The Stolen Years

8

Pontalier, Switzerland, 1918

If the Americans were here, he was jolly well going to find them, Gavin decided, standing on the platform of the tiny station at Pontalier, a Swiss border town north of Lake Geneva. His false identity papers, which had been provided by a priest named Frère Siméon, identified him as Michel Rouget. He grimaced, not liking the idea of being named after a fish, but he knew he could pass perfectly as a young Frenchman.

It was barely six o’clock, and the station was empty, for the passengers departing to Nancy on the 6:40 had not yet arrived. He eyed the stationmaster, his crisp, blue uniform and brisk gait as pompous as his curled mustache, crossing the tracks in the chilly, damp mist, then peered through the window and shabby net curtains of the Buffet de la Gare, 2ième classe. The door swung open and a whiff of coffee and fresh croissants made his mouth water, bringing back poignant memories of Greta, who was never far from his mind.

He fingered the meager change in his pocket, wondering whether to invest in breakfast or wait till later. But there was no sign of the train, so he rose and went inside where a sleepy young waitress stood behind the counter, flicking a feather duster halfheartedly over a tightly packed row of bottles. She cheered at the sight of a young customer and laid down the feather duster, smiling.

“Is that real coffee?” Gavin asked.

“Yes. But you’d better order now, before the morning crowd comes in. After six o’clock it’s usually all gone. What’ll it be?”

“A café au lait and a croissant,” he replied, remembering the many coffees that Eugène, Angus and he had so often enjoyed in Ambazac, after an early-morning fishing expedition. It too reminded him of Greta and his hasty departure. He gazed down at the hard-boiled eggs, his mind far away as he remembered the sound of the approaching car, the two of them peering, unbelieving, from behind the heavy damask curtains; Greta’s terrified look as the vehicle finally entered the courtyard, coming to a slow stop in front of the pavilion.

“It’s an army car,” she said, voice trembling. “Oh my God. You have to flee, Gavin. You must go to the cellar immediately. God knows what will happen if they find you here.”

“That’s absurd. I can’t leave you. I won’t.”

“Wait,” she whispered, clutching his sleeve as the car door opened. “That’s General Meinz-Reutenbach, one of my father’s best friends. He tried to save poor Franz.” She turned, lips white and eyes pleading. “Darling, you must go. It’s safe for me, but not for you. If they find you here, they will be obliged to take us both prisoner. I would be hiding an enemy—they wouldn’t have a choice. Please,” she begged, seeing the other officers exiting the vehicle, stopping to admire the facade before they approached the front door. “Go.” She pushed him into the hall toward the cellar door, desperate.

“How can I leave you alone? What if you are wrong? What if—”

“Just go, Gavin, I implore you. You must,” she sobbed, her face ashen. “Take some money from the safe, as we planned, and go,” she said in a tremulous whisper, grabbing a jacket from the newel post and thrusting it at him. Gavin lingered reluctantly, part of him telling him to stay and defend her, whatever the consequences, the other knowing she was right, and that by staying he was placing them both in danger.

“But I can’t abandon you, for Christ’s sake,” he insisted as she pushed him relentlessly toward the top of the cellar stairs.

The doorbell clanged through the hall.

“Go,” she whispered, eyes wild. “I beg of you. Do it for me, darling.”

“I’ll wait in the cellar.”

“No.” She shook her head desperately.

“Greta, I won’t leave you to face this alone. I—”

“For goodness’ sake, go, or you’ll get us both killed.” She shoved him down the stairs, but he held her.

“I love you, Greta. Remember. I’ll be back, I promise.” He gave her a last tight hug. “Where will I find you?”

“My aunt’s—Louisa von Ritter in Lausanne.” She touched his cheek as the doorbell rang a second time, then tore brusquely from his hold, closing the cellar door and locking it firmly behind her. He stood, powerless, his ear glued to it in helpless frustration, hearing the voices. Calm, friendly voices. There was obvious relief in the officer’s tone. His heart beat fast as he debated what to do.

