March 25, 1944: Maquis Kick Me Out

The Maquis live off the villages, not off the woods. The villages are dangerous, crawling with Germans and Vichy police, but guys slip into town to buy food, cigarettes, and medicine, using phony ration stamps and money. I’m amazed that no one is ever caught, or if they are, maybe I’m not told about it.

But on this very wet afternoon, R takes me aside to tell me that I’m to accompany two fo the guys into town. He grins and slaps me on the back. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Just stay with the men.” Then he turns his back and walks away. I was not to see him again for 64 years.

I’m not happy about it, but the two guys I am to accompany start walking into the woods, and I hurry to catch up.

Is this a set-up? Is it too risky?

We don’t walk very long. There’s a van parked along a dirt road used by loggers; as we approach, the back opens and a young guy motions for me to climb aboard. I reach for his hand, climb in and we take off.

It’s pitch black in the back and my companion speaks no English, but I don’t have to be told that this is it; we’re driving south, heading toward the Pyrenees. Finally. But a lot between here and freedom. And still a lot of snow. Three to four feet and more in places. How are we going to get across the Pyrenees in this? I don’t care. I’ll find a way…..I hope.

We drive for several hours before the van lurches to a stop. It is early evening, but dark and drizzly, and we are parked against a wall in what seems to be a backstreet in some village.

Waiting.

A Frenchman quickly takes me across the street and where another truck is parked, it’s engine idling.

A lot of faith here as I follow him, my eyes taking everything in, in case I need to escape and disappear quickly.

c. GCYI