Mother Marie-Pierre turned her steps back towards the convent. As she was emerging from the lane into the square, she heard the rumble of engines and saw two lorries come to a halt outside the town hall. Instinctively, she stepped back into the shelter of the café wall, and was glad she had, for Hoch and Thielen both came out from the German headquarters onto the square. At an order from the colonel, the guards herded the waiting families towards the canvas-covered trucks. As the tailgates were let down, Mother Marie-Pierre could see that the lorries were already crammed with people.
Surely, she thought, there isn’t room for anyone else in there.
Even as she watched four young men and a woman sprang from one of the lorries, sprinting away from the truck in search of escape, of a place to hide. Each ran in a different direction, zigzagging as they ran, making for the illusory safety of the alleyways that gave onto the square. Immediately chaos broke loose as both the guards riding on the lorries and those covering the people in the square opened fire on the fugitives. One man was killed outright as a bullet powered into his back, flinging him into the air before he crumpled like a ragdoll to the ground in a pool of blood. Those still in the trucks began to shout as gunfire rattled round the square, the soldiers shooting, indiscriminately, in the directions that the fugitives had taken. Those gathered to be loaded onto the lorries screamed and shrieked with fear, flinging themselves flat on the ground as bullets ripped through the air about their heads.
There was a bellow of rage from Colonel Hoch, and shouting a mixture of orders— “After them! Shoot to kill! Guard the rest!” —the officer disappeared down one of the alleyways, his pistol in his hand.
There was confusion among the soldiers. Some followed the colonel, rushing from the square in hot pursuit, their rifles at the ready; others turned their guns on the prisoners in the lorries, to deter any other would-be escapees. Major Thielen hurried back into the town hall, shouting orders to someone inside. The group who had been waiting in the square were still flat on the ground, while a German private barked orders at them, waving his rifle threateningly. There was a rattle of gunfire from further away and another scream.
From her place behind the café wall, Mother Marie-Pierre saw that several of those who had dived for cover had actually rolled underneath one of the lorries, seeking shelter from the spitting bullets. Madame Lenoir was one, her body shielding Margot, her youngest child. For a moment their eyes met, desperate appeal in Madame Lenoir’s, compassion in the nun’s. She held out her arms and the woman under the lorry murmured something to her daughter and then pushed her out from the shelter of the lorry, across the two metres of open space and into Mother Marie-Pierre’s open arms. The nun gathered the child to her and stepped back into the shelter of the lane down which she had come. Even as she drew the little girl back behind the wall, obscuring her from the sight of the guard, the soldier saw the mother underneath the truck and roared an order at her, prodding her with the barrel of his rifle. Madame Lenoir crawled out from the other side of the lorry, her back firmly to Mother Marie-Pierre and Margot in the lane, and rejoined the rest of her family who were now on their feet again and being herded once more towards the waiting transports. She kept her eyes steadfastly away from the direction her daughter and Mother Marie-Pierre had taken, fighting with every fibre of her being the compulsion to turn for one final glimpse of her baby.
The reverend mother gathered the small girl into her arms and doubled back behind the café. She could hear the soldiers still shouting to each other as they searched for the escaping prisoners. There was another burst of gunfire close enough to make her shake, and she clutched the child to her ever more tightly.
“In here, Sister,” hissed a voice, and a door in the wall beside her opened just wide enough to admit her. She squeezed through and the door was immediately closed and bolted behind her. An old woman grabbed her hand and pulled them both in through the back entrance of the café.
“Down here!” she instructed, and Mother Marie-Pierre saw that there was a trapdoor open in the stone floor of the kitchen, from which a flight of steps led down. Margot, terrified into silence until now, began to wail.
“Ssh, ma petite,” soothed the old lady. “You’re safe now. Down you go, Sister, till they’ve gone.” She smiled up encouragingly. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t see it was you. Best keep both of you out of sight until they’ve driven off, at least.”
Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and with Margot still in her arms sat on the edge of the hole in the floor, feeling for the steps with her feet. The trapdoor was closed over her head, and they were left in the gloom of a cellar only lit by the grey light that filtered through a narrow window set high up in the wall.
