Free A Troubled Peace by L. M. Elliott Page A

Last year, end of May, maybe the very first of June, I’m not sure exactly of the date, I brought a little boy to you. Your maquis wasmoving me. The Milice had arrested Pierre’s mother and shot his grandfather. Pierre was eight years old. I gave him my good-luck marble. You said you knew monks who would protect him.”
    â€œAhhhhh.” The priest finally brightened. “I know this boy. Pierre Dubois.” He paused, thinking. “I did not take him myself. The Milice were here that week, led by that informer.” He looked to le patron . “That devil-woman collaborator, ‘Colonel’ Maude.”
    Le patron scowled. “The one who made Monsieur Bellier sit down naked in a red-hot frying pan.”
    The priest nodded, blinking back tears that had welled up in his eyes.
    Le patron put a large, strong hand on the priest’s shoulder. “You saved twelve from execution that day, mon ami. Your pleas moved monsters.”
    With surprise, Henry looked more carefully at the pale, gentle priest. He remembered his instinctive distrust of him when they’d met the previous year, prejudiced by Clayton’s dismissal of anyone who didn’t do work outdoors or with his own hands. Well, it took a lot of spine to argue with Nazis. Henry’s time on the run had certainly taught him that courage came in all sizes, ages, and gender of people. This journey was teaching him that courage was needed to fight internal battles as well.
    He bit his lip to wait a few beats out of respect for thehomage le patron was paying Father Gagnol. Then he tried again. “About Pierre, sir. Do you remember where you sent him?”
    â€œYes. We were cut off from the abbey I sent children to before. A thousand Nazis were between us by then. So I sent him with a guide to a monastery north of Grenoble. Far away to be safe. I do not know if he made it. Trouble came to us soon after. I have not thought of him.” He crossed himself. “I will remember him in my prayers from now on.”
    â€œYou have no idea what has become of him?”
    â€œNo. I have buried two hundred of my flock. I lost track of one boy.” The priest spoke angrily, and then waved a hand in apology. “ Pardonnez-moi .”
    â€œWhat about his uncle Jacques?”
    Father Gagnol turned to le patron . “He was part of the Forêt de Lente maquis. ”
    Le patron shook his head. “Dead.”
    â€œWhat about the maquisard who led me that night?” Henry pushed on.
    â€œI do not remember who that was, lieutenant.”
    â€œHe was a kid, maybe sixteen? I didn’t know his name. Pierre was the only one who told his name. Oh, wait. Maybe this will help. He was a musician, a trumpet player, from Paris. His parents had been deported.”
    The priest stopped him. Yes, I know Yves. His fatherwas a half Jew, so he was sent here to hide. Yves had a beautiful voice. He sang for my church.”
    â€œThat’s right! We sang a Louis Armstrong song! He had a great set of pipes. I owe him a record. I promised I’d…” Henry stopped. He could tell from the priest’s face. The musical teenager was dead.
    Henry hung his head, remembering walking down the mountains with the boy, singing, pretending to play trumpets like Armstrong. And their final parting, when Henry asked to know where to send the record album.
    â€œHow will I find you?”
    â€œVivant, j’espère.”
    Alive, he hoped.
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    This time Henry fell silent and le patron prodded. “What is it that you want? What will you do if you find this Pierre?”
    All this time, Henry hadn’t really thought through that. Until this morning he had hoped—despite all the dire news—to find Pierre safe and sound, his little farm operating happily somehow, his mother making that wonderful fritter of potato and onion. Having now heard the full story of the Vercors’s obliteration, Henry knew his first job was to