The Cross of Lorraine

From the pageantry of Adolf Hitler’s Olympic Games to the triumph of Charles de Gaulle’s entry into Paris, The Cross of Lorraine documents France’s darkest hours of occupation. As the quiet days of the thirties come to an end, France finds itself at war with Germany for the second time in three decades, only this time defeat brings the stark reality of division and occupation. Into this new world come two Americans who join the battle and with others form the nucleus of French Resistance.

Born of an American member of the famous Lafayette Escadrille and a French mother, Hank Herbert, or Henri Hebert as he is know in France, feels he has no other choice but to join the fight for French liberty. On the other hand, Samantha James, who first comes to Europe to run in the 1936 Olympic games, chooses to return as a student in Lyon, and learns from her experiences that one’s personal integrity requires a commitment to oppose oppression no matter the dangers.

While France strives to be free, Henri and Samantha search for his or her own individual identity. As do their friends, who battle the occupation, each surrendering a portion of their innocence to the ugliness of war. Ultimately, the characters’ struggles parallel the growth and decay of nations. For even as Germany blindly follows Adolf Hitler down an insane course of destruction, so Samantha’s German cousin Heinrich is blinded, crippled, and driven insane. Ultimately, for Henri and Samantha, the war brings them of age, and they discover an enduring love despite the pains and sacrifices of war.

Within the pages of The Cross of Lorraine, we meet the villains, the martyrs, and the heroes of the French Resistance – itself a frail child born from the ashes of bitter defeat. The German occupiers are men like Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon, and Heinrich Biebischeimer, his one-eyed adjutant. And of course there are the collaborationists like the unscrupulous Alain de Beavais, who would use anyone, even his American fiancée, to aid the Nazi cause. The martyrs are men and women like Jean Moulin, who survives his own throat slashing only to die at the butcher’s hands, and Boris Vildé whose leadership inspired a nation, and Lisette Arnout, who despite imprisonment and rape still fought to defend the honor of her loved one’s memory. The list of heroes is even longer, but none of them, not the country boy from the village of rainbows, nor the rail worker from St. Lazare, nor the spoiled child of the Avenue Foch, and not even the Parisian wine merchant, nor the talented athlete from the shores of Lake Michigan – none of them ever thought that survival made them heroes. For them, Resistance was the only choice, and each in his or her own way helped give a nation back its freedom.

Having dressed slowly, Samantha finally headed down the hall to the front desk of the Friedrick Friesen Haus where Baroness von Wangenheim returned her smile and said, "Wie geht’s."

"Gut, danke, und Sie?"

"Gut."

The Baroness liked Samantha, a fact the other girls found impossible to comprehend. They were sure that the fat old lady with the beady blue eyes hated anyone who was young and attractive. But Samantha had won the Baroness’s heart by speaking to her in her German. Most of the others spoke to her slower and louder in English as if she were deaf. Samantha pointed out that the Baroness did not need to be treated so rudely. The girls always countered that it was the Baroness who was rude.

"Are you finally up, you lazy bones?" the Baroness asked.

"Yes, thank you. I haven’t enjoyed a night’s sleep like that in a long time."

"You are wearing your medal. I think that you are very proud of it."

"You know that I am."

"And where is Samantha off to?"

"I’m not sure, but I think I’d like to take in some of the riding today."

"Yes, that would be good. The cross country is today, and the Germans will win, I think."

"Oh, do you?" Samantha laughed.

"I know that people don’t think that Germany has a very good team, but we are at home, and the course, I understand, is very difficult. There is one jump, the water jump, that should be interesting. When you get there, you should ask where it is and spend the day."

"Danke shön, Baroness, but excuse me. How do you happen to know so much about the riding events?"

"I have a nephew. Baron Conrad von Wangenheim." Samantha marveled at the way the name tripped so easily off her tongue reflecting both a pride in her nephew and in her family heritage. "He is a cavalry lieutenant, and he told me about the water jump. Take my advice, Samantha, and you will have a wonderful day."

"Thank you. I mean, Danke shön. I’ll have to find it."

"Good. I think it is going to be a beautiful day. Do you have a hat? The sun is sure to be shining brightly."

"No, but I think I’ll walk over to the stadium and catch a shuttle for the country. I can buy one on the way."

"You be careful. There are several Jewish businesses between here and there. You cannot trust those Jews."

Samantha turned with a start at this biased comment, which came so naturally from the Baroness’s lips, but she merely nodded and left with a wave. Stepping out into the August morning, she walked down the street lifting her hand to shade her eyes against the morning sun. Looking for a shop along the route, she soon discovered herself lost in the Berlin streets. She turned a corner and headed into a small street lined by several run-down shops with boarded-up windows, in severe contrast to the many other shops right next to them that were in fine shape. At first she wanted to run, but she caught herself. She had never thought of herself as a bigot, but as her nervousness grew, she began to question her objectivity.