Margot was still crying. “I want Maman,” she wailed. “Where’s Maman? I want her.”
“I know you do, chérie,” soothed Mother Marie-Pierre, sitting down on a box with the child on her knee and getting out a handkerchief to mop her tears. “But Maman can’t come just now. She wants you to stay with me for a little while. Then I’ll take you to see Marthe. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She sat rocking the little girl in her arms until she gradually calmed down, and with her thumb set comfortably in her mouth, began to doze. Mother Marie-Pierre longed to go to the tiny window to see if she could see or hear anything from outside, but she didn’t want to disturb the now sleeping child. Better to wait, she decided, until her hostess and saviour came to give her the all-clear, and then, somehow, she’d have to get Margot back to the relative safety of the convent.
It was well over an hour later that she heard the scrape of the trapdoor above her and light flooded into the subterranean room.
“You can come up now, Mother,” said the old woman.
Gently Mother Marie-Pierre lifted the sleeping child up to the waiting arms above and then followed her out into the kitchen.
“Madame Juliette,” she said softly, “that was a very brave thing to do.”
The old woman peered at her and then smiled. “Ah, Mother,” she said, “there is little enough that we can do in these sad times. What can the Boche want with little children, hein?”
“I don’t know, Madame.” Mother Marie-Pierre looked across at the old lady, a woman she had met all those years ago when she had first come to the convent to nurse the wounded in the last war. “What finally happened out there?” She nodded her head towards the square.
“The lorries have gone,” Madame Juliette said flatly. “They loaded in those waiting in the square and drove away.”
“And those that ran?”
“One they killed, two they brought back, both wounded and bleeding and two…” she shrugged eloquently. “I suppose they are still searching for them.”
“And the child?” Mother Marie-Pierre looked at Margot now nestled against Madame Juliette’s ample bosom. “Did they realise that she’d gone?”
Madame Juliette shrugged again. “Who can tell?” she said. “Probably not. There was such a fracas when those tried to escape. I was watching from upstairs and I don’t think they counted the prisoners into the truck. The rest of the family were just pushed onto one of the lorries and then the back was secured. The last one they caught was shot in the leg and bleeding badly. They just tossed him in on top of the others.” She sighed. “I think he will die.”
Mother Marie-Pierre crossed herself and murmured. “May the Lord take his soul.”
“Amen to that,” said the old lady. Then she suddenly pulled herself together. “Now, we have to decide what to do with you and Margot.”
“Well, I can come and go about the village as I always do, so I’m in no danger,” began Mother Marie-Pierre.
“Until someone remembers that you are English,” interrupted Madame Juliette. It was the first indication she had given that she remembered that the nun in front of her was one of the English girls who had frequented her café to eat pain d’épice when they had first arrived from England in 1915. “You must not trust anyone, Mother. There are too many round here who would sell their own grandmothers if they thought it would be to their advantage.”
“Surely not, Madame,” began Mother Marie-Pierre.
“Believe me, Mother. I remember where you came from… so will others. Be very careful.”
“So, what do you suggest?” asked the nun.
“For the moment you should be safe enough, that major probably doesn’t pose much of a threat. He’s just a soldier.” Madame Juliette spoke dismissively. “No, the dangerous one is that Colonel Hoch. Try not to draw his attention. He is an evil man.”
“Well, I have met him a couple of times, and I think I agree with you,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “I shall certainly steer clear of him if I can. Still, for the moment, I think it should be safe enough for me to walk back to the convent, taking Margot with me. The Germans won’t know that she should have been put in the lorry. They’ll just think she’s one of the village children.”
“Better you go openly,” agreed Madame Juliette. “If they thought you were trying to hide from them, that would be really dangerous. You must go in the daylight, but go with caution, they will still be looking for those two who got away. Your habit should protect you and if a patrol stops you, you must tell them you are taking the child to the hospital.”
Mother Marie-Pierre nodded. “Then I think we’d better be off, before we bring any trouble to you and your family.”
