The Stolen Years

“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?”