December 1945: Arthur's second daughter is born (chapter draft)

    This is the story of my mom's birth.  For those of you who know her, she goes by Jackie, a diminutive of her middle name.  For the first few years of her life, she went by her first name Sylvie. But when she was learning to speak, she evidently couldn't say Sylvie, and said "vee-vee" instead, so they took to calling her Vivi, and then people assumed her name was Vivian. Grandma got tired of that and told people to use Mom's middle name Jacqueline instead, which is how she came to be called Jackie.

***

Arthur's Second Daughter is Born

That summer I was informed that our home would soon be graced with a blessed event. I was at once possessed with a violent case of jealousy which, to this very day still lingers. I anticipated with sorrow the many privileges which I would have to surrender to this new baby. -- Lillian Lubinski, March 1955. 

The hospital was not heated, by lack of fuel. It was freezing in every room. The only heating was in surgeries and delivery rooms. Otherwise it was not. . . .brrrr. . . . shiver.  Well, the doctor asked me to step out. Today, there is a fashion that the father should be there, to see what happens for, I don’t know, psychological reasons. But anyhow, at that time they didn’t let me stay. I was out. And I was cold. I claimed I suffered more than Roma. Roma is laughing at that, but she was not cold, and I was. The baby came, it was a daughter, my second daughter and very lovely. What else you want to know?  --Arthur Lubinski describing the birth of her mother to his granddaughter, May 1988.

 

 The next day was Sunday, so Arthur didn’t go to work. He used the car he'd been given for the reconstruction work, and drove Paul around the area, to show him where he’d been, and Roma and Liliane went along for the ride. 

The farmhouse in Beaumont-lès-Valence was still empty -- the Auvergne family hadn't found tenants yet -- and the Ourches HQ was also empty. Paul and Liliane both were most impressed with the Château of Châteaudouble.  

“You stayed there?  What’s it like?” 

“Beautiful. Rich. On the far side is a ballroom that overlooks the fields as they descend toward the Rhône. I set up the radio there in a picture window, among marble columns and statues.”

“How’d your commanding officer get permission to use it?” 

“He didn’t ask permission. The collaborator who owns it knew Vichy was coming to an end, and didn’t argue when Dr. Planas told him we wanted to use it as our HQ. I think he hopes to use our presence there to demonstrate his patriotism.”

Paul laughed.   

“Can we go inside, Daddy?” Liliane asked.

“No, darling. It’s someone’s home now, and not our headquarters any longer.”

That evening, Roma went into labor.  Arthur was grateful that his brother was still visiting, because Paul could stay with Liliane, and that would simplify things a great deal. 

He kept the car about almost a kilometer away from the apartment, under a covered carport. His neighbor hadn’t had a car in years, and had given him permission to use the carport.  But the vehicle was very difficult to start in cold weather, and he didn’t want to risk it not starting when it was time to go to the hospital.  And it was very cold that night, -10 Celsius.

So every two hours, he walked the kilometer to the carport, started the car, giving it gas until the sluggish engine turned over, and then after it had warmed up sufficiently, he shut off the engine off again. Then he walked home, hands in  his pockets, his coat collar turned up against the wind, and went back inside the apartment to keep Roma company, sometimes dozing a little.  

When it became apparent that it was time to go to the hospital, he helped Roma into her coat, then had her wait at the curb while he got the car and drove it back to the apartment. Paul was waiting outside with Roma, and he helped his sister-in-law into the car.  Then Paul went back into the apartment, and presumably went to sleep. It had been a long night.

Arthur drove Roma to the hospital, and dropped her off by the doors, then went to park the car. She waited for him to join her again, and he took her arm and lead her into the hospital.  A doctor took her into an exam room, and Arthur started to take off his coat, then realized the room was very cold, that he could still see his breath.  

The doctor brought Roma back out.  “She’s not quite ready, perhaps another hour or two.  There’s no one else in the delivery room tonight, so you may wait with her there, until it’s time.”  Arthur nodded, so the doctor lead them to the delivery room. “We lack fuel to heat the entire hospital, so the only heated rooms are the ORs and the delivery rooms.”  That explained why the lobby was so cold.  

Arthur pulled a book out of his pocket. It was a new copy Madam Curie by Éve Curie. They’d left their first copy behind in Brussels. “Shall I read to you? It might help pass the time.”  

Roma smiled — she was between contractions — and said, “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

So he read to her, for hours, pausing when the contractions came, or when a doctor or nurse came in to check on her. 

After one such pause, he asked her, “So what are the names we picked out again?” 

“Jean after your commanding office, Jean Georges or Sylvie Jacqueline,” she reminded him instantly.

 When Liliane was born, they’d chosen a name with a common English cognate, and they’d done the same thing this time, still planning and hoping to go to America someday.  And while they weren't religious, and didn't especially care about the Jewish prohibition against naming a child against a living relative, it still informed their decisions. To name the child after Isaac, or Teofila or Lola meant that they had lost that tiny bit of hope that Roma’s family had survived. 

Finally, something seemed to change in Roma, and she said, “Arthur, I think it’s time.”  

