At dawn, shots rang out. Petra stared down from the belfry and waved Domingo over. “See there, straight over from the highest roof? That’s the school courtyard, with houses surrounding it.”
“You went down there last night?”
“Close enough to see their positions. Tanks sit there, there, and there, to make a show of force.” Petra’s index finger stabbed the directions.
“Pssst ... pssst. Men, are you still here?” An aged voice wafted up the stone steps.
Petra grabbed his pack and Domingo followed him down the stairway.
“I’m going down there, my sons.” The priest met them with seeming serenity. Thank you for warning us.”
“But the Nazis have lost all respect, even for...”
“For men of the cloth? Well, then, I become one with my people, as I have always wished to do. The enemy disrespects them, too, but notre Dieu cherishes us all.”
He turned to go. Petra strapped his pack over his shoulders in wordless agreement. His glance told Domingo they would accompany their determined host, at least for a distance.
With each step, daylight grew. Doors opened along cobbled streets, dispersing the scents of home—fires burning, coffee and porridge boiling. People moved from their front stoops as their priest passed. Some came forward to touch his hand. Several older men joined him, canes or walking sticks in hand.
Near the town’s center, the priest turned to Domingo and Petra. “Go into this restaurant and give Monsieur Faisant my blessing. Tell him you have need of his upstairs room, and mark well what happens here. Then you must continue to warn others.”
The proprietor saw them coming and swung his door wide. He gawked at the priest and shook his head. “Surely you will not go down there, father? They’re arresting all men between sixteen and sixty.”
“Then we shall see if they count me a man—actually, I am well past sixty, so they daren't take me in.” He gave a slight smile and kept walking.
Petra broke the silence. “Perhaps he believes his soutane will protect him.”
“Oui, and so it may. Come in, come in. I am Monsieur Faisant. You two should be in the Ségala. Our men fought a successful offensive here, but evacuated last night. Our two sons fled, as well.”
Something in Petra’s face gave Monsieur Faisant pause. “Have you not heard about those SS officers in Frayssinet-le-Gélat? They killed at least ten citizens, even a woman.” He shook his head. “And now this—the Second Panzer division right here on the streets of Tulle.”
Petra removed his beret. “Your upstairs room—may we use it?”
Up a narrow stairway that gave Domingo a suffocating sensation, the stout baker led them to a room where they hunched together at the window. A clear view of the town center showed the school’s courtyard filled with uniformed Nazis. They marched up and down while others paraded the main street, their tall black leather boots clicking mercilessly on cobblestone.
One of the soldiers halted and another handed an officer a bullhorn. He raised it to his lips. “Citizens of Tulle, you have defied our Fuhrer. You have decried Das Reich and your city will pay, life for life. You have declared yourselves liberated, so we shall see. The day begins.”
Several soldiers banged on the door of a home, crashed through and brought out a man. A woman followed behind.
“See how you will pay.”
Another woman ran from the house, screaming. “No, no. André, no!”
But the soldiers passed the man like a clothespin, along to others who bound his hands and feet, rushed him inside past the screaming woman, and a few seconds later, carried him out onto the balcony. Then they pulled back his shock of hair and throttled his neck.
In a blur of black and brown and feldgrau, the soldiers tied the neck rope to the iron balcony posts, thrust the man’s legs over the railing and gave him a push. Below, the woman shrieked and flailed against her captor.
The victim gave a few errant kicks before he dangled from the grillwork like a ham hung for winter. The soldiers in the street grinned up at him. Officers barked more orders and groups of three soldiers each spread like gnats to other houses, where the first scene replayed over and over until citizens hung one by one from balconies or lampposts.
When a few onlookers attempted to intervene, the soldiers roped their necks, too. Now and then a slap resounded. A guffaw rent the early morning mist. The whole time, women of the city sobbed and wailed.
At some point, the restaurant owner, ashen-faced, sagged against the wall. “I counted thirty hanging from the lampposts.” He cried out louder when the soldiers throttled a tall, slender fellow.
“Mon ami, Monsieur la James. How can this be? My dear friend, ah Mon Dieu!” He bent over in anguish. “This cannot be, it simply cannot be.”
Then Petra pointed out soldiers nearing the priest. They grabbed his helpless gaggle of men, and someone pulled the priest into the shadows. Within minutes, those who had joined him hung from balconies or lampposts.
The numbers, shouted by a German officer, transfixed Domingo. Thirty-seven men killed. Forty-four. Fifty-nine. Sixty-five. Eighty.