After what seemed like ages, he heard footsteps, the distant sound of shutters being closed and doors being shut. They’re closing the house, he realized, trembling. They’re taking her away. He raised his hand, about to bang the door down, but knew it was useless. The echo of the front door closing and the far-off rumble of the car’s departure left him sinking to his knees on the cellar stairs, besieged by guilt and frustration, praying she would be all right.

It was impossible to absorb that, in a few short minutes, their magical world had fallen apart, disappeared, whisked from beneath them like a tablecloth sending china flying in every direction. It seemed unbelievable that less than two hours earlier she had been lying comfortably in his arms, wondering whether or not to bake today. Now cold reality and doubt seeped through the damp stone steps. Perhaps he should have stood firm and taken her with him. They could have not answered the door, pretended no one was there, escaped together into the forest. He buried his face in his hands. Why had he allowed her to persuade him?

Because instinctively he knew she’d be safer without him. Slowly he drew his head up and rose, leaning against the wall, pulling himself together little by little. It was better for her this way. It was the right thing. He could manage on his own, but taking her with him would have made her a criminal. He reached up and tried the door one last time, knowing full well that it was locked and there was little choice left but to follow Greta’s instructions.

He felt his way numbly down the steps, lighting the small gas lamp at the bottom, his eyes seeking the safe tucked between two casks to his right. Should he take the money? Yet what choice did he have? He braced himself and, crossing the cellar, opened it as Greta had instructed him. Stuffing his pockets with French francs, German marks and British pounds, he then searched for a bag to carry some food with him. He found a sack of flour and emptied it in a corner. After giving it a good shake, he filled it with sausages, dried meat, a bottle of red wine and some cheese. At least that would keep him going for a while.

Reluctantly he picked up the loden shooting jacket Greta had thrown at him and put out the lamp, afraid it might set fire to the place. Reaching for the secret lock on the panel in the wall, he waited, his pulse racing anxiously. What if it didn’t open? He would be trapped alive in this dark, dank dungeon of a place…But it sprang open promptly and he delved into the blinding darkness.

Banging his head hard on the low ceiling, he saw stars and swore. After a while his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Thanks to Greta’s tender care, his thigh and hip were much better. Thank God, for the narrow passage was so cramped there were places he could barely crawl. But he ignored the musty, festering smell, the fleeting shadows and scuttle of vermin, determined to reach his goal.

“Voilà!” The waitress’s singsong voice brought him back to the present with a bang, and he blinked for a moment at the croissant and large, chipped cup of milky-brown coffee on the counter. Then he smiled and thanked her before dipping the tip of the flaky crescent pastry carefully into the beverage, relishing the moment.

“Are you from near here?” she asked coquettishly.

“No. I’m from Limoges. Ever been there?” He grinned, sinking his teeth into the soft, buttery texture, willing it to last, not knowing when he’d see another. The change in his pocket had dwindled to a few coins, just enough to get him to Nancy, where he hoped to meet up with a British or American convoy and rejoin his regiment.

“I’ve never been far away at all,” the girl answered wistfully. “Why aren’t you at the war?”

“I was wounded at Chemin des Dames,” he lied. “Most of us were. I’m just getting back on my feet. I’m off to join my regiment.”

“I heard the Germans are trying to get to Paris,” she said in a sober voice. “They have a terrible cannon that shoots from miles.” She shuddered, apparently glad to be many miles away.

“Well, now that the Americans are here, that should help.”

“Oh, oui! Les Américains. Aren’t they wonderful? I met one. He was so handsome.” She giggled and looked at him from under her lashes. “But he didn’t speak any French, so I couldn’t talk to him. Do you think the Allies will win the war?”

He was saved from answering by the distant chuffing of the train entering the station. “Here.” He shoved some change in her direction. “It was nice meeting you. Au revoir.”

“Au revoir, et bonne chance.” She sent him a wistful wave, wishing him good luck as he headed for the platform where the train, packed with soldiers heading north to the battlefields, wheezed to a shuddering stop. Not many passengers alighted, and before long the stationmaster announced tous les passagers à bord.

It took some time to find a seat, but finally Gavin squeezed in between a fat woman in a threadbare green coat that reeked of garlic, and a sniveling toddler who proceeded to wipe his nose on Gavin’s trouser leg. He glanced through the foggy window as the train heaved out of the station, then leaned back, his thoughts picking up where he’d left off before the croissant. Soon the monotonous rattling of the carriage sent him into a doze and his memories drifted back, into the thick of the forest.

