following the meal.
Jacob took several plates and headed to the lead table. His legs shook as he approached the minister, who was dressed in a fascist uniform.
“Thank you for the food, lad,” Lamirand said. He then turned to shout at both sides of the table: “Here are French youth at their finest, the purity of our race and the strength of our Christian beliefs.”
Jacob’s face burned red like a tomato. He withdrew, even more nervous than before, and tried to make himself scarce.
“Pastor Trocmé, what I said moments ago was in earnest,” Bach said quietly to Trocmé. “The Germans are pressuring us. We can no longer look the other way. You must give me a list with all the foreign refugees of Jewish descent.”
Trocmé opted for the path of evasion. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Oh, I think you do. You’ve been sheltering hundreds of foreign Jews for a couple of years now. We’ve received several anonymous reports of how you and the other pastors are inciting the population to civil disobedience. This is unacceptable. If you supply us the list of foreign Jews, you can continue serving the others without further interference.” The prefect’s threatening tone had the effect of transforming Trocmé’s peaceful semblance into one of indignant anger. The pastor took a deep breath and allowed Bach to continue.
“You have forty-eight hours to give me that list. These people aren’t your church members; they aren’t even Christians. I can appreciate your zeal, but to save a few, you’re putting all at risk.”
“I don’t differentiate between foreigners and French nationals, nor do I concern myself with their beliefs. To me, they are refugees, people fleeing from war and death. My parish is the world, and each person is my neighbor. I am sorry, but I will not be giving you any list,” Trocmé said, mastering his tone.
“Very well. You’ll be hearing from us soon. We will alert your superiors of your position, which compromises the safety of all French Protestants. Do not forget that your first duty is to protect your own. They have suffered enough throughout history.”
Lamirand turned toward Trocmé and Bach. He had overheard part of the exchange and was preparing his remarks when Magda, carrying a pot of soup, accidently sloshed some onto the minister’s back. The broth burned the man and stained his recently pressed uniform jacket. Furious, he turned a raging look on Magda but checked the ire and forced a smile. It was nothing, not to worry.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, do forgive me,” she apologized profusely.
The meal drew to a close, and Trocmé was first to get up from the table. He could not abide another second at the prefect’s side. He ran into one of the teachers from the school, who grabbed his arm. “The students are going to do it,” the teacher said in a low voice.
“May it be as God desires. We cannot deny our consciences,” Trocmé answered, searching for Magda.
The group of officials stood up from the table and started making their way toward the church, but they had hardly taken ten steps when a group of students placed themselves before the minister and the prefect.
“Mr. Minister of Youth, we would like to give you this letter of protest.”
The bodyguards stepped in the way, but Lamirand waved them aside.
“A letter of protest?” he asked.
“Yes. In light of recent events in Paris and in other cities of our great country, regarding the illegal detention of people due to their religion. Our laws and tradition prohibit persecuting people for their beliefs,” the youth said. His voice grew in confidence as he spoke, losing its initial tremble.
Other young people dressed in blue shirts began to boo the group of students. Lamirand cut in. “Policy toward the Jews is not my area. I’m the minister of youth.”
“Sir, you are a member of the government and, as such, are responsible for the government’s decisions,” the student answered.
“That was in the occupied zone,” Bach cut in, attempting to end the conversation.
“But there are raids in the unoccupied zone as well. Plus, your government should have protested the inhuman treatment inflicted on hundreds of children that share our nationality. Not to speak of human rights.”
Lamirand stretched out his gloved hand and snatched the letter. He gave a perfunctory smile and kept walking. The event had become such a public disaster that Bach was tempted to call off the final ceremony of the day, but he thought a bit of calm would perhaps improve the bitter taste