Eighty-three. Eighty-seven. Petra bunched his shoulder against Domingo’s. Eighty-nine. Ninety-two. Triumph tinged the officer’s bellowed announcements.
Ninety-seven. Ninety-nine.
The commander, a miniature puppet from their viewpoint, turned his men on anyone standing nearby. Chaos ensued. Shots echoed from the courtyard, blood flowed over stone, and Domingo counted at least twenty more slain.
Somehow, Petra maintained command of his tongue. “Surely they have finished. Let’s move.”
Domingo followed him down the stuffy stairway, his legs like wooden sticks. Sickness rode his throat. Surely, he would soon waken from this terrible nightmare.
Petra stopped to speak with someone in the street, and Domingo’s mouth went dry as a new idea struck him. Perhaps the same vicious commander that bloodied Tulle’s streets had ordered Gabirel and Maman taken away. A day ago, his mind held room only for them, but then all those killed at Gabaudet crowded in.
Now, these unfortunate ninety-nine swung in his consciousness, too. Though he knew that the commander could not be in two places at one time, all German officers ranged through his mind as one—the epitome of evil.
What would Père Gaspard say to the slaughter he had just observed? A sudden longing to pour his heart out to him overwhelmed Domingo as he followed Petra by a back way to the edge of Tulle.
They would run until Petra could run no more, of that Domingo felt certain. And so they did. The aching in his muscles soothed his guilt at being gone from home when the soldiers came, and for allowing those Huns to live a few days ago. Compared to his shame, the fire in his muscles amounted to a good pain.
If only he and Petra could keep on running forever. He wished he could vanish into an isolated chasm of the Causse de Gramat. Yet he wanted to fight. He’d determined to do so before, but now, he must.
When Petra finally dropped beside a flowing stream, Domingo panted beside him. A short while later, he detected someone crawling their way, and touched Petra’s shoulder. The bushes parted, revealing a shivering young fellow with elbows torn from his jacket. He stared at them in singular terror.
Petra took a step toward him and motioned for Domingo to give him water. Finally, the stranger stopped trembling. Then the grim details from Tulle flowed from his mouth. Finally he ended his tale. “I watched them kill ten of us for every Nazi.”
“Oui. We saw them too. Come with us.”
Petra led the lad, who looked far too much like Gabirel, to wash in a nearby creek. Then they raced away again with him between them on the path. A new comrade—someone who shared the bloody visions that visited Domingo.
Once again, the eyes of that pilot he’d deserted under the carcass confronted him. But this time, they seemed a bit further away. Perhaps time would render them less disturbing, less searing—like Sancha’s.
In the schluss...schluss of the young man’s espadrilles, the future unfolded in Domingo’s mind. He and Petra would take him to headquarters to witness to what he had seen. They would do the same, and then they would fight together until this wickedness ceased.
~
Insistent banging woke Kate from heavy sleep. Pale light streaked the edge of the window hangings. The unmistakable scrape of boots on stone reverberated up staircases and through hallways to her sheltered room. Then a man’s voice echoed, loud and unrelenting.
“Oh dear God, help us.” She clung to her blanket. If she could hear their boots, they must be...
But then Mother Hélène’s voice rang out. “Messieurs, I have now shown you all that is possible. You have seen our wounded, thanks to your own attack. I have allowed you into our sacred worship space. But you will not defile my sisters by entering our private areas.”
Authority filled her declaration, but trembling still swept Kate. Gestapo inside the Mother House ... today she must move again, no putting it off. She steadied herself and pulled on her underclothes, splashed her face and slipped on the habit Père supplied. After transmitting the last two nights, her color probably matched the habit’s faded straw hue.
By all means, she must listen for incoming reports this afternoon, for by now, the London transmitting team would have passed on the list of needs she’d sent last night. At Harrington, the S2 would have forwarded the information to the Operations room. There, an officer had already marked tonight’s targets on a large situation map, added the circuit agent’s name, selected take off times and issued flight organizers radar clearance.
How could she get the new coordinates to a courier before tonight? If she failed, precious supplies might fall into Nazi hands. Worse, for any parachutists, rifle fire instead of loyal French peasants would greet them, and they would perish instead of aiding the Résistance.
A man’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What about this whole southern wing? Surely, you have room for a transmitter there.”
“Monsieur, I assure you, we have plenty of room for many transmitters. However, do you suppose we would risk the lives of those wounded in your malicious raids? Would women devoted to saving life barter precious human beings for the sake of a few radio transmissions? I wonder if you are thinking clearly today.”
