In This Hospitable Land by Jr. Lynmar Brock

kilometers west were a soothing contrast to the turmoil of war. Sweet-smelling fertile fields cleared of rocks in an earlier age bordered the river. The grasses were deep and wildflowers grew in pockets of abundance undisturbed by the numerous brown-and-white-speckled cows browsing the profusion of green shoots—source of the fat-rich milk that gave a unique savor to the soft, flavorful cheeses the Sauverins had sampled at breakfast.
    “Look,” Louis said hoarsely after a while, weakly pointing through a line of trees to a far road. “Flames.”
    “That must be the main refugee route,” André guessed. “But what…”
    A fighter plane marked with the dreaded German cross swooped low. Flying just above the traffic to the west, it began firing machine gun rounds. Then more fighters zoomed into view shooting bursts at the highway below.
    “Watch out!” Alex shouted.
    A German fighter plane dead ahead lined up along the Sauverins’ road, aiming straight at them. As it flew toward the Buick and dropped low, André swerved violently off of the road onto the grass shoulder. The big car and trailer bounced bone-jarringly under a row of trees, jostling the Sauverins against one another while André struggled fiercely to retain control as the trailer, dancing behind, jerked one way and the other.
    The fighter plane disappeared into the distance. Shaking, André slowed the car to a stop. All the children cried.
    “That was close,” Alex said angrily.
    André’s voice quavered with shock. “I guess one car isn’t worth that many bullets.”

     
    After the coast was clear, André managed to pull the Buick back out onto the road. The Sauverins slowly came back to themselves, aided by the distraction of the lush, ever-changing landscape. But André kept glancing up at the sky with trepidation.
    Vineyards stretched down the hillsides toward the river. Louis pointed out the orderly staked lines of grapevines shooting out from the stalks cut and pruned above the roots. The grown-ups spoke of the promise of the new growth and the vintage that might result—the distinctive smoky intense acidity of the wines for which this region was justly famous. Passing through Orléans they drove up the Loire River valley, finally arriving in the little town of Pouilly late in the afternoon. Farther on they came to a crossroads and a small sign they followed to an ancient abbey and the Tirouens’ château, Bourras L’Abbaye, which dominated the small collection of farm buildings standing to one side.
    André drove through the ornate gates of the sizable estate. The château was set in the heart of a well-tended park, itself in the midst of fields of wheat and vegetables and orchards ripe with an abundance of fruit. Cattle ranged the pastures. Trees stood in small clumps as if guarding the quiet, meandering streams that burbled throughout the property.
    “At last,” Denise sighed.
    “Thank God,” Louis said.
    “What ‘God’?” Alex demanded.
    Geneviève declared, “I won’t feel right until I see Lilla.”

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    BOURRAS L’ABBAYE
     
    M AY 17, 1940
     

     
    The long gravel drive’s red and tan stones matched the elegant château that loomed around the bend, built of shaped stones from the same quarry. An inviting terrace fronted great double doors framed by four large windows on either side, mirrored by matching windows on the upper floor. A steeply slanted roof made of soft red tiles completed the façade’s perfect symmetry.
    As the Sauverins stepped stiffly out of the Buick, Lilla Tirouen appeared at the top of the broad expanse of stone steps. “Welcome!” she gushed, rushing down to Geneviève’s outstretched arms and kissing her repeatedly. “How wonderful to see you! I’ve been so worried!”
    Small, trim, vivacious, enthusiastic Lilla, like Geneviève, was in her mid-twenties. Her short, soft, brown hair curled about her ears. Her cute little nose turned up. Her mouth was pert and full-lipped. Her dark