He opened the door, and went to find the doctor, but the man was already on his way in to check on her.

 

Arthur remained in the hallway outside, his hands in his pockets, and he paced to keep warm.  

The doctor came out, and said, “the baby is coming soon; please wait in the seating area.”

“May I retrieve my coat?” Arthur asked, rubbing his cold hands together.

“Yes, of course.” 

Arthur collected his coat, hat, and gloves, then left the room, pulling them on as he left. Two nurses came in, and the doctor closed the door behind them.

The waiting area was very cold, and Arthur was freezing. If he sat down, he got too cold, and soon began shivering.  So then he’d get up, blow into his hands to warm them, and bounce and pace and run in place to warm up again. But then he got tired, and sat back down, only to start the freeze-thaw cycle again.  He was terribly uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask for a blanket. The patients needed the blankets far more than he did. His nose was cold and his toes were numb.

After two hours, the smiling doctor came to find him. “Mr. Lubinski, you have a lovely, healthy daughter, and your wife is just fine.”  

“May I see her?” Arthur was shivering, and his teeth chattered as he spoke.  He had been planning to get up and begin his warm up routine, but stepping into the heated delivery room sounded much better.  

“Yes. Come in where it’s warm.”  

He found a very tired Roma, cradling a wrapped bundle.  He leaned down and kissed her, then lifted the fold of blanket covering his new daughter’s face.  “Hello, darling Sylvie,” he said.  Unlike with Liliane’s birth, when he’d had to get used to loving his daughter, this time he felt it immediately.  It wasn’t as if a stranger had entered their family.  

“Why don’t you take off your coat?” Roma asked him.

“Because I’m still cold. This is one of the only heated rooms. My toes are blocks of ice.” He grabbed one of her hands, and let her feel how cold his hands were.  “I think I suffered more than you did.”

Roma laughed at him. “I don’t think so.”

“You weren’t cold all this time.”  But he smiled to show her he was joking. . . . Sort of.  

“Well, go home and get some sleep. They are going to let me stay here unless the room is needed.”

On his way home, he went to city hall, and filled out the paperwork for Sylvie’s birth certificate.  He was feeling so good, joy with his new daughter and wife who had both come through the birth safely,  happy the war was finally over and overjoyed the Allies had been victorious, that he gave his baby an extra name on a whim. Sylvie Jacqueline Victoire Lubinski. Victory.  He then promptly forgot about the extra name, drove home and went to sleep wrapped in a mountain of blankets, while Paul was out spoiling Liliane with sweets.

August 1944: Arthur meets his first American (chapter draft)

    This is probably THE most important story I heard growing up. It was so important to my grandfather, that 44 years later, he wrote and delivered a speech about this experience to a bunch of his engineering colleagues.

    Like many (all?) immigrants, my grandparents immigrated to the United States in search of a better life. They came here in 1947, when they were in their mid-to-late 30s, becoming citizens in the early 1950s, and lived out the rest of their lives here, dying in 1996 and 2000. They lived in the United States FAR longer than the other three countries in which they lived put together.

    They had tried to go to America before the war - my great uncle begged them to come over here before the war started, and they always regretted not listening to him and traveling here when they had the chance (they were happy in Belgium is a big reason). But there were a few things that really cemented their desire to come here. This is one of them.  

***

Arthur meets his first American

   "Show me your weapons,” I asked. “I don’t have any,” he answered. I could not grasp this. “Parachuted behind the enemy lines, in mountains infested by Germans, without any weapons; did I understand you properly?” “Yes Sir,” he said. “I am a conscientious objector and I volunteered to be parachuted as a radio operator to prove once and for all that my objection to bear arms is not due to cowardice, but to my belief.” He seemed so strange, so great to me, the first man of the land which will become my country in the future. In Belgium and France, the freedom of an individual to think, believe, and say whatever he wishes is the utmost, but it disappears in war time and the fact that a conscience objector's right to not bear arms may still be expected in wartime seemed unbelievable to me. -- Arthur Lubinski, circa 1974.

    Jeanne brought the Planas company some interesting news. “There’s an American commando parachuting in to the area. A big group this time. Maybe 10 or 15 of them.” There was a spark of excitement in her eyes.

    “Do we know where?” Captain Planas asked.

    “No. Just that they are being dropped in this area.”

    “Puppy, Biscuit, you and you and you—“ Captain Planas pointed at the men until there were twelve chosen, “Please try to find them and make contact. Help them get to safety.”

    Arthur and the team left at ten o’clock that night. He carried the Sten, and had a couple of grenades in his pockets — regular ones this time, not plastique — and because he didn’t know how long he’d be gone, he’d packed a little food and a canteen in his knapsack. Puppy had a map, and it was clear to Arthur he was having trouble navigating. It was cloudy, and they didn’t have the stars for direction.

    “A compass would help,” Arthur suggested to Puppy. “I could get one.”

    “Yes, go fetch one. Then rejoin us. We’ll wait here, unless we have to move for safety.”

    They must have encountered a German patrol, because the men weren’t there when he returned, and he couldn’t find them. Not knowing what else to do, he decided to continue searching for the Americans without a map.

