The convent was in darkness when Mother Marie-Pierre let herself in fifteen minutes later. The sisters had all retired for the night, and the Great Silence had settled on the house, but even so she had half expected Sister Marie-Paul to be lying in wait for her and it was with immense relief that she made her way up to the chapel without meeting anyone. As always, one of the sisters was in the chapel keeping watch, kneeling in prayer before the altar, but she was alone and did not turn when Reverend Mother came in and knelt quietly at the back. In the sweet-smelling silence that enfolded her, Mother Marie-Pierre laid out all her troubles before her Lord, and when she rose from her knees some forty minutes later, she felt stronger and knew a measure of peace. She left the chapel as silently as she had come and went to her own cell. She longed to discuss everything with her aunt, but the Great Silence prohibited that and she must wait until morning.
She had just begun to remove her hood when there came a scratching at her door. Throwing a shawl round her head, she opened it to find Sister Marie-Marc outside. She was fully dressed, and despite the Silence, it was clear that she needed to speak. Constrained by the Silence, Sister Marie-Marc simply stared at her, her eyes intense and urgent. Obviously there was some emergency and Reverend Mother broke the Silence.
“Sister! What has happened now?”
Sister Marie-Marc put her finger to her lips and stepped a little closer. Mother Marie-Pierre stood aside and let the nun enter, closing the door softly behind her.
“Sister. You may break the Silence, Sister.”
“Mother, thank God you are home.”
“Sister, what on earth has happened now?” Mother Marie-Pierre asked in alarm.
“I have found someone,” whispered Sister Marie-Marc dramatically. “In the shed.”
“Who? Who have you found, Sister?” Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts ran immediately to the other Jew who had escaped from the lorry.
Sister Marie-Marc looked a little guilty and murmured. “It is a man, Mother.”
“A man? What man? Who is he?”
“He is an airman, Mother, an English airman, shot down. His plane crashed and he jumped with a parachute.” Sister Marie-Marc’s eyes were round with the wonder of it.
Mother Marie-Pierre sank onto her bed and looked up at her expectant sister. Drawing a long breath, she asked, “Where is he?”
“In the cellar, Mother.”
Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. “You’d better tell me,” she said, and reaching for her hood she began to replace it on her head.
Sister Marie-Marc drew a breath and began. “I was collecting the eggs this evening, when I heard a noise in the shed behind me. I thought it was a rat. They’ve been getting into the chicken feed. I ran in and grabbed the pitchfork to kill it with. It was getting dark and I couldn’t see much but I stabbed the fork into the heap of straw Jean Danot had left there for me.”
“A whirlwind with a pitchfork,” was how Flight Sergeant Terry Ham described it to Mother Marie-Pierre later, as she sat with him in the darkness of the convent cellar.
Once he discovered that she could speak English, he launched into his tale. “I reckoned I’d found somewhere to hide for the night at least, and then she come in, jabbing away. I was lucky not to get stabbed, and that’s a fact. I didn’t want to make no noise, but I had to stop her from jabbing.” He grinned ruefully. “She says I didn’t hurt her when I took the pitchfork off her… least, I think that’s what she said. I don’t know the lingo, but she didn’t scream nor nothing, and when she saw my uniform she pushed me down under the straw again and pulled the door shut.” He looked across at Sister Marie-Marc who was hovering by the cellar door. “She’s a game old bird, begging your pardon, ma’am. She brought me some bread and water to keep me going, and then when it got dark she brought me in here,” he waved his hand round the cellar, “and give me some soup.”
He went on to tell them how his plane had been hit as it was returning to England after a raid. “Skipper said bail out, so out I bailed. Not sure if the rest of them made it. I saw other chutes open, but it was windy and we was blown apart. So I’ve been trying to find them, the others. See if we can get ourselves back to England.”
Mother Marie-Pierre listened carefully to his story, her mind running through what they might or might not be able to do for this man. She looked across at him, small and wiry, with light curly hair and a boyish face. It was the sort of face she remembered so well from the last war, the face of a young man who was afraid, but determined to hide it with a show of bravado.
“Not sure how to set about it,” he admitted when Mother Marie-Pierre asked him if he had any real plans for escaping. “Suppose I should try and get to the sea, find a boat or something. Perhaps go to Spain. I heard of other blokes getting home that way.”