Panting, Gavin emerged from the tunnel and sat against a tree trunk, exhausted, his hip nagging. He wiped away the grime and spiderwebs before squinting at the few thin slivers of sunlight piercing the heavy, dark fir trees. Realizing the sun was his only compass, he knew his best bet was to head south and try to reach Switzerland, which Greta had said was less than one hundred kilometers away.

They’d had no reports of the war during their blissful interlude at Schloss Annenberg, as though nothing existed but their own idyllic world. But as he began to trudge through the forest, reality loomed, stark and menacing. He was an escaped prisoner of war on enemy territory, alone in the vast ominous silence of the forest, with only a pocketful of foreign currency and odd glimpses of setting sun for company.

Night descended, damp and chilly, and he searched for a dry spot, glad of the heavy loden jacket. Alert despite his fatigue, he listened intently to the noises of the forest, the scuttling and scurrying, the distant howl of wolves and the eerie echoes, wishing for the sound of Greta humming in the kitchen, the crackle of logs in the huge fireplace, all that they’d shared over the past months.

Finally exhaustion won and he slept, waking early to the twittering chatter of birds, scampering rabbits and deer grazing peacefully in a clearing close by.

He walked on for several days, checking the sun every so often, careful to stick to the depths of the forest. Progress was difficult, and after a few days his food dwindled to a last nibble of hard sausage. Hunger twisted his gut until he thought he would die if he didn’t eat. It was then he remembered Miles’s knife, which he kept as the stark reminder of a mistake he would carry with him always. He unsheathed it, averting his gaze from the lethal blade, realizing he had little choice but to use it. Either he hunted for rabbit or deer, or he’d starve to death.

After several hours of stalking warily, he cornered an un-suspecting rabbit. Soon the smell of roasting meat sizzling over a small campfire filled the air around him.

As the days passed, the landscape changed; the trees became sparser, until open country and vineyards stretched before him. Trying to find his bearings, he was careful to stay concealed from the narrow road that wound among the orderly rows of vines standing like toy soldiers under a clear blue sky.

Three days without food and water had left him so weak he could barely stand. Still he ventured out into the open, driven by hunger and the knowledge that to survive he must move forward despite the risk. Praying the border was nearby, he crouched low among the vines, staying clear of a distant village. Then, unable to take a step farther, he collapsed onto the dank earth and slept.

When he woke, Gavin knew at once that he was not alone. He held his breath, lest the person realize he was awake. Then, to his amazement, he heard an exchange in French.

“Frère Siméon, do you think we should take him back with us?” a ponderous voice with a rolling Provençal accent asked.

He was answered in clipped, cultivated, if somewhat irritated, Parisian tones. “Of course we must take him, Frère Benedict. We can hardly leave him here.”

“Eh, non,” the other voice agreed.

Gavin risked squinting upward. His gaze met with a brown habit stretched to its limit over a large girth.

“Allons, come along, mon frère,” the Parisian voice urged. “We haven’t got all day. You take his feet and I’ll get his shoulders.”

Gavin felt Angus’s cross in his pocket and, with a quick prayer, made a snap decision. If he hadn’t been so afraid, he would have laughed at the sight of Frère Benedict’s bulbous blue eyes popping out of his face, when all at once Gavin sat up.

“Ah! I see you aren’t injured after all, mon jeune ami,” said the tall, thin friar whom he presumed was Frère Siméon.

“Non, mon Père. I was injured but I am better now.”

“He speaks French!” Frère Benedict exclaimed, leaning forward, his eyes wider than ever.

“So I gather,” Frère Siméon replied patiently. “What are you doing here?”

“Where am I? In France?”

“Unfortunately not. You are not far from the Bodensee, near the Swiss border, but still very much on German territory. Thus I recommend we do not linger. If you are indeed French, we cannot take the risk that you are found.”

“Thank you,” Gavin replied gratefully. “I am a British soldier. I escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp some time ago.” He began rising painfully.

