CHAPTER 13

IT WAS, AT FIRST, a single word spoken to Girt, relayed to me, and whispered from one sister to another as we stood in a circle around the fire one dark February night.

Easter.

A single word in reply to a dangerously lengthy letter I had composed, signed, and circulated throughout our ranks for signatures of agreement. Twenty-four names in all, and there could have been more had we been more bold. Still, the number frightened me. How could so many be trusted to keep a secret? Some of the names belonged to familiar faces —women I counted as companions as well as sisters. But some were mere strings of letters. Who was Brigitte? Which Ava was this? And I worried, too, that the scrap would be intercepted and our imminent escape exposed. With my name —Katharina von Bora —boldly scrawled beneath the final plea:

We await your wisdom, and pray for our release.

Only Girt had been spared the commitment of a signature, as any sort of writing proved a painful, humiliating exercise. She, of course, had the most important task of all. It was Girt who found a way to slip the letter into Hans’s rein-hardened hand. And it was into Girt’s ear that the date of our freedom was declared.

Easter.

The details of our escape followed, the exactness of time and place, meted out in snippets of conversation. An empty farmer’s cart at midnight. An overnight journey to Torgau for a short stay before continuing on to Wittenberg.

“But not for all of us,” I said to Girt as we lingered in the chapel after early-morning Mass. She stood at my back, keeping watch. “Not everyone who signed the letter.”

“Why not?”

“In a single cart?”

“It will be empty. We can squeeze ourselves together.”

“All of us slipping out? We’ll call attention. Noise and number. We’d have to line up at the gate. See here.” I sketched a diagram of the grounds and back gate in the frosted glass, knowing the sun and my sleeve would erase the evidence. “We’d make a solid line along the fence. We can take only half the number. Or less.”

“And who’s going to decide who goes and who stays?”

“I will.” My response came without hesitation. “You, of course. Me, and any who heard from their families since the Christmas letters. Those who have a place to go.” I made hash marks in the frost as I listed, knowing only a few of the women had received word back with news of a welcoming reception.

“So, you heard nothing?” Girt asked.

“There’s no place for me.” Indeed, my father’s letter had been equally sparse in words.

“Luther is said to have a plan. A place for all of us, eventually.”

“Let’s worry about how we’re going to get into the wagon before worrying about what might be waiting when we get out.”

“You’re right. Sister Ave?”

“Yes. And Sister Ave . . .”

“Therese?” Girt’s mention of our friend sounded more like a challenge. “Will she have a place with us?”

“I’ll talk with her.”

“I worry that she might —” Girt craned her neck and waited for the distant sound of a footfall to disappear —“that she might say something. Don’t you?”

“I said I’ll talk with her. Now, we’ll be able to take maybe four more.”

“How will we choose?”

My previous decisive bravado left me. How could I possibly take a sister’s fate in my hand? I closed my eyes in a silent prayer of contrition, then proceeded to wipe our plan from the glass.

“We won’t. We’ll let the Lord decide. Only he knows what is waiting on the other side. He will fill the right hearts with courage.”

I chose the worthy through silent lottery. Who would be brave enough to hold my gaze during our midday meal? Who would join me in humming our tune of escape? Who would form her hands into the shape of a rabbit in silent greeting when we passed in the corridor? As the date grew nearer, so did the need for true courage, and our numbers dropped with every pair of averted eyes.

On the first day of April, I went to the kitchen to beg the favor of bringing Sister Gerda’s meal. It was the last she would have, as for years she had insisted on fasting from sunset on Maundy Thursday until breakfast Easter Monday. As such, it was laden with pickled herring, cheese, bread, and stewed turnips. There was also a second pitcher of water, intended to last all four days. All this made the tray heavy, and when I arrived at her door, I could only kick for her attention. When, after a suitable number of seconds, there was no shuffle of footsteps, let alone a turn of the latch, I kicked again.

“Sister Gerda? I’ve come with your tray. It’s heavy. Open the door, and I’ll take it to your table.”