“Harrumph ... we’ll see when I report your insolence to Monsieur Laval. Sister or no, lying to the Gestapo cannot escape notice. We will find you out, and believe me, once a betrayer reaches Lyon, Herr Barbie will enjoy torturing them until they blurt the truth.”
Two sets of boots resounded on the granite stairs, their steps fading away, so Kate lifted off the itchy habit and found a window with a view of the front parkway. An immaculate black sedan waited outside the Abbey doors. Within minutes, two German officers exited the building. Even through closed windows, she could hear the strike of their spit-shined boots on stone.
Near the door, Mother Hélène’s profile showed, keys in hand. She appeared placid as she watched the men depart, but surely she trembled?
As quickly as she could, Kate retraced the maze that first led her to this safe haven and met Mother Helene on the stairs.
“You derailed them.”
“For the time being. But that threat about Klaus Barbie unnerved me. He has no conscience at all.” Mother Hélène took Kate’s hand with icy fingers. “Why focus on him, though? To be a woman of integrity means being the same on the inside as we are outwardly, but this war teaches me I have a distance to go.”
“To live honestly these days, one must lie.”
“Indeed. Loyalty demands a high price.” Mother Hélène locked the inner door and turned down the hallway toward her office.
“I must go very soon.”
“Oui, but I do not know where to send you, and you will not leave without a destination. Let us pray Père returns to us.” Mother Hélène’s green eyes sparkled against her ashen skin. “You do know they call him the phantom of the Résistance?”
“No, but I can see why.”
“Yes, only the Almighty can keep track of his movements.” She turned her doorknob. “Our bandage supply has nearly run out...”
“Ah. I roll them like a professional.”
By the time the bells tolled two, the air grew oppressive. Kate wiped her forehead after passing the morning cutting cloth and rolling it into strips. At one point, Sister Margareta, one of the few remaining sisters on the premises, invited Kate to accompany her on her rounds.
“Every day I check the eternal flame.” She opened a small muted room with an altar at one end. “See there, above the altar? If I allow that candle to go out, God’s presence will dwell here no longer.”
Kate bit her tongue. As if she sensed her questions, Sister Margareta turned.
“This box contains the host, our Lord’s body. It is most holy.”
An image of the battered, bloody bodies languishing in the Abbey sanctuary flashed before Kate. Then she thought of Monsieur le Blanc’s worn-out flesh and his final exhalation.
She wanted to ask, “But isn’t Jesus with the wounded, too? And surely He was with Mother Hélène when she forestalled the Gestapo this morning?”
No, this was a time to consider a different way of looking at things. She stilled her inquisitive nature and once again, Addie’s husband came to mind. He would have a heyday here. Even with his slim knowledge of Catholicism, he often ridiculed the institution.
“Keep away from those Catholics. They worship a statue, you know.”
But perhaps her father had been born into a Catholic family—she’d had no time to ask Monsieur le Blanc. Sister Margareta smoothed the linen cloth around the host, kissed the latch, backed away and bowed three times.
In the hallway, Kate whispered, “Do you only come here to check the light?”
“And for adoration. I sit before the host and ponder what our Lord has done for me.”
Near Mother Hélène’s office, a sign of God’s presence arrived in human form, as comforting for Kate as the eternal light. Père Gaspard’s resonant voice drifted down the hall.
A great sigh overwhelmed Kate and she flung her arms around him. “How did you find Terrou?”
His smile quivered at the corners, so Mother Hélène took over. “What about the chateau? The owners have given over most of it to the Résistance, but...?”
“The Gestapo watches it too closely.” Père twisted toward Kate. “Isn’t your listening time almost here?”
“I was so worried about my next move, I almost forgot, and today listening is more important than ever.”
In the next room, she slipped out the miniature radio set. Amazing—in the midst of such suffering, Père still remembered her listening time. In the background he and Mother Hélène continued their search for her next location.
When Kathryn completed her work, Mother Hélène gave her a serene smile. “We’ve come up with the right spot for you.”
“Although getting you there may take some doing.” Père Gaspard rubbed his chin. “But then, you’ve become used to wild rides, oui?”
“The lorry again?”
“That and some other contrivances. We have a distance of only, umm ... I think about twenty-five kilometers to go, though the trip may resemble ten times that. But the effort will be worthwhile, for the Abbey of St Pierre at Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne will provide superlative protection. I doubt even Hitler himself would trespass on an Abbey so rich in relics.”
