In spite of thick foliage overhanging portions of the path, June sun beat down on Kate as she followed Père. En route to the Ségala camp high above Saint-Céré, the familiar swish of his soutane, even in this caking mud, created a comforting rhythm.
From the moment he met her and her guide on the path, the same love surrounded her that she sensed at Charles and Addie’s wedding. How could she doubt that heaven watched out for her now? To witness their vows and be sent back here would have been enough. But Kate acknowledged her incessant need for proof, and proof traipsed the path a few feet ahead of her once again, in the form of this gangly priest.
Somehow, Père Gaspard had already been informed of her mission, so she hadn’t even needed to explain. And he’d already been busy making plans.
“I’ll travel with you as far as the encampment. There, we’ll find a guide for the rest of your journey—I’ll do anything I can to foil the Gestapo.”
Kate almost felt guilty that everything seemed so simple, but what awaited her in Lyon would surely make up for this easy start. Word had it that interrogations there often led to death—she sent up a plea for Maurice.
“Take care, it’s a little slippery after last night’s storm.” A few minutes later, Père half-turned his head. “I suspect my ancestors used this trail on their pilgrimages.” At a level place in the trail, his incredibly blue eyes gleamed at her with purpose and mischief, like a cat’s.
“Getting quiet around here, isn’t it? With our fighters going north, I’m betting the Limousin will be liberated by summer’s end. And then, freedom will move south to us.” Père’s fiery red curls slid into further disarray as he retrieved a soiled kerchief from his voluminous robe.
“You used to prophesy, but now you’ve stooped to betting?” Kate wiped off perspiration pooled at the nape of her neck and slapped at an insect.
“Why not? My guess is as good as anyone else’s.” Suddenly, Père stiffened. Their guide raised his hand at muted steps from the tangled brush.
Kate closed her eyes and waited until the schluss ... schluss of espadrilles decreased her tension. But these days, collaborator miliciens and even the Gestapo took to disguising themselves with Basque footwear.
With Père, she shrank deeper into the bushes and joined his silent prayer. Please shield us. But their requests produced the opposite results.
“Over there to the left ... that’s the priest.”
In seconds, several partisans surrounded them. One of them pulled Père aside and murmured to him in Occitan. Then he positioned himself before Kate, his dark eyes boring into hers. “You served with Maurice, oui?”
Père’s protective stance demanded an explanation, and finally, the stranger glanced his way. “We have need of this fair-haired girl.” He turned to Kate again. “Your ID, please.” He squinted at her card and read aloud. “But you once were Ibarra...”
At the sound of Domingo’s family name, Kate froze. Père murmured something, and whatever he said satisfied the stranger. “Père, you may come along if you like.”
Without asking, Kate knew why they wanted her. The distasteful truth encroached like a nasty itch. She wanted to scratch this reality away, but knew better than to try. These partisans needed her to confirm a traitor’s identity—who cared if she ever reached her proposed destination?
After she cooperated with these patriots, la Résistance would give the betrayer a double-barreled traitor’s farewell. Ambivalence rode Kate’s midsection—she hadn’t looked forward to going near the Gestapo headquarters, but of all her missions since she parachuted into France, this one might be even worse.
The leader studied her as if measuring her fortitude. “You must identify a turncoat for us.” He spat and waited.
He took her silence for compliance and ushered her past his comrades. They backed to the side and she fell in behind this new leader.
Nothing had changed here since her stay in London—detours rose on every hand. Choices still faced her, but each one depended on others made by friend and foe alike, including heartless Waffen S.S. commanders.
Who could be trusted for a night’s sleep or some food? Who collaborated with the Nazi-friendly Vichy government? Who remained loyal to La France? And who had betrayed the cause and must pay for that foolhardy choice? Nearly overcome with gratitude for Père’s steady footfall on the path behind her, Kate kept up the pace. Maybe he could help Eugene face an ignominious death.
That’s what Père was about, making a difference, and he did so in many ways. Since l’Invasion, Kate’s travels with him fused nightmare with inspiration.