“Well, the first thing to do is get you hidden safely here,” said Mother Marie-Pierre. “It wouldn’t be a good idea for it to be known in the convent that you were here. Sister,” she turned to the little nun still waiting in the background, “where else can we hide him?”
“Nowhere,” replied Sister Marie-Marc. “The cellar is the best place. Only Sister Elisabeth and I come down here for the vegetables. It’s big. No one goes into the places beyond the coal cellar.”
Mother Marie-Pierre had only inspected the cellars once, when she had become Reverend Mother. She knew they extended under the main part of the convent, left over from the days when the nuns kept their winter stores in its coolness; some areas were as small as cells, others spacious and lined with shelves and racks. Little of their capacity was used these days. There were a few old garden tools, some discarded items of furniture and some empty packing cases, but there was little food to store and almost no coal. Sister Marie-Marc was right. Few of the sisters would have any cause to come down the old stone steps at all, and if they did they would be unlikely to venture into the darkness beyond the first cellar.
“But the Germans certainly will,” Mother Marie-Pierre pointed out. “The cellars will be the first place they search if they raid again.” She shook her head at the young man. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you won’t be able to stay here very long. If you were caught here, the whole convent would suffer.”
“I understand,” he said. “I’d better move on then, while it’s still dark.”
Sister Marie-Marc watched their faces as they spoke, unable to follow the conversation in English, but when she saw the airman get to his feet she made as if to push him down again. She turned to her superior. “Surely you are not letting him go, Mother? We must help him get away.”
Reverend Mother repeated what she had said about the Germans searching and the little nun nodded. “But the Boche will not come again,” she asserted. “That Gestapo man, he thinks he has frightened us, so we will not help anyone else.”
“I hope you’re right, Sister,” said the reverend mother, “but we can’t rely on that.”
“This boy will be safe for a few days while we think of a plan,” said Sister Marie-Marc stoutly. “If they find him, Mother, they will shoot him.”
“If they find him here, they may shoot us all,” returned her superior dryly. “There are several sisters who would be most unhappy to know he was here.”
“Then we will not tell them,” replied Sister Marie-Marc with a shrug.
“Let’s have a look at the rest of the cellar,” said Mother Marie-Pierre, and picking up the oil lamp they had brought down with them, she led the way. Together they explored the underground space. It was dark and musty, smelling of damp. Some parts were little more than caves hewn from the rock, others, with old wooden doors, were more like walk-in cupboards. At the far end of the cellar they came to one of these. The lamp showed stone walls and a flagged floor; there were some slatted shelves where apples might once have been stored, otherwise the room was empty, but it did have a stout door to close it off.
“This might do,” suggested Sister Marie-Marc hopefully.
“It’s the furthest from the door,” remarked the airman, peering into the dark corner, “but it don’t smell as musty, somehow.”
Reverend Mother sniffed the air. There was a coolness to it and it certainly smelt fresher. She held the lamp higher to cast the light further and the flame flickered within its chimney.
“There’s a draught,” exclaimed the airman. “Here, give me the lamp.”
He took it from her and held it up above his head. The flame continued to flicker, but by its light they saw there was an iron grating set into the ceiling.
“Must be to let air circulate in the cellar,” said Terry Ham as he peered up at it. It was clearly overgrown, choked with vegetation, no light penetrated, but fresh air seeped through, dispelling the mustiness of the air below. “I reckon I could loosen that if I had a crowbar, then if anyone comes poking about down here, I can nip up and out sharpish.”
“That depends on where it comes out,” pointed out Mother Marie-Pierre. “You could climb straight into the arms of whoever is waiting above.”
Sister Marie-Marc thought for a moment, trying to orientate herself. “It must extend beyond the walls of the building as it is open to the outside air,” she said. “Maybe it comes up in the courtyard.”
“Well, we can’t go and look now,” said Reverend Mother. “Tomorrow you can search, Sister, while you are seeing to the hens. In the meantime,” she turned back to the airman, “you must stay down here, in this furthest corner of the cellar.” She looked the young man in the eye. “Under no circumstances are you to come out of this part of the cellar, is that understood?”
His eyes held hers as he replied. “Yes, I understand.”
“Sister Marie-Marc will bring you food and water and a bucket for… your needs.” Reverend Mother looked away in some embarrassment as she said this, as did the young man.