    He hiked from valley to valley, from high pass to high pass, looking for parachutes drifting down, but saw none. A vague, almost primeval orientation instinct guided him from valley to hill, around cliffs, or across streams.

    He occasionally (cautiously) approached strangers and asked if they’d seen any Americans around. Sometime during the night, he found a small, poor house in a valley. He knocked at the door, waking an old man who lived there alone.

    “Have there been any Americans around?” Arthur asked him.

    “Americans? Here?” the old man rasped.

    “Yes. They parachuted in. Ten or 15 of them.”

    “Why would Americans be here of all places?” he asked, clearly disbelieving. “I know nothing of any Americans. But there have been Germans around many times, as recently as last evening.”

    So Arthur kept going, splashing across streams and crossing forests, always listening and heard only the drone of insects and the now-normal sound of distant gunfire. It was cloudy, but there was a bright moon behind the clouds, so he could see well enough. He kept to fields and woods, and avoided roads, not wishing to encounter German patrols alone.

    Finally, not long before dawn, he started across a high pasture, noticing there were goats and sheep grazing. He made his way among the animals, but they mostly ignored him. One goat looked up from the scrub it was munching and started following along.

    Arthur reached down and scratched around the animals horns, and it closed its eyes in enjoyment, leaning into him slightly as a dog would. Arthur smiled at the animal, and wished Liliane was there to see it.

    “I see William has found a friend,” someone said from behind him.

    Arthur jumped and jerked around, bringing the Sten up.

    A shepherd stood there. “I mean you no harm,” he said.

    Arthur studied the man. It was too warm for the furry sheepskin coats shepherds wore in cooler weather, but he wore dark pants and a baggy shirt with cuffs, and a black beret. Arthur remembered hearing from someone that berets were developed by shepherds who figured that if wool worked to keep the animals warm in winter and cool in summer that it would work for people too. Now many people wore them, including most members of the Maquis.

    The man was carrying three sturdy poles. Two were perhaps 1.5 meters and had small protrusions on them with straps attached above the protrusions. The third looked like a cane of some sort, but it was more than two meters tall. Arthur realized the two shorter ones were stilts, and the cane allowed him to make a tripod when he was up on the stilts.

    The shepherd noticed Arthur looking at the stilts. “I’m from Landes.”

    Arthur was bewildered. “So?” he asked as politely as he could.

    The man chuckled. “I see you’ve never been to southwestern France It’s an old tradition there for shepherds to walk on stilts. Gives us a good view of our animals. And walking on them is fast. It’s not so useful here, but I like to practice sometimes.”

    Arthur realized the stride length would be enormous, and that yes, it would indeed be a very fast way to get around. He shook himself. “Have you seen some Americans here?” Arthur asked.

    “No, but five minutes ago, I saw some Germans.”

    “Which way did they go?”

    The shepherd pointed.

    Arthur thanked the man, and headed in a different direction.

    Finally, he found anther FFI encampment. He cautiously approached, and immediately he felt someone press the barrel of a gun into the back of his neck.

    “Halt. Turn slowly. Keep your gun pointed down.”

    Arthur turned, and he and the man recognized each other. The maquisard lowered his weapon. His patrol had stopped Arthur a week earlier.

    “Biscuit, right?”

    Arthur nodded. “I’m looking for an American commando unit. Maybe 15 men. Have you seen them? I’m supposed to talk to their commanding officer.”

    The man pointed across the camp, to a group of men in American uniforms. He counted twelve of them laying in the grass sleeping. “You’ll have to wait. He’s sleeping.”

    A thirteenth American was awake and a little distance away from the others, and he was busy with a huge and heavy trunk-like box. Arthur guessed it was about 1.75 meters by 1.25 meters by 1.25 meters.
    Arthur approached him. “What is that?” he asked in English.

    “A radio transmitter,” the man answered, in a strange accent that Arthur struggled to understand. The American was young and tall, and handsome enough that if Mrs. Auvergne were still alive, she’d flirt with him outrageously.

    “A radio transmitter? It is so big.”

    “Yes,” the man said, pride in evident in his voice. “It’s very powerful. I can talk to the Pentagon.”

    “The pentagon?” Arthur was puzzled why he spoke of a shape.

    “U.S. Military headquarters, near Washington D.C. The building is shaped like a pentagon, so that’s what we call it.”

    Arthur wondered if the man had a Tommy gun. They were supposed to be much better than the Stens, but he'd never seen one. “Please, may I see your Thompson submachine gun? I’ve heard they are very good, but have never seen one.”

    The man shook his head, a strange smile on his face. “I don’t have one. In fact, I don’t carry any weapons at all.”

    Arthur could hardly grasp what he was saying. Was the man really unarmed? “You parachuted behind enemy lines in mountains infested with Germans without any weapons? Did I understand you properly?”

    “Yes, sir,” he said. “I am a conscientious objector.”

    “Why? I mean, what does that mean?”

    “It means my religion forbids me from carrying weapons. I will not take a life.”

