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

find Pierre and then help him find whatever was left of his family. With some foreboding, he asked, “Pierre’s uncle thought the mother was shipped to Ravensbruck.Could she have survived?”
    More and more, le patron answered for the two Frenchmen. The priest looked relieved at seeing the old maquisard revive. “A few Ravensbruck prisoners— celebrities —were exchanged,” he began. “De Gaulle’s sister was one. But we have no word of the camp. We hope the…” He paused, and nodded slightly, as if reminding himself of something good about the Allies. “We hope the Americans liberate it. Last week, your General Patton reached Buchenwald. His troops care for the prisoners until they are strong to travel. We look for rooms in houses that are left for those who may come home to us.”
    Henry mulled over the situation. “I don’t think there is anything else for me to do really but go to that monastery. If Pierre is there, I can look after him until we know what has happened to his mother.”
    â€œWe can care for the child, lieutenant,” said the priest.
    â€œNo! I want to do it,” Henry spoke sharply, and then blushed for it. “He saved my life. He hid me for a month. I am pretty sure the Milice arrested his mother because of me.” He looked at le patron. “It’s important that I make that right somehow.” He paused and added, his voice hoarse, “I promised Pierre that I would be with him in trouble. Unlike the paratroopers, monsieur, I’ve come.”
    The old maquisard crossed his arms across his broad chest and scrutinized Henry. Henry returned the hardgaze. Slowly, le patron smiled. Henry could tell that once upon a time that smile had led to hearty laughter.
    â€œThen we gather charcoal for my gazogène car. I drive you. The monks may not be helpful.” Le patron clapped the priest on the back. “Pardon, Father. You are the only man of the cloth I trust. You and le Barbu. Remember what le Barbu said when he joined us? He said, ‘I kill Germans with my cross and then read the funeral mass over them.’ A priest to my liking.”
    Le patron picked up his walking stick, adding for Henry’s benefit, “We socialists do not like the Church.” He strode off, shouting over his shoulder, “Come. Vite. ”

C HAPTER T WELVE
    H enry sat on smooth gray leather in the backseat of a Citröen deux chevaux —a trophy stolen from the Germans in Grenoble during a nighttime raid for medical supplies. Le patron ’s men had risked the heist because a British SOE officer had landed in a tree when he was parachuted in and broken his arm. The doctor had needed plaster to set it and there had been none left in the Vercors villages.
    â€œAs they leave the hospital, they see the commandant car outside a certain mademoiselle’s apartment, keys inside. Voilà . I ride in style.” Le patron was driving and talking, gesturing with both hands to make his points. More than once Henry had gasped and braced himself, as le patron turned to look at him during the telling of a story and swerved wildly, nearly hurling them off the narrow high cliff roads.
    Le patron must have been making the other man in the car nervous as well, because when they stopped to dump more charcoal into the burner, that man took over the wheel. The new driver was from Senegal, a huge, six-foot-three expanse of man with wide shoulders and a long neck. He had a devil of a time folding his lanky legs up underneath the steering wheel of the sleek, small car. To fit under the roof, he’d taken off his fez, a tasseled red pillbox hat left over from his French colonial uniform. He, too, had been a trophy of a kind, a prisoner stolen from the Germans.
    â€œThat was our best raid,” said le patron , describing how his maquis freed fifty-two Senegalese POWs. He was so desperate for trained soldiers because of de Gaulle’s