“All right,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”
“I will come down again tomorrow night and we’ll decide what, if anything, we can do for you.” She turned briskly to Sister Marie-Marc and explained what was needed. “Make sure you are not seen, Sister. The fewer people who know about Flight Sergeant Ham the better.”
“My name’s Terry,” he said.
Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Well, Terry. We’ll do our best for you.”
When she had regained the privacy of her own cell Mother Marie-Pierre lay on her bed and considered what she could do. Clearly Terry Ham could not stay in the convent for more than a day, it was too dangerous for everybody, but where could he go? How was he going to get home to England? Wouldn’t it be better if he gave himself up to the Germans? He’d be a prisoner of war, after all, not a spy. They wouldn’t shoot a prisoner of war, they’d just send him to a prison camp. Wouldn’t they? If he surrendered to Major Thielen he’d be all right, wouldn’t he? Then she thought of Colonel Hoch and shivered. He might do anything.
If only I had someone to discuss it with, she thought, as her mind churned with worry and indecision. Aunt Anne maybe, but she was an old lady and would probably tell her to do what she thought best. She needed someone outside the convent, but there was no one, no one she could trust anyway. If only Father Michel were a stronger man, she could go to him, but after this evening’s visit she knew that was hopeless; she already knew what his advice would be.
If only he were more like Father Bernard in Amiens, she thought. Now there was someone you could trust. Mother Marie-Pierre felt her spirits lift a little. If I could only get Terry to Father Bernard, she thought, he’d know what to do.
For the next hour she lay in bed, considering and rejecting plans for Terry Ham’s escape, and only slipped into a fitful sleep as the rising bell rang out through the convent, calling the sisters to matins.
“I would like to speak to everyone after breakfast,” she told Sister Marie-Paul to pre-empt any comment. “Please take the meal, and I will see you in the recreation room when you have all finished.”
Sister Marie-Paul inclined her head. “Yes, Mother, of course.”
Leaving the sisters to go into the refectory, Mother Marie-Pierre went to the kitchen, and, collecting Sister St Bruno’s tray, carried it up to her. As the old lady ate her bread and honey her niece told her everything that had happened since she had left the convent three days earlier with the Jewish children. Then she reached the discovery of the English airman in the cellar. “Of course Sister Marie-Marc did right to hide him, at least I think she did, but what am I to do with him now? I wish I had somewhere to send him, as I did with the children.”
“Well, I think you may have,” her aunt said. “Why not send him to this Father Bernard in Amiens? He helped you before, and clearly he knew what you were doing then. Maybe he will help again.”
“He might, I suppose.” Sarah sounded doubtful. “I did think of him, but how on earth do I get Terry to him? How can he travel without papers? He will be picked up at once. And supposing Father Bernard turns him away?”
“Do you think he will?”
Sarah considered for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think so, but it will put Father Bernard in danger as well. I don’t know if that is justified simply because he didn’t give me and the children away last time. Anyway, I still don’t know how to get him there.”
“As you did with Marthe,” replied her aunt.
“Marthe?” Sarah stared at her. “But Marthe went disguised as one of us.”
“So she did; so could he.”
“But he’s a man.”
“Indeed he is,” replied Aunt Anne patiently, “but put him in a nun’s habit and who is to know it? How big is he? Does he have a moustache? A beard?”
That drew an unwilling laugh from Sarah. “No, he doesn’t have either.”
“Is he tall?”
“No, quite small actually.” Sarah thought for a moment and saw there might be a possibility here. “But where will I get a habit from? Sister Marie-Paul isn’t going to give me another. It was bad enough last time, when it was for a girl, and someone we knew. She would consider it sacrilege for a man to wear it. Anyway,” Sarah looked a little guiltily at her aunt, “you know, I don’t really trust her. She says we shouldn’t get involved with secular things. I don’t think I can rely on her to keep the secret anymore.”
“There’s mine,” suggested Aunt Anne.
Sarah stared at her. “What did you say?”
“There’s my habit. I don’t get up much these days, so I don’t need it for a while. I’ll just stay in bed, or in my room anyway.”
Sarah’s eyes flicked to the habit hanging on the back of the cell door. Sister St Bruno had been tall and though she had shrunk since she’d had to take to her bed, the habit was quite long. As Terry Ham was not in any way a big man, he might fit into it.
“He couldn’t go by himself,” Sarah said musingly. “Someone would have to go with him to do the talking. He doesn’t speak any French. And he’d need papers.”
