for le potager.

Le potager was the kitchen garden. There was none on this property although Camille had assessed an area down the slope from the house which probably had once contained a potager.

Ah, oui, Gabrielle widened her eyes. She had never grown plants. The thought of cultivating vegetables for meals excited this child.

There are also plans to decide for your schooling, Gabrielle, and plans for new recipes. The foods of Provence will now assist us in making our meals.

Faisons-nous ces plans ce soir? Do we make these plans tonight?

Non, mignonne, Camille said quietly. She knew that her words that night resembled une araignée du soir, a spider in the evening, a hope. She nonetheless stated Tomorrow, we shall draw up a plan for the garden. We shall also make a walk down to the barn, and take a look. Oncle Guillaume called it a treasure trove for children. Perhaps we shall find nice surprises.

Gabrielle scrunched up her small, slightly upturned nose. Je ne veux pas trouver des araignées. I do not want to find spiders.

Maman shall clear the path of spiders.

Then it will be fun, Maman.

Gabrielle smiled, and wrapped her arms around her mother. Will you sing a song for me again for bedtime?

Mais oui, Gabrielle. En France, tout finit par des chansons. But, of course, Gabrielle. In France, everything ends with singing.

Camille slid her child from her lap and stood up. Gabrielle stood beside her mother, holding her hand; or rather her petite hand clasped the index finger of her mother. Camille noticed that her daughter had grown an inch or two since late winter. This Frenchwoman suspected that the clothes which had fit Gabrielle the previous summer would not easily fit her this summer. As Camille picked up the candlestick holder, she wondered how best to sew clothes by hand. There was no electricity in this house, and she could not use the sewing machine she had insisted on bringing with her. Guillaume had warned her about the lack of electricity, but she could not leave behind her sewing machine. She had bought it for herself many years ago; it was a symbol of her resourcefulness and creativity.

Perhaps, Camille said slowly and invitingly as she walked with her daughter out of the parlor, and up a curved concrete flight of stairs. Perhaps we shall go into town to purchase some fabric. Would you like a new dress?

Mais oui, Gabrielle nodded, But I will need pants for the potager.

Yes, Camille nodded firmly. She decided that she was capable of sewing, by hand, a pair of trousers for her child. Now you must brush your teeth.

The water in the pitcher is so cold.

Camille rubbed her forehead. This child was absolutely correct. I will try to make a small fire in the fireplace tomorrow evening and heat the water. Camille wondered how to heat the water any other way.

We can set out a bucket of water in the sun in the afternoon, Gabrielle said gaily. Then we can both use the warm water at night.

Camille stopped in her pathway to the bathroom, which was the only bathroom in the house. The room was adjacent to the only bedroom which this Frenchwoman had given, without hesitation, to her daughter to use. You are so very clever, Gabrielle. We will set out several buckets of the water, in the hot sun. Then I shall also have warm water for washing the dishes after dinner and, perhaps, for baths!

The two females smiled triumphantly.

I shall return soon to tuck you into bed, and then we will say our prayers. And then, Gabrielle, I will sing you a song.

Gabrielle shut the door of the bathroom. She first brushed her teeth with a toothbrush and some tooth powder from a small metal can. She rinsed her mouth with water which she scooped from a ceramic pitcher into a small metal cup. She then carefully scooped more cupfuls of water from the ceramic pitcher into the little sink which was attached to the wall.

This sink amused this little girl. It was shaped like a clamshell and made of celadon-green porcelain. A metal towel rack, painted in celadon green, surrounded the sink in a semi-circle. Gabrielle liked to pretend that the towel rack was two arms of the clam, joined protectively around its shell.

A small faucet protruded from the wall above the sink. To the right of the sink, a small, four-paned rectangular window was located in the exterior wall of the house. Camille stored water in several pitchers which were set on the floor, just below the window. She had taught Gabrielle how to use water in this frugal manner. The house had running water, but it was cold. At night, the water was very cold.

As Camille listened to the swishing movements of the water, she dreaded brushing her teeth later, after her daughter was tucked into bed. She disliked the cold water even more than her daughter.

After bedtime prayers were finished, Camille carefully but firmly pulled shut the drapes on the French doors of the bedroom. Camille lovingly eyed the drapes. They were made of a subtle toile de Jouy, dark apricot on pale gold fabric, and they were fully lined, a propitious situation which would help shut out the summer heat and intense light of the Provencal summer. Camille had used these drapes in her bedroom in Paris, but now they adorned this chambre à coucher de fille, this girl’s bedroom for Gabrielle.

Do you feel safe here at night, Gabrielle?

This little girl was securely tucked into the hemstitched bed sheets which had been diligently placed, prior to her arrival here, on the walnut Provencal bed in this bedroom. Her eyes widened as she answered, Sometimes I want to come to you, Maman. But it is too dark for me to walk through the house.

Nous avons besoin d’une lampe de poche, Camille said, adding another item to her list of things to purchase: a flashlight.

Maybe Oncle Guillaume can find one for us, Gabrielle suggested.

Camille glanced around the room. She wondered if a simple thing like a flashlight was becoming scarce, like truth.

Maman, is he coming tomorrow?

No, Camille stated. She decided that it might be best for her small child to stay in this part of the house, with or without a light source. You are able to get into the bathroom to use it?

Yes, Gabrielle nestled her face against the soft linen sheet and pillowcase. They feel so nice, Maman.

Camille nodded. It had been very thoughtful of Guillaume to place these luxuriously comfortable linens on this bed. Camille smiled as she eyed the delicately carved headboard and footboard. She knew that Gabrielle liked to play with her doll on those parts of the walnut bed. The thought of her daughter at play soothed the worried mind of this Frenchwoman.

Camille absent-mindedly stroked the hand-quilted coverlet draped over the footboard. This coverlet was the antique Provencal boutis which Guillaume had mentioned during that dark first night in this house. The bright cotton fabric had been intricately quilted; the patterns of the tiny stitching emphasized the prints of cerulean blue, yellow, and orange. Even in the muted candlelight, the vivid