In This Hospitable Land by Jr. Lynmar Brock

Alex. “Follow me please.” He led them into the crowded street. Out of earshot of the others he asked, “Twins?”
    “Just brothers,” Alex answered peevishly.
    “Often mistaken for twins,” André said more congenially.
    Turning the nearest corner they entered the town plaza where a fountain sparkled in the sun, gentle streams of water washing down the stone nymphs frolicking on its pedestal. The pastor led them to a small hotel they hadn’t spotted themselves, the best in Millau. Potted flowers framed the elegant entranceway. The sign hanging above it spelled out the name in elaborate gold letters.
    Alex went in and soon returned to announce, “It’s all right. They have rooms for us.”
    “You are most fortunate,” the pastor observed.
    “That’s the advantage of money,” Alex said coldly. “They’re happy to have customers who can afford their price.”
    The threesome pushed back toward the church through the ever-changing scene of refugees and the townspeople who came out to observe them as a curious entertainment.
    “Few are as fortunate as you,” the pastor said sadly. “I’m afraid I have to let some sleep on the floor of our church. All the houses of worship have been turned into temporary shelters. Even the schools have been shut down and turned over to the displaced.” He shrugged his sagging shoulders with weariness and resignation. “We have already used every bed, pad, and pallet available. Yet you keep coming!”

     
    Sitting alone at the window of his bedchamber Tuesday morning, André enjoyed room service’s coffee and a croissant while looking down into the town square. With the struggle for life intensifying, it seemed longer than it had actually been since Germany’s attack upended their lives—especially when André contemplated the depleted spirits of the refugees he had encountered throughout the hotel. Some of these guests and temporary lobby residents were Frenchmen from the north, but most were his fellow Belgians. He used to think he knew his people well. How little these individuals reminded him of those he had known all his life. Many were so testy they made Alexandre Sauverin appear a gentle, genial soul.
    To them nothing the French had done, were doing, or ever would do was sufficient let alone right. They were particularly bitter that so little mercy and even less love was being shown by the citizens of Millau for the strangers in their midst.
    André’s experience had been different. The Protestant pastor had been kind and helpful. André would have enjoyed discussing spiritual matters with him, learning something of his church’s history and its stance on war today.
    Such a conversation could yet take place if the Sauverins stayed a while. Since the journey had already taken a toll on them all, especially Louis and Rose, André thought it best that they rest where they were another day or two.
    Insistent knocking called him to the door. Alex entered like a whirlwind.
    “Have you heard? King Leopold has capitulated and fled in the middle of the night. As of eleven this morning our forces will surrender unconditionally and Belgium will belong to ‘the Fatherland!’”
    “How do you know? How can that be?”
    “The town is awash with the news!” Alex shouted. André gestured him to keep his voice down, hoping not to trouble the family members next door and across the hall. “If you thought the townspeople were angry at the Belgian refugees yesterday, you should see them now.”
    André turned on the radio and the bad news was confirmed. Worse, as of that moment Belgians in France were forbidden to move from wherever they were.
    “How fortunate that we left Bourras L’Abbaye when we did,” André sighed.
    “Once again,” Alex fumed, “one step ahead of disaster.”
    The brothers were further taken aback when the radio announcer proclaimed a single exception to the “stay-put” order. Every adult Belgian male below the age of forty-five was to report