“What did you do about papers for Marthe?”
“I used Sister Marie-Joseph’s.”
“Then use them again.”
“He doesn’t look anything like Sister Marie-Joseph,” Sarah laughed.
“Very little of him will show,” pointed out her aunt. “And, with luck, all people will see is a nun.”
Sarah considered the idea. It was on the face of it quite outlandish, disguising a grown man as a young nun, and yet the very absurdity of it meant that there was an outside chance that it would work. People saw what they expected to see. Even so.
“I’ll think about it,” she said at length, getting to her feet. “We can’t do anything until I can speak with him again tonight.” She sighed. “In the meantime I must go and talk to the sisters. I have to tell them about Sister Eloise.”
“Remember what she said to you when you left her,” said her aunt quietly. “You must fight evil wherever you find it.”
“Are you suggesting Sister Marie-Paul is evil?” Sarah was startled.
“No,” replied her aunt sadly, “just misguided, but the results may be the same.”
Throughout the day Mother Marie-Pierre considered Sister St Bruno’s suggestion. Sometimes it seemed almost feasible and at others quite impossible. She had an opportunity to speak to Sister Marie-Marc, privately, before the midday meal, and was assured that their visitor had been supplied with all he would need for the day.
“I’ll come down and see him again when everyone has gone to bed,” Reverend Mother promised. “Then we’ll discuss his escape.”
By the time the convent was quiet, Mother Marie-Pierre had come to some sort of decision. She took Sister St Bruno’s habit, and, rolling it up under her arm, slipped quietly down the stairs to meet Sister Marie-Marc in the kitchen. Together they went into the cellar, carrying the oil lamp and a dish of stew for their guest.
“I am sorry you’ve been in the dark all day,” Mother Marie-Pierre said as she set the lamp on the floor and Sister Marie-Marc handed him the stew. “We simply couldn’t risk anyone seeing the light either from the outside, or if they came down into the cellar for something.”
“That’s all right, Sister,” Terry said, and turned his attention to the food. When he had finished, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “So, what next?”
“I have an idea for getting you away from here,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre, “but it depends on several things if it is going to work.”
“OK. Shoot!”
So, Mother Marie-Pierre explained her plan. “One of the sisters will go with you, as you don’t speak French. The story will be that you are going to the mother house in Paris.”
“On a train?” Terry looked doubtful. “What about papers and that?”
“You’ll have the ones that belong to one of our sisters,” Mother Marie-Pierre told him. “But none of this will work if you don’t fit into this.” She held out the folded habit.
Terry stared open-mouthed. “Me? Wear that?”
“Try it on now,” instructed Mother Marie-Pierre. “Sister Marie-Marc and I will give you time to change, then we will come back and arrange your hood.” And before he could protest any further, Reverend Mother drew Sister Marie-Marc out of the little room and into the main part of the cellar.
“Did you discover where the grating is, Sister?” she asked as they waited for their guest to struggle into his disguise.
“Not in the courtyard, Mother. Nowhere in the courtyard is that overgrown. I think it must be outside the wall. I haven’t been able to find it yet, but I will keep looking.”
“You can come back now,” Terry said in a strangled whisper, and the two nuns returned to his cellar. He stood awkwardly in the lamplight, his face red with embarrassment. Mother Marie-Pierre fought down the urge to laugh, but Sister Marie-Marc had no such inhibitions and laughed aloud, making Terry’s young face crack into a grin. She was immediately hushed by her superior, and together they set about dressing the young airman in the wimple and hood, which would do more for his disguise than the habit itself.
When they had finished they stepped back to survey their handiwork and Sister Marie-Marc gasped. “It will work, Mother,” she breathed, and Mother Marie-Pierre, looking critically at the young nun before them, actually began to believe that it might. Terry Ham was young and his face, if they could get him a razor, would be smooth. The wimple covered his hair, his forehead and his ears, fitting snugly under his chin, the shape accentuating the roundness of his boyish face. The hood, with its starched peaks, stood away from his head, and the whole presented a rather coltish nun, but at a glance a nun, nevertheless.
“I’ll bring you a razor from the hospital,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “and then I think you’ll do.” She smiled at the look of dismay that still played on his face. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here and safely to Amiens. It will be a start.”
Terry looked down at his feet. “What about my boots?”