Because of his perspective, beauty had surprised her everywhere. In the rocky heights surrounding their paths, in his interactions with everyone from lorry drivers to Mother Hélène, Père radiated uncommon serenity, opening her eyes to the landscape. At the same time, he’d made her laugh, and even surprised her with that checkerboard—another kind of beauty.
The present view provided the perfect example. Limestone cliffs shouldered against an azure sky, wildflowers peppered meadows that invited Kate to lie down for an afternoon nap, and a sun-dappled stream flowed from the heights. Yet her destination held a new horror—she would be instrumental in Eugene’s demise.
Again, she gave thanks for Père Gaspard. His acknowledgement of human weakness in general, as well as his own in particular, won her heart. And today, that frailty would be on display in Eugene. Yet come what may, Père still trusted in an ultimate, though seemingly distant goodness.
“Remember how this war turns things around—what seems so far away may really lie quite close at hand. Through all their trials, the apostles claimed God with us—indeed, even in martyrdom. And we follow their example.”
A ground squirrel chattered up a tree. Even creatures sensed disturbance in the natural order of things. Midsummer ought to display fields planted, peasants at work, and carefully tended grapevines, but so many had fled the tanks, none remained to do the work.
Like the musky rise of late fog still lingering in river hollows, Père’s convictions persisted in spite of everything. That steadiness calmed and sustained Kate, though any second, the Gestapo might rain down on them.
Closer to the camp, she recalled weeks-old news of a double agent called la Corneille. She’d entertained questions then, of course. Had she ever crossed paths with him—or her? Now, her questions multiplied.
Could Eugene be la Corneille? Kate recalled the shock of hearing that her network’s wiry radio operator with his heavy shank of black hair had turned traitor. Could he also be the one who traveled all through the southern Departments, affecting many other networks as well?
To think he had betrayed Maurice, their organizer, and so many more, all the way back to London—such a thing seemed impossible. Every time she’d delivered a message, she’d come so close to touching his hand. She’d always considered herself a good judge of character, so how could she have failed to read the treachery in his eyes?
The partisans led them past a small hamlet set into the hillside and upward past a large two-story house. A central set of rooms rose above the second level, with a brown-roofed tower and two stories on the other side. Kate longed to stop and walk through the rooms. But chances were, the place had been absconded by the Milice.
A hundred feet higher, the leader grunted a password to a guard stationed in a low branch of a tree. Soon, the dreaded moment of truth would come—if only she could dissolve into the day’s heat.
Something else troubled her. Someone had sent these men to find her, but whom? And the leader knew Domingo’s family name—what could that mean?
He would never have told them—no, he would hold her secrets until his dying day. But even though her original agent name had been Dumont, these men had searched for her under her more recent identity. Of course, London had just sent her back with yet another persona.
In a sudden burst of sunshine through layered leaves, camp sounds reached their troupe. Dense foliage obscured the camp entrance, and farther into its depths, she imagined Domingo’s ebony eyes glinting at her. She could almost hear his voice on this breezeless air.
If she saw him again ... When she saw him again, it would be enough to hear him breathe her name.
Another guard stopped their progress and brought Kate back to this day, this distasteful reality. Would she have to watch the maquisards torture Eugene or raze his body with bullets? The firing squad, swift and sure, had become their favored execution style.
High in a chestnut, a crow protested this invasion of its territory with its hoarse cries. The huge black noisemaker reminded her that in this world of subterfuge, some surely lost their faith. But Domingo ... somewhere, maybe not so far away, he carried out missions that would pulse terror through her veins. Ah, here she was, thinking of him again.
I lift him up, I lift him up ... please protect him and grant us victory.
In heavy foliage, the leader again paused to give a password. A man gave directions, and Kate finally spotted the guard. They must have entered the camp, at last.
Around a curve, a partisan addressed Père. “Do you wish to visit the refugees?”
“Not yet. I’ll accompany this young lady for a while.” He made Kate a promise with his eyes—he would not leave her.
The partisan nodded and headed past a canvas tent smelling of bread baking, obviously the kitchen. Kate and Père trailed him down a gully, across a meadow, and finally into an obscure shelter.