    “But …” Arthur had to stop and think of the expletive in English, “…hell, what are you doing here, beyond the enemy lines, without weapons? Your odds of survival are very, very slim.”

    The American shrugged. “I volunteered, and I learned to jump out of airplanes with a parachute and became a radio operator, to prove once and for all, that I am as patriotic as any other American, that I refuse to carry weapons due to my religious beliefs, and not cowardice.”

    “You are no coward.” Arthur told him. “A little crazy, perhaps.”

    The man laughed. “Yeah, maybe I am.”

    The young American seemed so strange, so courageous, so … moral.

    Arthur realized two things; the first was that he admired this young man very much, how he followed his conscience even during during the ugliness of war, and the second was that he was very impressed with America, for accommodating the religious beliefs of its soldiers. In Belgium and also in France, the freedom of the individual to think, believe and even to say whatever they want was venerated, but that freedom had completely disappeared in wartime, and not just because of the Nazis. If what the man said was true, the American government respected a man’s religious beliefs, even in wartime.

    He extended his hand to this very first American he’d ever spoken to. “It is very nice meeting you. May you arrive home safely.” The man shook his hand, and thanked him.

    Arthur paused, wondering how much to say, then said, “My wife’s brother lives in America. We hope to go there after the war. We tried to go to the U.S.A in 1941, but got stuck in France and then the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, and it is impossible after that.”

    “Well, may God help you to reach my country safely. I think you’ll like it there, very much.”


    He left the FFI encampment and headed back to his own company in the Ourches valley, thinking about the man he’d met. It was still a little hard to believe that the American military allowed soldiers to not carry weapons, that they may simply choose to not take a life. That was about as far as one could get from the Nazis, who thought nothing of killing people for their religion. He decided that murdering millions of people due to their religion or race couldn’t happen in America. Perhaps he and Roma really could raise their daughter and any future children they might have in safety there.

July 1944: A Fellow Maquisard Murders Arthur's Landlady (chapter draft)

     This was a particular ugly event in my grandparents' life: an informant tipped off the Gestapo that a farmer from Beaumont-Lès-Valence (a town of about 1200 people) had joined the Maquis.  The Gestapo retaliated by burning the man's farm.   No one knew who the informant was, but suspicion fell on my grandparents' landlady, Mrs. Auvergne.  (Pronounced "oh-VERN")

    She had two strikes against her: 1) she and her husband were supporters of the collaborationist and fascist Vichy regime and Marshall Pétain (who would be later tried -- and found guilty -- of treason after the war ended) and 2) She loved to flirt with men in uniform, including men in Nazi uniforms, so there was a slut-shaming aspect to the suspicion. 

    But.  She also rented a home to my grandparents during the war, sheltering them for several years and letting them pay what they could afford (which wasn't much, but it was a thatched roof, dirt-floored, hard-to-heat, rat-infested 16th-century farmhouse with no running water), and by doing so, probably knew my grandparents were Jews and in the maquis, and so knowingly increased her own personal risk.  My grandfather really hated her politics, but he felt loyalty and gratitude for the fact that she'd given them refuge.  My grandparents also trusted her to babysit my aunt from time-to-time. She was raising her niece, whose father was in the French army, and thus in a POW camp in Germany.

    One of the other members of my grandfather's maquis unit was an intellectually disabled man.  I think it was kind of unethical to allow him to join. How can he give informed consent to the risks he would take?  But ethics fall by the wayside during wartime, and he was still a Frenchman, and who are we to deny this man the right to fight if that's what he wanted?

    So, I had to research historical terms to determine the terminology used in the 1940s. (Answer: "mentally retarded" and "high-grade," at least in English), then I struggled with my depiction of him to avoid the usual clichés. He's not especially sweet or happy. He's not their mascot. He's not big and strong, nor a gentle giant. He's not especially puppy-dog-like, and while he's somewhat ostracized at first (which I suspect is a typical - though perhaps ignorant - response when people spend very little time with people with mental disabilities), the unit begins to include him more, and he's happy to have friends, because who wouldn't be glad to have friends? He's just a regular person, albeit slow to learn.  And he's someone who couldn't understand the terrible thing he did.

    Until very recently, I didn't know the man's name.  My grandfather merely referred to him as "my retarded friend."  So, I named him after three literary characters with the same abilities: Lennie Small, Tom Cullen, and Charlie Gordon. My character is named Léonard Thomas Gourdon, Leo for short.  Since I wrote the scene, I learned that his real name was Jacques Faure, and I revised the book to use his real name, but the character's name is cemented in my head as Leo.

Note: After I wrote this, I found out that the event almost certainly occurred on July 15, 1944 (that's what is on Elise Auvergne and her niece Collette's gravestones) rather than in the early spring. I also found a mention of the incident in other historical sources.

***

A Fellow Maquisard Murders Arthur's Landlady

The Germans suspected that someone was in the Maquis, and they were right. And they came to Beaumont-lès-Valence and burned the farm. And the whole village, the whole town was trying to guess who denounced them. How the Germans knew it? Well, we lived in a home, you know this sixteenth, seventeenth century peasant home with no floor, with one tiny window. It belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Auvergne.  They were people from the right -- France was divided --- and they were for Vichy. Not for De Gaulle in London, but Vichy government which collaborated with Germans. And she was flirting with German officers. And then came the suspicion that she denounced.   --Arthur Lubinski to his granddaughter, May 1988.

