immediately to French police authorities to be sent to dig trenches in defense of Paris.
André and Alex faltered momentarily. André was thirty-nine and Alex thirty-seven. Duty in the Ruhr Valley no longer seemed so onerous.
“I heard from refugees in the square that the national gendarmes stationed here have a reputation for aggressiveness and vindictiveness,” Alex said, “and the locals won’t shield us since what little sympathy they had vanished overnight. They want retribution from anyone associated with the little country that gave up so abruptly while France struggles on.”
The brothers drifted to the window. Across the square three Belgian soldiers were being shouted at, poked, and spat upon by enraged Frenchmen.
“How can they blame the soldiers?” Alex asked angrily. “Leopold sold all of us down the river, surrendering without one word to his allies.”
André agreed but said, “I can’t blame the French either. With the evacuation of Dunkirk they no longer have the British Expeditionary Force behind them and now can’t even count on our little Belgian army. They’re on their own against the Luftwaffe and the Panzers and…”
Alex pressed a forefinger to his lips to silence André as the door handle to the adjoining room turned. Denise stepped in and André quickly apprised her of all—except the call to join a trench-digging brigade.
“Orders are orders, so I suppose we must stay,” Denise said softly. “We’re incredibly lucky to have three rooms when so many haven’t any.”
In the square the crowd became more hostile, forcing the poor Belgian soldiers back and back and back.
Alex exploded. “We can’t stay here no matter what our orders may be!”
“With all this commotion,” André said, pointing to the throng abusing the Belgian soldiers, “it might be possible to slip off unnoticed.”
“We must leave immediately,” Alex declared.
In a very few minutes the ten Sauverins had packed up, settled the bill, and gone out the service door to the side of the hotel where they had parked their car and trailer. Unnerved by the engine noise, wincing at each squeak and creak of the awkward trailer, Alex maneuvered around to the front of the hotel and turned onto a street leading away from the square and the still-growing, ever-growling crowd.
Looking back André saw an elderly Frenchman who wore a Great War uniform festooned with medals interpose his person between the mob and the visibly terrified Belgians. The old warrior shouted and waved his arms, turning red in the face.
“What is he doing?” Denise asked André.
“Perhaps berating his fellow Gauls for their incivility and irrationality, telling them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for their herdlike behavior, that they must know no Belgian in Millau can be blamed for the actions of their king. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s working.”
Step by step the mob made way for the Belgian soldiers, giving them just enough space to escape rapidly down a side street and out of sight.
Alex made his way between parked trucks, shifted into second gear, then upshifted into third, heading toward the open road leading up the Gorge du Tarn. At the outskirts of town several policemen stood alongside the road and Alex reflexively slowed.
“Here we go again. Where are our passports?”
“They’re going to send us back,” Geneviève predicted bitterly.
Everyone was astonished when the police waved them on without checking their papers.
“Keep going!” an officer shouted, waving vigorously. “Go ahead!”
Alex stamped down on the accelerator, speeding away from the dangers of Millau. “What was that about?” he asked querulously, rounding a bend. “As the Protestant minister pointed out, even our license plate gives us away as Belgians.”
“Millau is at the far end of Aveyron,” André said pondering. “Maybe it takes time for orders to reach there.”
Alex barked a laugh. “Lucky for us they
André and Alex faltered momentarily. André was thirty-nine and Alex thirty-seven. Duty in the Ruhr Valley no longer seemed so onerous.
“I heard from refugees in the square that the national gendarmes stationed here have a reputation for aggressiveness and vindictiveness,” Alex said, “and the locals won’t shield us since what little sympathy they had vanished overnight. They want retribution from anyone associated with the little country that gave up so abruptly while France struggles on.”
The brothers drifted to the window. Across the square three Belgian soldiers were being shouted at, poked, and spat upon by enraged Frenchmen.
“How can they blame the soldiers?” Alex asked angrily. “Leopold sold all of us down the river, surrendering without one word to his allies.”
André agreed but said, “I can’t blame the French either. With the evacuation of Dunkirk they no longer have the British Expeditionary Force behind them and now can’t even count on our little Belgian army. They’re on their own against the Luftwaffe and the Panzers and…”
Alex pressed a forefinger to his lips to silence André as the door handle to the adjoining room turned. Denise stepped in and André quickly apprised her of all—except the call to join a trench-digging brigade.
“Orders are orders, so I suppose we must stay,” Denise said softly. “We’re incredibly lucky to have three rooms when so many haven’t any.”
In the square the crowd became more hostile, forcing the poor Belgian soldiers back and back and back.
Alex exploded. “We can’t stay here no matter what our orders may be!”
“With all this commotion,” André said, pointing to the throng abusing the Belgian soldiers, “it might be possible to slip off unnoticed.”
“We must leave immediately,” Alex declared.
In a very few minutes the ten Sauverins had packed up, settled the bill, and gone out the service door to the side of the hotel where they had parked their car and trailer. Unnerved by the engine noise, wincing at each squeak and creak of the awkward trailer, Alex maneuvered around to the front of the hotel and turned onto a street leading away from the square and the still-growing, ever-growling crowd.
Looking back André saw an elderly Frenchman who wore a Great War uniform festooned with medals interpose his person between the mob and the visibly terrified Belgians. The old warrior shouted and waved his arms, turning red in the face.
“What is he doing?” Denise asked André.
“Perhaps berating his fellow Gauls for their incivility and irrationality, telling them they ought to be ashamed of themselves for their herdlike behavior, that they must know no Belgian in Millau can be blamed for the actions of their king. I don’t know. Whatever it is, it’s working.”
Step by step the mob made way for the Belgian soldiers, giving them just enough space to escape rapidly down a side street and out of sight.
Alex made his way between parked trucks, shifted into second gear, then upshifted into third, heading toward the open road leading up the Gorge du Tarn. At the outskirts of town several policemen stood alongside the road and Alex reflexively slowed.
“Here we go again. Where are our passports?”
“They’re going to send us back,” Geneviève predicted bitterly.
Everyone was astonished when the police waved them on without checking their papers.
“Keep going!” an officer shouted, waving vigorously. “Go ahead!”
Alex stamped down on the accelerator, speeding away from the dangers of Millau. “What was that about?” he asked querulously, rounding a bend. “As the Protestant minister pointed out, even our license plate gives us away as Belgians.”
“Millau is at the far end of Aveyron,” André said pondering. “Maybe it takes time for orders to reach there.”
Alex barked a laugh. “Lucky for us they
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