“We have the prisoner roped in here. If you stand where I tell you, you can see him without being seen.” He led them ten paces before making a turn into a heavily shaded area. But as he predicted, a light shone farther on.
Perhaps six feet from an opening in a heavy curtain, they stopped. “Take a good, long look.”
Eugene—clearly, Eugene.
“You recognize him?”
“May I see him from the front?”
The partisan flitted like an insect through the opening, and two guards turned the prisoner. Doubly sure, Kate let out a long breath. Père touched her elbow.
The partisan returned, expectancy written on his features. “Is this the one they call Eugene, who transmitted for Maurice’s circuit?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain?” This time, Père posed the question.
“No doubt at all. I saw Eugene many times.”
Père’s sigh engulfed Kate, but the partisan gestured her back the way they had come. “Merci. You serve la France well.”
But Père advanced toward Eugene. The partisan led her away, and when they approached the kitchen, he gestured toward some fresh bread loaves. “Perhaps you need to eat?”
When shots rang out, he showed no emotion, but told Kate to wait here. A few minutes later, Père approached. A heavy knot sat in Kate’s stomach, but the dullness in Père’s eyes told her nothing.
“He refused to speak with me—hopefully he found some peace.” He shook his head. “Ah, mon amie, the troubles of this war. I’m going to see how I can help the refugees—nearly a hundred on the other side of camp, they say. Headquarters sent some urgent messages, and that partisan will return shortly to take you to a radio. Do you think you can work?”
“Of course.”
“Be kind to yourself.” He hesitated. “So far, I have located no one here headed to Lyon. Everyone able to travel has left the camp in the other direction. This derails your assigned duty, but we’ll have to wait.”
“Randomness—I’m not surprised. Maybe the war will end before I can get there.”
Père touched her shoulder. “Maybe indeed. But for now, we both have work to do. I will find you later.”
A few minutes after he left, the partisan led Kate to a cave-like dugout. At the entrance, he handed her a lantern and some folded papers.
“You’ll find another lantern inside. You’re safe here.”
Kate hung the lantern and in a nearby stream, washed off the worst of the mud. Then she sank into a squeaky chair set before a substantial wooden table. That same serenity she’d experienced at the Ibarra homestead descended. She pulled out the messages and gave herself to London headquarters and the BBC.
~
Hours must have passed. The two lanterns flickered, dispelling the darkness, but at the cavern’s entrance, sunset reigned. In fresh evening air sweet with blossoms, Kate stretched her arms and cramped neck.
An image of her mother hunched over a Great War telephone switchboard tickled her thoughts.
“Mother...” The hallowed word drifted like cottonwood tufts or milkweed fluff. Oh, why hadn’t she asked Monsieur le Blanc more about her before he died?
“I so wish we could talk, Mother, if only for five minutes. I’d like to know what your life was like at the Front, and how you decided to come to France. When did you first meet Le Renard? Did he notice you first? How did you know he cared for you, and how long did you wait to marry? Did he woo you with wildflowers, if any dared to flourish so near the battle?”
A chilly wind bade Kate pull her sweater closer. “How did you decide to move back to the States? Was it hard for my father to leave his country? Most of all, what call did you answer when you took that last flight?”
She walked a distance away. Did you cry when you said good-bye to me that time? Did you have any premonition that you’d never see me again? And what caused your plane to go down?
Back at the entrance, Madame Ibarra’s face undulated like a feather on the wind. How was it for Domingo, now that he had lost her? To think, he might not even know yet.
Surely, everything would be different for him. His mother’s voice and laughter, her gestures and the light in her eyes, her unique scent—hundreds of intimate memories must swirl inside him. After living together all these years, how could he possibly let her go?
Some time after Kate returned to her work, a whiff of hot chicory drifted in. Père Gaspard stood there holding a steaming cup. The brew, tangy yet sharp, beckoned her from her work for a few moments.
“How did you manage?”
“Always wondering about how, aren’t you? Simply enjoy this, and hand over any messages you have ready. I’ll find a courier.” His eyes gleamed against the darkness. “Do you know what I’ve been considering?”