The next morning, three men returned to the unit from leave, bringing news.  Someone had tipped off the Gestapo and Milice that a farmer from Beaumont-Lès-Valence had joined the Maquis (which was true) instead of reporting for STO. Arthur knew the farmer in question, though not well.

  The Milice had retaliated by burning his farm, and the Gestapo deported his wife and children.  

Arthur and all of the other Maquisards from Beaumont-Lès-Valence were gathered together trying to figure out who could have denounced the farmer.  Leo stood in their circle, listening, looking from one angry face, to another.

“Mrs. Auvergne. That whore is always flirting with the Boches. It could be her.” 

Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s my landlady.”

“So?”

“So, she’s never turned me in. And she knows I'm maquis.”

The men discussed other possibilities, but it always returned to Mrs. Auvergne.  She seemed to be the only one who could have done it. Arthur still doubted it - there were too many variables they couldn’t know.  

“Someone should kill that traitorous cow,” one of the men muttered.  

Dr. Planas intervened. “Go about your work,” he told them. “If she did it, she’ll be tried after the war.”

The men dispersed, muttering, angry.

That night, Leo got lost again when he’d accompanied a patrol in the woods, and the men worried for him. He was prone to losing his way, and they worried he’d be picked up by German patrols, or the Milice.  The unit had always been careful to never speak of plans in front of Leo, because if he were caught, he wouldn’t hold up under torture — but no one could bear to think of him being tortured.  

“Did he desert us?” Arthur asked.

“No, I wouldn’t think so,” Dr. Planas replied.  “He’s got too many friends here. I fear he’s lost.” He sent men out in patrols to find him.  

The patrols searched all night, but had no luck.  All they could do was hope Leo had found refuge at a friendly farm and would find his way back on his own.

All day, they waited, hoping Leo was safe, and just after sundown, two men returning from leave brought him back to the unit.  The other men started to cheer at Leo’s safe return, but stopped when they saw the grim expression on his companions’ faces.  

They brought Leo to Dr. Planas, and Arthur saw them pull their captain aside, handing him a pistol butt-first as they did so.  They started talking to him, and Arthur saw Dr. Planas’s face go slack with shock, then darken with anger.

The two men then walked Leo inside, and down to the cellar of the headquarters. Leo walked down two or three steps, and then turned and looked plaintively out, as they closed the door in his face, and locked him in. It was a look Arthur would never forget.  

“Arthur,” Dr. Planas said. He’d used his real name, and not Biscuit.  “I must talk to you.”

Arthur approached him, trepidation gnawing at him. “Yes, sir?”

Dr. Planas started to say something then stopped, and remained silent for a long time. Then he finally said, “Leo traveled to Beaumont-Lès-Valence last night, and this morning, he went to Mrs. Auvergne’s home, and shot her to death. A little girl who was with her, was also killed.”

The next thing Arthur knew, André and Marcel were steadying him.  Only a few seconds had passed, but he was sweating profusely and breathing shallowly and his vision was a little dark.  “Was it Liliane?” he asked.  He legs were weak.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Planas answered.  “I know I canceled leave, but you may have tonight off.  If your little girl is OK, then be back tomorrow. If she is not, then come back in one week. . . . André help him pack his supplies and walk to Beaumont-Lès-Valence with him, to ensure he is all right.”

Arthur made it by midnight, having no memory of the long walk  home.  As soon as they made it to the back door of his home, André squeezed his shoulder, and nodded at the door.  Arthur knocked once, waited five seconds, then knocked a second time.  Roma snatched open the door.  

“Is Liliane all right? Is my baby alive?” he whispered, unable to stop the tears from pouring down his face.

“Yes! She is unharmed,” Roma whispered as she stepped outside, and quietly closed the door behind her. She stepped close, and wrapped her arms around his middle.  Arthur felt her gesture for André to leave them, then her hands moved to grip his lower back back, holding and soothing him. “Liliane is okay; that man didn’t hurt her.” Roma was crying, too.  Arthur weakened so much with relief, that he could barely stand, and he leaned on his tiny wife for support. They held each other, and cried together for a few minutes.  

“What happened?” Arthur asked her, when he could speak again. He noticed that André had gone.

“I was supposed to go into town, and leave her with Mrs. Auvergne for an hour while I did the books for the city and picked up our rations. But Liliane has a cold, and was very fussy, so I postponed and kept her home. I was supposed to go today instead, but I just couldn’t after what happened.”

“And then?” he asked.

Roma struggled to find the right words, and when she did, they came out in a rush. “Arthur, she would have been at Mrs. Auvergne’s when that horrible man shot her and little Fayette to death. If I hadn’t kept her  home, Liliane would have been killed, too.”

He let out a long shaking breath.  “It is a terrible thing to be glad another child has died, but I am so glad it was someone else, and not our little girl.” 