Nothing.

She must have known. Somebody —Girt, maybe, in her excitement; or Therese in her lingering disapproval —must have told her of our plan.

“Sister?” And another kick.

A month or more before, I might have respected her reproach. Turned and left the tray on the floor for her to retrieve later, in privacy. But this was not her usual amount of provisions, and this was no ordinary day. She would never be able to lift this burden, and I would never forgive myself for not seeing her one last time. So, doubling my strength with one arm, I eased the other over to the latch, turned it, and pushed the door open, apologizing.

“I’m sorry to intrude on your solitude, but I can’t carry this all the way back to the kitchen. I’ll just —”

The silence inside the tiny, dark room was more profound than any I’d ever experienced.

“Sister Gerda?” But by then I knew better than to expect a response.

Feeling my strength wash away, I crouched down to set the tray on the floor, and three steps later I was at her bedside.

By some miracle, she’d become even smaller, her twisted form taking up half the space of the narrow cot. She slept —slept, as I would always remember —with the tumored side of her face buried in the pillow. Now, in perfect peace, she lay smooth and ageless, the kerchief that covered her hair undisturbed.

“Oh, Sister . . .” I knelt beside her, kissing the cold, gnarled hands clutched in a final prayer. Tears poured, and I gritted my teeth to hold back the sobs that wanted to echo throughout the corridor. Once composed, I raised my head and, out of habit, leaned close to her ear —her good ear —and whispered, “You have been made new. What a sweet, pure spirit to give to our eternal Father. And how clever of you to escape before I have the chance to do so.”

This, I knew, would have garnered a wry smile, and I kissed her cheek, allowing my lips to linger in a way she would never have allowed in life.

Never before had I felt so alive. Young and strong, and any doubt I might have harbored disappeared, much as I imagined Sister Gerda’s final breath. With peace, unbidden, and carried straight to God.

“I will see you again, sweet Sister.” A truth I believed more strongly than if I’d spoken it in farewell. “And we will run to each other, clattering on streets of gold. Shouting praise.” A final kiss, and I stood, drawing Sister Gerda’s gray wool blanket up and over her still form.

The tray had doubled in weight since I set it down, and the journey back to the kitchen grown at least a mile longer. When I arrived, I set the tray down on the wide worktable, calling the attention of the two sisters chopping vegetables for the day’s stew. One looked at me quizzically, and for once the rule of silence worked in my favor. There would be no need for lengthy explanations to sully the sweetness of my final moment with Sister Gerda with details of shock and pity. I simply made the sign of the cross upon my breast and said, “Send word to the abbess. Our sister has gone to be with our Father in heaven.”

Then I ran, each step a celebration of my life, God’s gift of physical vitality. I ran like I did as a child, steps ahead of Sister Gerda’s correction, wishing my shoes would make more noise, enough to reach her and summon her to me, released from hermitage, moving freely beside me. I ran to the sewing room, the classroom, the refectory, and the chapel. Then outside, to the courtyard, to the garden, until I saw her —Therese —wielding a hoe against the earth still cold from winter’s frost.

I stopped short, ready to shout her name, but my frantic steps had garnered enough attention, and she stood straight, seeing me. Silently I beckoned, and she approached, leaving her tool in the cart at the end of the furrow. As she drew near, I reached out my hands and fought to remain standing when she took them.

“Kat? What is it?”

The pain on my face must have been apparent to have brought her to speak.

Come with me.

My grip gave her no choice but to obey, and I led her past one curious face after another, without pausing for explanation. Even Girt, who made some attempt to follow, was ignored with nothing more than a flick of my wrist to dissuade her. We didn’t stop until I’d dragged Therese to our cell, closed the door behind us, and leaned myself against it.

“Kat, for all that is holy, what has happened? Are you —” she lowered her voice —“in trouble? Do they know?”

I shook my head. “I went to see Sister Gerda this morning. For one last time.”

“Oh.”

“She was dead.”