“How could I ever guess?”
“Something about Saint Pierre’s tymphanum. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
A coarse wool blanket warmed Kate as she sank against the rock wall, its earthy scent enveloping her. Nothing like hot chicory and the chance to close her eyes, even for a short time before the BBC’s personal messages.
In the distance, she could hear the refugees at their everyday tasks—cooking supper, talking over campfires, preparing children for bed. That rhythm of humanity created a sudden shaft of desire.
Then out of the night rose an impression from the past. She swam in that nebulous state between sleep and wakefulness as someone braced a hand near her and warm breath touched her ear.
“Dormez bien, mon enfant.” The same words she spoke over sweet little Linden before she left le Chambon sur Lignon. Sleep well, my child.
Aware only vaguely of the night sounds outside, Kate attuned the ear of her heart. And gradually, like a candle flame growing, the answer arrived, though she couldn’t have explained how.
“My father, le Renard. It was my father.”
Maybe he tiptoed in before he and her mother, still working for an espionage unit after the war, caught their flight. Perhaps a tear trickled down his cheek.
All speculation, to be sure, but this small flicker of memory reignited her sense of wellbeing. With the hot mug warming her hands, she opened herself to this other warmth. Memories are like roses in December... where had she heard that saying?
“My father loved me. This tells me, and so did Monsieur le Blanc.” What if she could find someone else who worked at the front with her parents? And what if she discovered where and why they had to take that post-war trip? Nothing was impossible.
“Some things I cannot know, but this, I can hold dear. This is my rose in December.”
The transmitter stole her attention until she returned the cup to the kitchen, recognizable by a single low fire. Wreathed in smoke, several partisans murmured there, and one of them nodded in her direction. His low-slung beret reminded her of the faint image of her father in Monsieur le Blanc’s photograph.
How could she have known there was nothing to fear from Monsieur, or how meeting him in London would change her life? But his gift of her mother’s graduation portrait and the faded image of her father led to so much more than she could ever have imagined.
Monsieur exposed an enticing remnant of truth, and as she awaited her baby’s birth, her courage had grown. The truth shall set you free … Exactly what Addie had experienced in her struggle with Harold.
For her, freedom led to embracing a new love. The cool night air caught Kate's question. “But what does freedom mean for me?”
Clouds blocked the moon, creating a misty darkness that shrouded the grounds. Along tents scattered upwind from the petrol’s intense odor, she smelled fresh-dug potatoes, still encased in their own dirt, and recalled her first trip with Père in the ramshackle lorry to distribute vegetables to his parishioners.
Albert, Jean-Claude’s son, hefted burlap bags of turnips and carrots into peasants’ hands. By now, had those families who received the food fled the Schutzstaffel, too? That word signifying Hitler’s notorious elite special services set Kate’s teeth on edge, but her circuit of the camp revived her, giving her the energy she needed to face her three remaining transmissions.
Later, Père Gaspard poked his head in and beckoned her out to a fallen log. The camp seemed almost more awake by night than it was by day, with the sounds of partisans darting here and there through the trees. In hushed tones, Kate asked how Domingo could bear such great loss.
“We have medicins homeopathique here in France. Do you understand?”
“Homeopathic doctors who concoct herbal remedies?”
“It’s a bit more complicated—they inject a tiny amount of the ailment into the solution. For an allergy to oak buds, they express part of the remedy from those very buds.”
“Like an inoculation.”
Père studied the shapes of some fast-moving clouds, dark against the moon. “Yes. I believe a similar principle works in our deep sorrows. Domingo has already lost his father and brother, as well as his betrothed. Those sufferings have expanded his capacity to bear this new grief.”
After he left, Kate stared up at the sky. According to Père’s logic, her childhood losses made losing Aunt Alvina and Alexandre easier, as if the first sorrow performed an initial cutting.
But when her baby died, she sank so very low. Thank goodness, Addie had already come to London. She had a way of making life more bearable, and now Mr. Tenney would have her beside him. That image brought a smile—and returned Kate to thoughts of Domingo. If only goodness traveled a swifter path.