Frère Siméon looked around quickly. “If we should encounter anyone, you must pretend to be drunk. Here, lean on me as though you are having difficulty walking.”

Gavin was so tired and weak he could barely stand. His wound had begun to ache once more and walking was difficult. Slowly they made their way through the vineyard toward a gracious manor house that stood on a slight rise, surrounded by vines. Its ancient walls were a soft vanilla yellow, and under the gabled slate roof the windows were arched and numerous. Hidden to the left stood a beautiful baroque chapel.

“Is this a monastery?” he asked.

“No. It is the estate of Baron von Lorsheid, a good Catholic, who suggested we move here when our monastery came under fire. There are several French and Italian monks among us. The locals do not bother us much. They are mostly devout, God-fearing folk.”

“And the war?” Gavin asked, leaning perilously on Frère Siméon’s shoulder. “What is happening?”

“Things are very bad. There is very little food and much talk of defeat among the Germans. I don’t think it can last much longer. There are too many dead, too many hungry, and no desire to fight. All these poor souls want is their life back.” He shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors that the Americans are repelling the enemy with the British and the French. Be careful.” Frère Siméon held Gavin’s arm tightly as he stumbled, dizzy. By the time they reached the heavy oak door of the manor, he was ready to collapse.

“Come inside, mon ami, but do not speak. And, Frère Benedict, do not mention that—What is your name?”

“Gavin, Gavin MacLeod.”

“That is no good.” Frère Siméon frowned. “Too British. We shall name you Johannes. Frère Benedict—” he turned and looked pointedly at the other monk “—this is Johannes. Will you remember that?”

“But he just said—”

“The good Lord has asked us to forget what he just said and has instructed us to call him by the name of Johannes,” he said pointedly.

Frère Benedict scratched the balding patch on the crown of his head, eyelids blinking rapidly. Then he nodded and shrugged. “Eh, bon! If it is the Lord’s wish…”

“It is,” Frère Siméon replied emphatically.

Reaching a staircase Frère Siméon turned once more. “Brother, please find him a habit. One that will fit,” he added, looking Gavin over with a smile. “You must be very tired and hungry.”

Three monks walked toward them as they reached the gallery, and Gavin stiffened warily. But Frère Siméon merely smiled and nodded. “There is nothing to be feared from our own brethren, but we must keep you hidden from the village folk. The risk of discovery is too great. For us all,” he added dryly. Gavin shivered, thinking of Franz and Greta, and the risks they had taken for his sake.

The sudden wheezing and jolting of the train as it pulled into the station at Nancy woke him, and the dreams disappeared abruptly as he joined the bustle. Leaning over, the woman seated beside him told him that Nancy was a town of anarchistes and révolutionnaires.

After some questioning, he was told the most likely spot to find an army lorry heading north was the Place Stanislas. Four hours later he was squeezed in the back of a canvas-covered truck with twenty-five French soldiers on their way to join the forces near the Sambre. There, the Americans and British armies were repelling the Germans. From the soldiers’ enthusiasm, Gavin ascertained that they considered the war would soon be over. They laughed, told raucous jokes, shared their black-tobacco cigarettes with him and passed round a bottle of cognac.

He tried to get information on the British troop movements up near Arras, but no one knew much about what the British were up to. It was les Américains they were interested in, for apparently the Germans were terrified of them. One soldier gave a dramatic description of American G.I.s bursting out of nowhere in hordes, with such enthusiasm that the mere sight of them sent the Germans into flight. There was boisterous laughter, and the bottle of cognac made the rounds again. All the while, Gavin racked his brains for the best way to get back to his battalion.

The excitement was contagious. Perhaps Angus would be there and all would be resolved. Flora and the family would finally know he was all right. The thought of Flora made him somewhat ashamed. If the truth be told, he’d barely remembered her since the months with Greta. For the first time, he wondered what he was going to do. He had asked Flora to marry him, yet he had promised Greta that he would return for her.

Conflicted, his mind was kept busy with the dilemma until the truck chuffed up a hill and came to an abrupt halt. There were exclamations, groans and expletives from the men. Gavin leaned out of the back to see what was going on. Then he heard English voices. Without a second thought he clambered over the men and jumped off the truck, heading hastily toward a group of three officers, realizing at once they were American. One turned and he grabbed the chance to speak to him.