The old woman nodded at this and gently roused the child from her sleep. “Wake up, Margot,” she said, “you’re going with Mother Marie-Pierre, now. So, be a good girl and hold her hand all the way. I’ll let you out the back way, Mother,” she added. “If you walk down the lane to the end you’ll be on the towpath and can cut back to the convent from there.”
Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Yes,” she said, “I know the way. Come along, Margot.” She held out her hand to the little girl who took it obediently.
“Are we going to find Maman and Papa now?” Margot asked.
Before the nun could answer Madame Juliette said, “In a little while. Don’t you worry about them, Margot. They’ll be back soon. You go with Mother Marie-Pierre for now like a good girl, and in a day or two I’ll bring you a little cake, just for yourself, all right?”
The child nodded and the two adults exchanged glances over her head. The lies had to be told, for Margot had to be inconspicuous as she was got to safety. A crying child would draw unwelcome attention to them. She could be told about her parents when she was out of danger.
“Is Marthe still at the convent?” murmured Madame Juliette softly.
“Yes, at least I hope she is,” replied the nun. “I left her with Sister Danielle and told her to stay there until I got back.”
“Let’s hope she did,” replied the old lady as she led the way to the back gate. She eased it open and looked out into the lane beyond. “No one in sight,” she said, “but don’t forget they’ll still be looking for the two who got away.”
Mother Marie-Pierre slipped out through the gate, still holding Margot firmly by the hand. “God bless you, Madame,” she said.
“And you, Mother. It’s you taking the risks now.” With that she closed the gate and Mother Marie-Pierre heard the bolts being drawn across again.
“Come along, Margot,” she said turning down the lane towards the river, “let’s get home to the convent and have something to eat.”
The lane led to the towpath that ran along the riverbank. The river itself wound its way lazily round the edge of the village before widening into a pool from which it emerged to continue its leisurely way to join the Somme. The towpath was a well-used track to some of the outlying cottages, a shortcut to the centre of the village, or to the road that led eastward beyond. Today, however, it was deserted. The river flowed slowly here, its brown water sluggish as it slid under the willows that lined its bank.
Mother Marie-Pierre hurried along the path, her eyes scanning the fields on the further bank, flicking anxiously towards the backs of the houses that sprawled untidily at the edge of the village. Keeping a firm hold on Margot’s hand, she almost dragged the child in her wake.
“Halt!” The word rang out and Mother Marie-Pierre stopped abruptly as a burly soldier carrying a rifle stepped out from the end of another of the lanes that led into the centre of the village. He looked across at her and the little girl clutching the skirt of her habit, and said in execrable French, “Where do you go?”
“To the hospital,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre simply. “This child needs to see a doctor.”
The man, looking at them suspiciously, took a step towards them, still covering them with his rifle. Margot gave a scream of fear and buried her face in the habit. Immediately Mother Marie-Pierre scooped the child up into her arms and said sternly to the man, “Put your gun aside. Can’t you see you are terrifying the little one?” She gestured at the rifle to make her meaning clear and then gathered Margot closer into her arms. The little girl was sobbing, her face hidden against Mother Marie-Pierre’s shoulder.
The man lowered his weapon and looked round. “A woman. I look for a woman. Maybe shot. You have seen?”
Mother Marie-Pierre shook her head. “I’ve seen no one,” she said and took a step forward along the path. For a moment the soldier continued to bar her way, then he stepped aside, and turning away set off along the path in the direction from which they had come.
“No,” murmured Mother Marie-Pierre to his departing back, “I’ve seen no one, man or woman, but would I have told you if I had?” It was no time to be considering the rights and wrongs of lying to save a life, she still had a life to save here and now. Margot must be got to safety and the sooner the better. Still carrying the child, she hurried to the path that led across the fields and up through the copse to the convent. She could see the tall, grey walls above the trees, and never had she longed to be there so much as now. As she finally reached the copse, Margot heavy in her arms, she looked back across the field and saw two more men in field grey searching among the willows along the riverbank. Clearly they had not yet found all those who had made a break for freedom.
As soon as she reached the convent gate, she was greeted by an almost hysterical Sister Celestine, who rushed out to greet her.