Suddenly, a boy clad in a far too heavy, black coat with the yellow Juif insignia came running out of an alleyway. Stopping at the curb, he looked frantically from left to right, checked over his shoulder, and then darted straight at her. She froze, leaning for protection against the side of the building. A group of teenagers, wearing the khaki brown of Hitler’s Youth, ran around the corner chasing after him. As he passed, she saw his eyes filled with the panic of a wild animal, trapped and searching for escape. His terrified glance went straight past her, and she turned to see another group of three just turning the corner.

"Fasst ihn. Haltet ihn auf. Lass ihn nicht entkommen." She did not recognize all the words, but it was obvious they were chasing the boy and meant him harm. Without warning, she found herself directly between the stalkers and their prey.

The soles of the boy’s shoes skid across the pavement as he slid to a stop. He hesitated only a moment before darting into the street, directly into the path of an oncoming car. The car’s brakes screeched as its driver tried to avoid hitting the boy, but it sideswiped him anyway, spinning him wildly through the air. He hit the pavement, dazed and disoriented, his eyes, however, still searching for escape.

Samantha reached out for him, but the youth who had spoken so harshly pushed her away. "Gehe hinaus!" he screamed, his steal-blue eyes burning a frightening, evil image deep into her mind. He raised his arm, and Samantha ducked, fearing that he was about to strike her.

Without warning, the shadow of a figure from behind her jumped from a bicycle that fell to the ground with a crash. She had no time to look, for the figure pushed past her and grabbed the arm of the German youth. The boy, his golden hair flaring, the veins in his neck bulging, started to strike out, but the man held tightly to his wrist, raising his other hand with a threatening gesture. The boy, who stood as tall as the stranger, hesitated and stared angrily into his adversary’s eyes. He jerked his arm free and returned to his friends, who had dragged the Jew out of the street and onto the sidewalk.

The boy walked away to the helpless creature still lying on the ground and kicked him square in the stomach. Samantha gasped as she stared in horror at the cruel scene. He was about to kick again when a voice uttered a quiet yet firm command. "Halte."

Everyone turned as an undistinguished policeman walked up and looked down at the Jew. He studied the situation, holding his hands behind him with an air of superiority. He glanced at Samantha, who remained frozen alongside her rescuer. Hardly much older than the boys, the policeman bowed slightly in their direction, his smile in no way warm or ingratiating.

"Hebt ihn auf," he ordered with a flick of his hand, "und huehrt ihn ab." Satisfied that his orders were being executed, the policeman walked over to Samantha followed by the youth with the silver-blue eyes.

"Fraülein," he said, bowing politely. Samantha was too shaken to speak. "You are an American here for the Olympics, yes?"

Samantha raised her hand to the medallion suspended about her neck and merely nodded.

"Sir, you should keep the Fraülein out of the streets. There are parts of Berlin that she should-- avoid?"

"We understand," the stranger answered.

"Very well then. Good day." He bowed and turned to the youth, who had stood glaring the entire time. "Gehen wir."

The boy gave one last angry and hateful look before he turned and hurried after his leader.

The street became strangely silent. The whole incident had happened so quickly that Samantha was not certain when she had taken her last breath.

"Are you all right?"

Though she heard his words, she failed to respond, her mind still pondering the Jewish boy’s fate. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "What do you think is going to happen to him?"

"I couldn’t say, and I don’t think you really want to know."

It finally dawned on her that the man was speaking English, and while his accent sounded neither British nor American, it definitely wasn’t German. Samantha lifted her eyes to study the face of her Galahad. His dark brown eyes smiled warmly into hers. She looked away a bit embarrassed but still managed to return the smile.

"Are you sure you’re okay?"

"Yes, thank you," she whispered.

"You’re welcome, Miss James."

She hesitated a moment, surprised by his familiarity. "You know me?"

"Yes, I saw you run," he said, indicating the medal.

"You’re an American then?"

"Yes. Of a somewhat interesting heritage, I’ll admit, but American nonetheless." He extended his hand. "Henry Herbert. Just call me Hank."

"Samantha James."

"I know, remember? A gold medallist does have a tendency to be noticed. May I call you Samantha?"

"Yes, I’d like that, Hank." She breathed deeply, understanding for the first time how badly the incident had shaken her. Exhaling, she said, "I didn’t realize how frightened I was. They came out of nowhere."

"Yes, they did." Hank frowned at her. "If it’s not out of line to ask, would you be so good as to tell me what a young American is doing wandering the streets of Berlin alone? That policeman is quite right when he points out that there are parts of the city one should visit only in a group – of ten or twenty."

"I was just shopping for a hat."

"A hat?"

"Yes, a hat. The sun’s rather bright today."

Hank looked up at the sky. "So it is. Well, if you’ll permit me to escort you, I think we can find a nice shop that will fit your needs." He lifted a scolding finger. "You shouldn’t be out alone."