This time, Roma didn’t even try to stop him from kissing his sleeping daughter. He gazed at the little girl in the moonlight watching her even breaths, then turned and silently went back outside.  

He picked up his satchel, and gave Roma a new batch of chocolate bars and cigarettes to trade.  He hugged her one more time, and whispered, “I love you.”

“And I, you.”

Arthur turned around and headed back to his maquis unit.  Unlike the trip home, he remembered every step of the long walk back.

“It wasn’t my daughter,” he told Dr. Planas, who didn’t look surprised. André must have told him already.  “It was Mrs. Auvergne’s niece.  Liliane was supposed to be there too, but she was sick, so my wife kept her home.”

Dr. Planas merely nodded. “I’m relieved for you, my friend.”

“What will be done with Leo?” Arthur asked. He didn’t think he’d ever even be able to look at the man again. 

“He’s gone. I sent him yesterday to a unit that will see a great deal of fighting.  I don’t expect him to survive the war.  He knows how to use a gun, so he can perhaps kill a few German soldiers before he dies.”

Arthur was glad Leo had gone to another unit. He knew it was uncharitable to wish a mentally retarded man dead — Leo certainly didn’t understand how terrible his actions had been — but he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret his death, either.  Mrs. Auvergne had sheltered them and kept them safe, and now she was dead.

“Biscuit, I’m sorry,” Dr. Planas said quietly.

“For what?” Arthur responded in surprise. 

“For bringing Leo to the Maquis. For endangering your family. It was a mistake to involve someone of his mental abilities.”

Arthur laughed without mirth.  “Yes, well, I taught him to shoot.”

“You couldn’t have known what he’d do,” Dr. Planas said.

Arthur shrugged, feeling weary and sad. “Neither could you.”

***

    A few notes: 

    Due to when this actually happened (June 12), I need to re-write this one significantly.  It was AFTER D-Day, so there wouldn't have been regular leaves. I believe my grandfather got only one leave between June 1 and August 31 when Valence was liberated. There was just too much going on around June 12th.

    Note: Leo survived the war, and was never punished, nor imprisoned.  My grandfather was horrified by that.  After the war, investigators questioned my grandfather, and he told them she was innocent, and couldn't have been an informant for the Gestapo - he'd be dead if she were.  Unlike my grandfather, I think it would have been unethical to punish Leo - he wasn't competent to stand trial.  If he were a danger to society (which he might well have been), then confining him would have been appropriate, however.

February 1944: Arthur becomes a Maquis radio operator (chapter draft)

Context: Arthur and a team of men had retrieved an Allied SOE airdrop to their resistance unit.  Because the unit had no radio prior to that, a courier would have hand-delivered a message encrypted with a one-time pad telling them that there would be an airdrop that night, and what their personal message would be alerting them to future airdrops.  The BBC broadcast a string of sequitur messages every day, some of which were garbage, and some of which were meaningful to specific groups.  

Notes: 

Biscuit in both British English and French refers to an American cookie (not the quick-rising bread that Americans slather with sausage gravy. It would also be pronounced "biss-kwee."

The radio was a MCR-1 "Biscuit Tin Radio" designed and produced by the SOE for the French resistance.

The story opens as they open their first air-dropped canister of supplies from the Allies.

***

Arthur Becomes a Maquis Radio Operator

Well, I said that it’s easy to translate kilocycles into wavelengths, because the product of the two is velocity of light, which is ten times ten to the power of ten centimeters per second. --Arthur Lubinski to his granddaughter, May 1988.

The young man took the crowbar, and went to work. In just a few moments, he had worked the lid off the box which had padding on the inside walls.  There was a great deal of burlap, but also a pair of shoes, three packs of cigarettes, and two chocolate bars being used to fill every available space. In the corners of the box were four pistols.  

But in the center was a big cube-shaped metal tin printed with “Biscuits” in big letters, with colorful pictures of cookies surrounding it. Arthur realized that Liliane, at almost three years of age, had never had a biscuit. 

“They are sending us desserts?” Marcel asked in disbelief.  

“Don’t be stupid,” André told his brother.  “Probably no biscuits inside.”

Dr. Planas lifted out the biscuit tin, revealing boxes of ammunition underneath it for the pistol.. There was a very thick pad of burlap beneath those. He placed the tin on the table next to the box, and lifted the lid off.  

Inside was a layer of corrugated paper, which they flipped out of the way. Under it was a dark grey rectangular metal box, about the size of a loaf of bread. One end had leads which attached to a battery or an electrical power supply, and the other end had a series of pins sticking out the end.  Carefully wrapped bundles had been placed next to it.  Three of the bundles contained what Arthur realized were caps or modules that plugged into the pins in the end of the main unit.  There was a big black knob one one side, and a three other smaller knobs, marked “reaction,” and “sensitivity,” and “AE Trimmer.”  

“It’s a radio,” Arthur said.  It was tiny; the smallest radio he’d ever seen — no more than about 20 or 22 centimeters on the long axis, and about 10 centimeters wide and tall.  There were several other bundles in the tin, containing extra batteries, a coil of wire, a power supply (if one had electricity, which they didn’t), and headphones.