“Excuse me, are you heading to the front?”

“Sure are,” the man replied, eyeing him curiously.

“Can I get a lift from you? I’m trying to rejoin my regiment. I’m Captain Gavin MacLeod of the Fifty-first Highlanders. I was taken prisoner and escaped.” He straightened his shoulders.

“A lift?” The man raised an eyebrow and scrutinized Gavin’s peasant clothes and unshaven chin.

“He means a ride,” his fellow officer put in with a grin. “What’s your name?”

“Captain MacLeod of the Fifty-first Highlanders.” Gavin saluted smartly, hoping they’d believe him.

“Sounds good enough to me. Jump in the truck. Say, I don’t suppose you understand this gibberish?” He nodded toward a flustered French lieutenant.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Lord be praised. Gimme a hand over here, will you?”

To everyone’s relief, Gavin began translating the conversation. The Americans were suitably impressed.

“Boy, you’re good. How did you learn Frog?” a gum-chewing soldier asked.

“My mother’s French.”

“Great. I’m Colonel Bill Donovan, First American Army, New York Sixty-ninth Regiment. We’re heading to St. Mihiel. That’s where the heat’s on right now. The Frogs need help.” He gave Gavin a speculative look. “We could use a guy like you around. I don’t suppose you’d consider joining our unit for a while before returning to your own?”

“I’d be delighted,” he replied without the slightest hesitation. They were headed in the right direction and that was all that mattered.

Jumping in the new American truck, they began the journey north. Soon Gavin was learning all that had occurred over the past months: the big German offensive, Ludendorff’s penetration of France and how Big Bertha—a gun with a range of seventy-five miles—was terrifying the shit out of Paris. In June the marines had denied the Germans access to the road to Rheims which, had it been captured, would have doubled their railway capacity. The Americans laughed and joked, telling him the already legendary story of what the marines had said when the Frogs wanted them to retreat: Retreat? Hell no, we just got here. Thanks to them, the Germans were having a hard time feeding their troops.

“Can’t fight on an empty belly,” Donovan remarked, reminding Gavin of his own hunger.

“They’re starving to death back in Germany,” he told them, recounting his exploits since he escaped from the hospital. He left out the part about Greta but mentioned the monks who had helped him get to Switzerland. “The German people and army are exhausted. Hindenburg and Ludendorff are no longer the national heroes they once were. All they want is a peace treaty. They can’t survive much longer.”

The First American Army was deployed just south of Verdun, facing the waterlogged territory of the St. Mihiel salient that had been held by the enemy since 1914. After a long ride, they reached the base and Gavin tasted his first hamburger—a mouthwatering experience. As he munched, Donovan called in a private.

“Get this man a uniform,” he instructed. “A captain’s uniform,” he added with a wink.

Gavin grinned, gripped by the dynamic American energy and the natural confidence the troops exuded, so different from the fatigued British and French armies that were stretched to the limit of endurance. He felt energized and alive, and after more French fries, ready to fight.

Later, donning the uniform they had found him, he glanced at the name on the jacket. Captain Dexter Ward, New York Sixty-ninth. He experienced a moment of hesitation, then put it on. For an instant he wondered how Ward had died, and felt strange about stepping into a dead man’s shoes. He fingered the dog tags forgotten in the pocket, wondering if he should hand them over. Then he cocked an eye at himself in the small shaving mirror, holding it back far enough to get a good look. He wondered if he should add an American twang to complete the image. It wouldn’t be too hard, accustomed as he was to chopping and changing languages with ease. All at once he slipped the dog tags on his wrist, then saluted smartly. If he was going to borrow Captain Ward’s identity, he’d better do it right.

The overwhelming need to return to his unit had diminished against the enthusiasm and excitement surrounding him; the thought of rejoining the worn-out British army and perhaps having to face the problem of Flora was simply less enticing than where he was. He felt a sudden pang of guilt as he took a last look in the mirror. Then, with a shrug, he turned on his heel. He’d get back eventually and solve his problems. Just later, rather than sooner.