“Oh Mother,” she cried. “Thank God you are safe! We heard shots from the village and when you didn’t come back, Sister Marie-Paul sent Sister Henriette down to find out what had happened, and she hasn’t come back yet. And there’ve been soldiers on motorbikes on the road, roaring up and down and…” Her words came tumbling in a torrent of anguish and relief, but her superior cut her off.
“Well, as you see, Sister, I am quite safe. Please go to the kitchen and get some bread and milk and bring it up to the children’s wing. I shall be with Sister Danielle. Please also tell Sister Marie-Paul that I am back and ask her to call all the sisters who can be spared from their work to the recreation room in half an hour.” Even as she was speaking, Mother Marie-Pierre was striding through the hallway and along the passage to the children’s rooms.
“Yes, Mother, of course, Mother, straight away.” Sister Celestine scurried away to find the novice mistress, Sister Marie-Paul.
When Reverend Mother entered the children’s dayroom she was greeted with a shriek from Marthe, who rocketed from her chair at the sight of her little sister. Margot, set down on the floor at last, was gathered into her sister’s arms and hugged so tightly that after a minute she wriggled to be free. Sister Danielle appeared from the next room and looking over the heads of the two girls raised her eyebrows questioningly. Mother Marie-Pierre shook her head slightly and the younger nun went pale.
“Now then, Marthe,” Mother Marie-Pierre said briskly, “let’s get Margot comfortable. Sister Danielle will take her to the bathroom before Sister Celestine gets here with her food. I want you to come with me for a moment or two.”
Marthe, still cradling Margot in her arms, looked up and saw the compassion in the reverend mother’s face. Gently putting Margot away from her she stood up. There was a bleak control in her voice. “Go with Sister Danielle, Margot. I’ll be back in a minute to give you your tea.”
The little girl reached for her sister’s hand, her bottom lip quivering, but Marthe placed the reaching hand into Sister Danielle’s. “Be a good girl now, Margot,” she said. “I’ll be back in minute, I promise.” Then turning her back resolutely on the tears that were beginning to course down Margot’s cheeks, she followed Mother Marie-Pierre out of the room.
“We’ll go to my office,” said the nun, leading the way, and with a leaden heart, Marthe followed.
Once in the privacy of the office, Mother Marie-Pierre turned to the white-faced girl. It was heartbreaking to have to tell this girl, little more than a child herself, of the events down in the village square. For a short moment she looked at her, wondering what words to use to break the news, but Marthe didn’t wait to be told.
“They’ve gone, haven’t they?” she asked quietly. “Are they dead?”
“No, of course not…” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but Marthe continued almost as if she hadn’t heard. “We heard the guns, you see. Shooting. Lots of shooting. I thought…”
Mother Marie-Pierre took the girl’s hands in her own. They were icy cold and the nun chafed them gently as she spoke.
“There was shooting,” she agreed, “but not at your family. They were put on a lorry to go to Germany to work in a factory there.” No need to describe the dreadful conditions that they must be facing in that overcrowded lorry, no need to tell this brave girl that they were being treated worse than cattle on the way to the abattoir.
“Your mother gave Margot to me to look after until they come home again,” she went on. “She knows you are safely here with us and that you’ll look after Margot for her.” No need to explain how her mother had put her own life at risk to save young Margot’s. Let Marthe think that the Germans had had no use for such a young child and had allowed the nun to take her. “She sent you her love. They all did.” Not aloud, Mother Marie-Pierre thought as she stretched the truth for the third time that day, but she had no trouble with that, she had no doubt that the love had been sent.
Marthe’s face was rigid with her determination not to cry. Mother Marie-Pierre could see the tears brimming in her eyes, but the young girl would not let them fall. It was as if, before her eyes, Mother Marie-Pierre saw the girl’s childhood fall away, sloughed off like a snakeskin, and the cloak of adulthood envelop her.
“They’ve gone,” she said flatly. “Margot and I have only each other now.”
“Certainly for now you must look after each other,” Reverend Mother agreed gently, “but there is no reason to think that your family won’t return at the end of the war.”