There was a sheet with instructions, but it was written in English.  “Anyone speak English?”  Dr. Planas asked.

“I speak some English,” Arthur volunteered.  

Dr. Planas handed him the sheet, and Arthur started reading. It had been made in Glasgow, Scotland. 

“You attach the wire antenna there,” he said, pointing. Michel did so, then hung the wire up on a nail high above them.  “Attach the battery,” he said, indicating the plug at the end.   “The module coils - they allow you to choose which frequency bands.”  

Michel looked up at Arthur, who shrugged and said, “I’d try the range one coil.” Michel grabbed the thickest module and plugged it into the end of the radio.  The module was the same height and depth as the rest of the radio, but extended the length of the unit by perhaps six or seven centimeters.

“Plug in the headphones, turn it on, and tune it to _____.”

Michel did so, and they could hear quiet static come through the headphones, but when he looked at the dial, he stopped. Then he glanced at the others, then looked at the dial again, and fiddled with the settings. They could hear the static change. “I can’t read the dial,” he finally said, confusion plain his voice.

“What?” Dr. Planas, said.

“The numbers are wrong. They aren’t like what I’m used to.”  

Arthur could see a word printed under the dial, but couldn’t read it from where he stood.  “What does it say under the dial?” he asked.

“Kilocycles,” Michel answered.

“Kilocycles?” André and Marcel asked at the same time.

“What are kilocycles?” Dr. Planas asked. He peered at the radio dial.  “Radio dials are normally marked in …” he stopped, searching for the word.

“Wavelengths,” Arthur supplied.

“Yes, right. Wavelengths.   What are these kilocycles?” Dr. Planas asked.  He didn’t sound annoyed, just puzzled.

Arthur spoke up. “Well, the wavelengths times the number of cycles, is the velocity of light.” 

All eyes turned to Arthur. They looked at him as if he weren’t speaking French.

“What?” Dr. Planas finally asked.

“Well—“ Arthur shrugged. “It’s easy to translate kilocycles into wavelengths, because the product of the two is velocity of light, which is ten times ten to the power of ten centimeters per second.”

“Hoh,” Dr. Planas said with his eyebrows up. “You know this?  You are the radio operator.”

Something — surprise? Worry? Excitement? — jolted through Arthur.  “But hell, I don’t know anything about electronics,” he protested. “If something happens, I cannot repair it.”  

“You are the radio operator,” Dr. Planas repeated.

Arthur laughed a little. “All right. I’m the radio operator.”

November 11, 1942: Arthur watches for Nazi Troop movements (chapter draft)

    Context: My grandfather did some work for the Polish Intelligence service during WWII, in November of 1942.  His assignment was to sit in a French café, and watch for German military vehicles traveling through southern France, and write down their tag numbers, which told the intelligence analysts which Nazi divisions were on the move (more specifically, toward the Mediterranean to fight off the Allied invasion of north Africa, AKA "Operation Torch"). 

    Note: Mr. Z. was a known Gestapo collaborator and police informant.

***

Arthur Watches for Nazi Troop Movements

And one time, I knew of a French traitor, who was working for the Germans, for the Gestapo, and I saw him suddenly, in front of my window. And he was, what you say? becking? Beckoning, he was beckoning to city police, policeman.  --Arthur Lubinski to his granddaughter, May 1988.

On November 11^th, Arthur was sitting in a café reading as usual, when something blocked his light. He looked up and standing less than a meter away from Arthur, just on the other side of the window glass, was Mr. Z.  This close, Arthur could see broken capillaries in the man’s nose and cheeks, and the bags under his eyes.

“Helping the Gestapo again, are we?” Arthur muttered under his breath.  

Suddenly Mr. Z started beckoning to someone out of view, and Arthur leaned forward to see who the man was communicating with. 

Mr. Z was gesturing to several uniformed gendarmes, signaling for them to come join him in Arthur’s café.

Arthur’s heart started pounding. They are going to pick me up.  

Okay.

He tried to read, to look as natural as if he were just enjoying a book in a restaurant, but he couldn’t concentrate. He felt the blood rushing from his face, and then sweat broke out all over his body.  He could barely breathe. 

He stared down at a page in his book, not recognizing the letters and words printed there. Arthur couldn’t move or think, and just sat there, frozen. Unable to do anything but wait for arrest. 

He waited and waited and waited.

One minute passed, or perhaps it was five and nothing happened. He finally lifted one shaking hand, and wiped the sweat from his face on his sleeve.  

He slowly looked up, and saw Mr. Z shaking hands with the police officers who had joined him in front of the window.  They followed him into the café.  The three gendarmes sat down at a table on the other side of the room from Arthur. Mr. Z bought them drinks and then sat down with them at their table, talking jovially the whole time. 

It has nothing to do with me. Arthur took a deep, slow breath, and very slowly and silently let it out. After a suitable length of time, he got up and forced himself to saunter out of the café on still-weak legs.  Brown-nosing toady informant traitor.