Reverend Mother looked at them, emerging from under the habit. That could be a problem. The nuns all wore black-laced shoes, but they were nothing like as heavy as the flying boots Terry was wearing.
“We’ve no ordinary shoes big enough for you,” she said. “You’ll just have to pull the habit down as far as you can, and try not to let them show. Keep your hands in your sleeves, too. They don’t look like a woman’s hands.”
Terry dutifully tucked his hands into the wide sleeves and tried walking across the room without letting more than the toes of his boots show. Sister Marie-Marc giggled, and he treated her to another grin.
“Who’s going with me?” he asked anxiously. “I’ll be putting them into danger.”
Reverend Mother had been considering this. She wanted as few people as possible to know that he had been staying in the convent. The plan was that he, and whoever she sent with him, should set out at dawn and walk into Albert, from where they could take the train to Amiens. She wanted them well away from the village before people were about. She was praying that they would not be stopped, at least until they had reached the town, but she had to send someone who could deal with any problems on the way. She wished Sister Danielle was back. She looked across at Sister Marie-Marc but dismissed the idea at once. She was too old to make such a journey, and she spoke no English, so she wouldn’t be able to communicate with her charge. In any case she could not think of a reason why she might send Sister Marie-Marc to Paris.
“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted.
“Can it be her?” he asked nodding in the direction of Sister Marie-Marc. “I know her.”
“I don’t think so,” she began, but was surprised when Sister Marie-Marc spoke at the same time.
“Who will go with him, Mother?” she asked. “Will you send me?”
“No, Sister, not you.” The nun started to protest. “You could not walk all the way to Albert, and you do not speak any English, and,” she added firmly to prevent further argument, “I shall need you here to be my eyes and ears while I am gone.”
“You’re going?” Sister Marie-Marc sounded incredulous.
“It is the only answer,” replied Reverend Mother. And indeed, she had recognised in that instant, it was. “I shall take Terry on the train to Amiens and leave him in Father Bernard’s care. We don’t want anyone else to know that he’s been here. Then if the Germans do come back, well, the sisters will all be as innocent as they seem.”
“All except me,” remarked Sister Marie-Marc.
“I know I can rely on you to be the picture of innocence,” smiled her superior. She turned back to Terry and spoke in English. “I will be going with you as far as Amiens. But we will have to wait another day so that I can organise the trip without it looking suspicious to anyone here.
“I shall tell Sister Marie-Paul that I am going back to Paris to fetch Sister Danielle,” she explained to Sister Marie-Marc, “that I don’t want her to travel alone in such uncertain times… which indeed I do not. I will set out very early in the morning, alone. You and Terry will leave before it gets light and wait for me on the other side of the village. Then we shall go on and you will come back.”
“But Mother…”
“It is decided, Sister.” Mother Marie-Pierre spoke in a tone that brooked no argument. “I have lost Sister Eloise, I will not put anyone else at risk.” Turning back to Terry Ham, she went on: “We’ll get you a razor and some hot water to shave.” She gave him a brief smile. “Make sure it is a close shave, hein, your life may depend on it.”
Thirty-six hours later, Sister Celestine let Reverend Mother out of the front door into the cold grey of a November dawn. In her pocket she carried her own papers and those of Sister Marie-Joseph, which she had neglected to return to the young nun.
“God go with you,” murmured Sister Celestine as Mother Marie-Pierre paused on the threshold. “Bring Sister Danielle back safely to us.”
“Thank you, Sister, I will.” Sister Marie-Paul had accepted the story that she was going to fetch Sister Danielle as she did not want her to travel alone.
“But you will be travelling alone, Mother,” she pointed out.
“That is my risk,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre, “I do not want Sister Danielle to take that risk unnecessarily.”
“I understand,” said Sister Marie-Paul, thinking even as she smiled that Reverend Mother was clearly feeling guilty about the fate of Sister Eloise. And so she should, she thought. “I will see to things here while you are away, Mother.”
Now, with her cloak drawn round her shoulders, Mother Marie-Pierre hurried along the path through the copse, and then, taking the track by the river, skirted the village and joined the road beyond. As she passed behind the outlying houses, their shutters still closed against the night, her eyes searched the lanes and gardens for any sign of an early German patrol. She saw no one and could only pray no one saw her.
Where the path met the road, she found Sister Marie-Marc and Terry, carefully attired in habit and hood, waiting in the shelter of a hedge. From a distance Mother Marie-Pierre certainly could not tell that the taller of the two nuns was a man, and even when she drew near it was not immediately apparent.