“Isn’t there?” Marthe looked pityingly at the nun. “You don’t understand, do you, Mother? We are Jews. There will be no Jews left at the end of this war. Jews in Germany have been disappearing for years. Now it is our turn.” She gave a sharp and bitter laugh. “You think we shall be safe here in the convent? Margot and I will be safe nowhere round here where it is known that we are Jews. Before long someone will send the Germans here, you’ll see. They’ll come for me and for Margot and probably for those Leon children as well, and you won’t be able to stop them. We shall be loaded onto a lorry, just like Maman, Papa and the others… and we shall disappear. There will be no end to the war for us.” She had spoken with steely control, but as she uttered these last words her voice broke in a sob.
Mother Marie-Pierre moved to gather her into her arms, but Marthe pulled away and spoke, almost fiercely. “No, Mother, I’m not a child like Margot, to be comforted with a hug and soothing words. I know what we are facing, and I know that you won’t be able to protect us when the time comes.” She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and went on, “I must go back to Margot, now. She’ll be frightened here with no one she knows. Thank you for bringing her to me.” Her voice was so unemotional and polite she might have been thanking the reverend mother for having her to tea.
Mother Marie-Pierre stood aside. “Yes, go back and find her. I will consider what we do next. You’re safe for the time being, I think, but it may not be for long and we must make plans.” She smiled at the young girl. “May God give you courage, Marthe.”
Marthe, who had reached the door, turned back and looked the reverend mother in the eye. “There is no God, Mother. Not yours, not mine.” And with that she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Some minutes later Mother Marie-Pierre joined the rest of her community in the recreation room. There was a buzz of conversation, but it died away as she entered, and the nuns all turned their eyes expectantly on their superior.
“Sisters,” Mother Marie-Pierre began, “today the Germans have started rounding up people from the village and shipping them off to Germany. They say they are to work for the German war effort in their factories, and maybe they are. However, they are taking whole families including young children, who can be of little use in the factories. The families they are taking are those of Jewish extraction. We have all heard rumours of camps where the Jews are being held, and whether we believe these or not, the fact remains that Marthe Lenoir’s family have all been loaded into a lorry today and taken away. Her mother managed to get the youngest daughter, Margot, to my care before they left, but from what I have heard in the village”—she did not mention the attitude of the curé as most of the nuns would bow to his authority and accept his line of thinking—”it will only be a matter of time before someone tells the Germans they are here.”
Sister Marie-Paul raised a hand and Mother Marie-Pierre nodded to her to speak. “Mother, surely their presence here will endanger the whole convent community.”
There were murmurs of assent to this, but Mother Marie-Pierre cut through them. “So, what do you suggest we do, Sister? Simply hand two innocent young girls over to Colonel Hoch?” she asked sharply.
“No, Mother, of course not,” Sister Marie-Paul said hastily. “I was merely going to suggest that we should find a family to take care of them until their own people return from Germany.”
“Will that not put the foster family at the same risk you are saying we shouldn’t take?” the reverend mother asked evenly. There was no accusation in her voice, but the other nun flushed. “We run an orphanage, Sister, and to all intents and purposes these children are orphans. They are our responsibility and we must not shirk it.
“Please, sisters, discuss this among yourselves, and if anyone can come up with a way to protect the children that have been confided to our care, then come to me so that we can consider it. In the meantime, please carry on as normal, and remember the families who have been carried off in your prayers, particularly Marthe and Margot’s.”
As she left the room, there was another buzz of excited conversation. Never before could the nuns remember having been asked to discuss something among themselves. Usually decisions were taken by the senior members of the community, Reverend Mother, Sister Marie-Paul as Novice Mistress, Sister Eloise as Matron, and handed down from on high to be implemented without argument. This new reverend mother ruled the convent in a very different way from her predecessors, and that in itself was worth discussion.
Mother Marie-Pierre left them to their amazement and went upstairs to talk things through with Sister St Bruno. She had the germ of an idea, but needed to consider it carefully with someone whom she could trust implicitly.