“What do you mean?”
Mother explained. “The Abbey owns a medieval golden Virgin and child. And two arm reliquaries, if legend serves us well.”
“Reliquaries?”
“The arms of kings or other important people. German blood may have flowed through those monarchs, so even the Nazis would hesitate to disturb their forebears’ eternal rest. I know Mother Juliette there, who has worked with the Correze partisans from the beginning—probably has her own code name by now.
“I know no one else as formidable as Mother Juliette. If anyone could convince a storm trooper the Abbey boasts a German king’s arm, she could.”
Père added, “Unfortunately the time has come for you to don your sister’s garb.”
Kate obeyed, and when she returned, Mother Hélène raised her eyebrows. “I’ll have someone fetch your radio.”
“Thank you. Do you have a map? I’d like to know the route, in case we get separated.”
Mother Hélène reached into a desk drawer. “Here—before the war, I gave this to our novices. Even cloistered folk ought to know their environs.”
Kate spread the map on the desk and viewed the Departments of Lot and Correze, the western section of Aveyron, and the easternmost slice of Dordogne. She pinpointed the spot near Capdenac where she and Domingo crossed en route to his home.
Père Gaspard joined her. “The initial influx of tanks and troops has filtered north.” His finger traced a route through Souillac, Gignac, and Brive-la-Gaillarde into the center of Correze.
“I have heard reports of their doings in Tulle.” He locked eyes with Mother Hélène. “Mercifully, they moved north, but new units may still arrive. You did the right thing, Mother, to send the little ones away.”
“Both conscience and fear counseled me. My mentors taught that faith and fear cannot co-exist, but I have to disagree.” She went out, and Père bent over the map.
“We’ll follow the rail lines, shorn of their power, up through the center of Lot.” He traced his forefinger over a plateau from north to south. “They say the Causse de Gramat has some sort of road paralleling the railway. From there, we can view the whole area.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a tour of the Alzou and Ouysse Valleys, with their quaint medieval structures, nor the cliff village of Rocamadour, a unique pilgrimage site for centuries.”
“Let’s make a date after the war.” Kate’s comment eased the severe lines between his eyes.
“I’ll go out and get the radio settled.”
Kate tucked the map into her habit’s hidden pocket as Mother Hélène returned with a pair of espadrilles. “I doubt your shoes will last the climb.”
“Why, thank you—such a thoughtful gift.”
Mother Hélène also held out the tiny transmitter. “You have more use for this than we do.”
“You would send this with me?”
“Of course. It was never ours to begin with.”
“Mother Hélène, do you know anything about Terrou?”
“Père Gaspard found his village as reported—razed, burned out.”
“Did he find his family?”
“No trace of them, but that could mean anything.” Mother Hélène pressed her lips together. “In some ways, it would be easier to know, but with everyone scattered...” She patted Kate’s shoulder. “Perhaps on your journey you will act as his confessor.”
“Me?”
“You two have a bond. In these times, we must all uphold one another.”
Domingo’s face flitted through Kate’s mind. Mother Hélène described exactly what he did for her when Monsieur le Blanc died.
“Crossing the Causse after tending the dying and grieving here will seem light work to Père. Let’s pack some supplies for your journey.”
When they returned with provisions, Père Gaspard had lugged the radio into a hollowed-out hiding place beneath the seat of a cart attached by wooden joints to a bicycle. At first glance, the apparatus looked flimsy, a creation only the foolhardy would trust.
Père caught Kate’s eyes. “Behold, a unique form of transportation designed just for us.” His arm circled the contraption as if he presented her with a royal coach.
“Some of our more mechanical Maquisards developed this contrivance. It requires no fuel, is faster than walking, totes heavy loads, and rouses less suspicion because it makes far less noise than a motorized vehicle.” His underlying paleness belied the cheery look he gave her. “In appearance, it may leave something to be desired, but that’s true of me, as well.”
He jumped onto the seat. “You see, I pedal here and you ride beside me. If worse comes to worst, you can lunge for safety while my priesthood protects me.”
From behind them, a deep chuckle erupted. “Well, Père, I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime, but this might qualify as the most bizarre.” Mother Hélène tapped Kate’s elbow and then embraced her.
Sudden emotion engulfed Kate. “I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness.” She handed Mother Hélène an envelope. “Please give this to the courier who came yesterday, and tell him I’ll transmit my new location to London as soon as I can.”
“I shall not forget you, child. And be assured, you may count on our prayers.”