***

Here is how my grandfather told me the story (what follows is a slightly edited excerpt from the transcript of recordings I made of him in May of 1988):

And one time, I knew of a French traitor, who was working for the Germans, for the Gestapo, and I saw him suddenly, in front of my window. And he was, what you say? becking? Beckoning, he was beckoning to city police, policeman. 

I thought, ‘They are going in to pick me up.’

Okay.

I start already reading my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. I heard--I felt all my blood, draining from my face, from my head; I was perspiring, all over the body. I was waiting for the moment when they will arrest me, and I wait, and wait, and wait. I couldn’t realize how much time passed, I couldn’t, I don’t know if it was a minute, or five minutes. Nothing happened. I lifted my eyes, and I saw that the French traitor was paying policeman drinks to get them friendly I guess, and it had nothing to do with me, and I--[sigh of relief]--relief came.

May, 1940: The Roadblock (chapter draft)

This is one of my favorites of Grandpa's stories, one that I heard many times growing up.  My grandfather didn't speak German (he could read it a little), but my great-grandfather did speak the language. A few names you need to know: 

• Arthur is my grandfather
• Roma is my grandmother
• Liliane is their newborn daughter (my aunt was about 12 days old when this story takes place)
• Herman is my great-grandfather (my grandfather's dad) 
• Masia is my great-grandmother (Herman's wife) 
• Felicie is a family friend
• Marc is the driver of the car (real person, but made up name)
• Violet is Marc's wife (real person, but made up name)
• Robert is their young son (real person, but made up name)

***

The Roadblock

We were surrounded, so we were stopped on the highway, and a German read our identification papers, and told us in German to go straight and then turn to the right. When I heard this, I said to the taxi cab driver, “go straight and then turn to the left.” This was my attitude. And to the right I would have encountered some German officials, I presume. I don’t know, I never went.  --Arthur Lubinski to his granddaughter, May 1988.

    They got on their way, Marc easing through the crowds of refugees, heading back out of Gravelines, and pulled onto a main road, heading west toward Calais, intending to turn south at the first opportunity.  

    For the first time, the road was nearly clear. As they crested a rise, they saw that the road toward Calais had been blockaded by soldiers and military vehicles.  They were too far away to see which military it was, and Marc drove cautiously forward.

    They pulled up to the roadblock and as Marc drifted to a stop (leaving plenty of room between the taxicab and the road block to make a U-turn if needed), they saw a Panzer partially hidden by the other vehicles. The man who walked toward them was tall and young and wore a helmet that was shorter over the forehead and longer in the back, and flared slightly.  German.

    Marc started to put the taxicab in reverse, but more Germans had appeared behind them, holding rifles. Roma and Violet both gasped in fear, cradling their children close.

    “Where’s the pistol?” Arthur whispered.

    “Under the seat,” Marc said quietly. 

    “Good.”

    Everyone sat facing stiffly forward, silent. Arthur was grateful that Liliane still slept.

    The soldier reached the driver’s window and tapped the window frame to get their attention. Marc reluctantly turned and looked into the soldier’s blue eyes. “Identifikation,” the man said, and nodded to Marc, Herman, and Arthur.  Herman and Arthur instantly reached into their pockets to retrieve their papers, but Marc slowly removed his hands from the steering wheel and held them up, making a questioning gesture with his head. The German soldier nodded. It was then that Arthur saw that the German was holding an ugly-looking handgun, and that it was pointed at Marc.

    Marc slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his own papers, then took the ones that Herman and Arthur handed forward.  Marc passed the identity cards to the waiting soldier.

    The man nodded at another soldier who raised his rifle and pointed it at the car. Masia gave a tiny whimper and Arthur wanted to comfort his mother, but he didn’t move.

    The first soldier holstered his pistol and looked over the the identity cards, reading them carefully.  “Geh geradeaus und biege nach rechts ab,” he finally said, and handed the the identity cards back through the window. 

    “He said something about forward,” Arthur said. “I didn’t catch the rest.”

    “He said, ‘Go forward and turn to the right,’” Herman translated.

    Marc took the papers and handed them to Violet, and gave the officer a stiff nod.

    Two soldiers who were standing and blocking the road, stood aside, and Marc slowly drove through the blockade and continued down the road.

    “Go forward, and then turn to the left,” Arthur said.  Everyone but Marc turned to look at him.

    “But, he said…”

    “I said, turn left!” Arthur nearly shouted. He struggled to keep his voice quiet - they might not yet be out of earshot.  His mother and Roma cringed on either side of them. Liliane began to cry, startled from her nap. He managed to calm his voice. “He was directing us into Calais. Who knows who was going to meet us there? Probably some German officials. They might arrest us.”

    “He wants the car,” Marc interjected. He met Arthur’s eyes in the rearview mirror.  “We’re going left,” he said, giving a tiny jerk of his head to the south.

    They crested a hill, and the soldiers were hidden from view.  Marc ignored the right-hand turn he passed, and continued forward.   Violet handed Herman and Arthur’s identity cards back to Arthur. Arthur took them, relaxed into his seat, feeling suddenly weak.  His hand shook as he handed his father’s card to Herman.

    Marc took the first left turn he found, and headed south, toward the interior of France.