Therese gasped, her eyes wide above the hand brought to her mouth before she crossed herself, saying, “Heavenly Father grant peace to her soul. Amen.”

“Amen,” I echoed, both the word and the gesture.

“How awful for you, Kat. I know you loved her.”

“I did.” Tears came again, in concert with Therese’s, and we held each other, not caring if the dirt from her apron transferred to the whiteness of my robe. I felt our bodies reach accord in breath as sounds of comfort passed mutually between us.

“I’m glad you’re the one who found her,” Therese said as we pulled away.

“I am too. What if it had been Anna Marie? She would have been screaming all over the place.”

Therese giggled. “You’re terrible. But it’s true. Why did you come to me?”

“Because you knew her too. Like I did, from before.”

“So did Girt.”

“Girt will find out soon enough. I’ll tell her myself, if word doesn’t reach her before dinner. But listen.” I gripped her shoulders, keeping her face —beautiful within the wimple —squarely in front of me. “I want you to come with us. With me.”

Whatever love we’d shared in the previous moments fell behind a hardened mask. “Don’t —”

“I don’t want that to happen to you. I don’t want you to become an old woman, dying alone. Oh, Therese, think about it. To be completely alone. And what if she’d died tonight? It would be days before anyone would know.”

She softened in front of me and led me to sit next to her on her bed. “Remember what I told you about my mother?”

“Yes, I know about your mother. And the angel, and the men. But —”

“She was sick.”

“Yes, I know. Fevered and ill.”

“But more, too. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was so young. And she tried to hide it from me. But she’d been bleeding from —” she looked away —“from her womanhood. And not the way we do, as God intended. But diseased, because of how she had abused her body.”

In all our years together, this was a new detail to her story. I always imagined a beautiful, pale sickness, like the fever I’d seen in some of the girls before they went on to heaven.

“I’m glad they found you.”

“You see? Sister Gerda isn’t the first woman in my life to be found dead, alone in a room. There are far, far worse circumstances.”

“Your mother wasn’t alone. She had you. And you had . . . him.”

“When I woke up, my only words were to ask for my mother. And as for him . . . Now, I have Christ himself within me.” She held a hand to her breast. “The Holy Ghost indwelling. Isn’t that so much more powerful than an angel at the door?”

“I only meant . . . Sister Gerda didn’t have what you have. She could never have had a life outside the Church. But you —”

“What makes you think I want a life outside the Church?”

“I don’t want to leave you behind.”

“Well, then, that makes you selfish.” A pretty, small smile softened the insult. “And intolerant and cruel. I’ve done nothing to hinder your endeavor, have I? Even though I think you are misguided and wrong, I’ve guarded your secret. Why? Because I respect the vows I took enough to know that no woman should live them halfheartedly.”

“On that, at least, we agree,” I said, feeling for the first time in well over a year that we might have a kindred spirit after all.

“Believe me when I tell you there is nothing out in the world that interests me. I understand now —and I have for a long time —that I cannot do penance for my mother’s sins. Your Luther writes about the freedom of a Christian. This is how I choose to live. Please do not beg me to go, and I will not beg you to stay.”

“But we might never see each other again.”

“Of course we will, silly. I told you long ago that we wouldn’t always be best friends in this world. I’ll always love you, but I won’t be by your side. We’ll see each other, just as we’ll see Sister Gerda, and you’ll see your mother.”

We hugged again, an embrace filled with a new form of comfort this time. Not mourning a past, but reconciling a future. I thought back to the morning I met her, when her quick thinking saved me from my first punishment. I knew, come Easter Monday morning, she would stand before the abbess, pummeled with questions about Girt and me and the others. Where we’d gone, and how, and by what power. And I could picture the scene, as if it played out before me on a stage. Therese, silent and resolute. Her hands clasped behind her back. Her features unreadable. Unlike when we were children, she would choose silence over a lie.

In the distance, the bell rang, summoning us to an untimely chapel, certain to be an announcement of Sister Gerda’s passing. Therese and I rose together and walked side by side, for the last time in our lives.