As she came up with them she spoke in a low voice. “Everything all right?”
“Easy,” replied Sister Marie-Marc, her eyes alight with the excitement of it all. “We slipped out of the back gate. No one saw us go, it was still dark and there were no lights on in the house.”
“And you saw no one on the path?”
“No, Mother. No one.”
“Good,” replied Reverend Mother. “Now you must go back quickly and try not to be seen coming in at the gate.”
Sister Marie-Marc shrugged. “I will collect eggs,” she said. “My naughty hens often lay outside the gate at the edge of the field.”
“Have a care,” her superior warned, resting a hand on her arm. “This is not a game we are playing, Sister.”
Sister Marie-Marc bowed her head slightly. “No, Mother. I’ll be careful,” she promised.
Reverend Mother gave her a brief smile. “I know you will, Sister. God willing, I’ll be back in two days with Sister Danielle.”
As Sister Marie-Marc turned away, Terry caught her hand. “Mercy, Sister, mercy for everything.” Before she could pull away, he planted a kiss on her hand. She snatched her hand away, but she smiled at him before she turned back along the footpath.
“I’d have kissed her proper, on the cheek, if it hadn’t been for this hat thing,” Terry said as he watched her go.
“It’s a good thing that you didn’t,” remarked Mother Marie-Pierre tartly. “Nuns don’t kiss each other, and you could have been seen. Now, Sister, ground rules. Don’t speak from now on. For any reason. You never know who will overhear. If we meet anyone, let me do the talking. Keep your eyes down, don’t make eye contact, and when we are standing still anywhere, keep your hands in your sleeves. It’ll be all too easy for you to give yourself away, so concentrate on being a nun all the time, whether there is anyone there or not. And do not speak. Understood?”
Terry Ham gave her an impish grin. “Yes, Mother,” he said in a demure voice.
“Good,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre with asperity, “for our lives may depend on it.” Then she added, “If by any chance I address you as ma soeur, you simply nod, as if in obedience, all right?”
“Masseur?” Terry grinned at the word.
“It means I’m calling you ‘Sister’. All right?”
“Masseur,” repeated Terry obediently. “I’ll remember.”
It took them two hours to reach Albert, following the twisting lanes and taking footpaths wherever possible. At the station Mother Marie-Pierre bought two tickets for Paris, but then they had to wait for a train. No one could tell them when it would come, so they joined the crowd on the platform. The station was crowded, and there were plenty of German uniforms among the civilians. Terry did as he’d been told and stood in silence, head bowed, eyes on the ground, with his hands tucked into his sleeves.
“Excuse me, Sister,” came a man’s voice from behind them. Mother Marie-Pierre turned sharply to find herself face-to-face with a German officer. “Please, do take my seat on the bench.” The German, who had spoken in fluent if accented French, indicated the wooden bench where he had been sitting.
Although her heart was pounding, Mother Marie-Pierre managed to keep her voice steady. “Why thank you, sir. We’d be most grateful.” She touched Terry on the arm and edged him towards the bench. “Come, Sister, let’s take the weight off our feet while we can.” As she had spoken in French, Terry had no idea what she had said, but hearing the word he had been waiting for, he nodded, and following her example sat down on the bench beside her.
The German major seemed disposed to make conversation, and asked where they were going. Mother Marie-Pierre produced the story she had rehearsed; that they were going to the mother house in Paris, as Sister Marie-Joseph had been asked to help with the nursing there. The German turned politely to Sister Marie-Joseph, but found that she had her head bowed, her rosary beads in her fingers, and was murmuring prayers under her breath. Embarrassed, the major looked away, peering along the platform to see if there was any sign of the train coming. Even as he looked there was a puff of smoke in the distance, and the crowd on the platform surged forward. Mother Marie-Pierre placed a warning hand on her companion’s arm, waiting for the major to move away. She had no wish to share a compartment with him all the way to Amiens.
She need not have worried. The major had felt a fool when he found one of the nuns was actually saying her prayers, in public, on a station. He did not want to share a compartment either. Far too embarrassing if she started to pray again.
The two nuns clambered up into the train, but, as they had held back for a moment or two, there were no seats, and they had to stand in the corridor. Wedged between a large woman with a basket and fat man in a shiny suit, they rocked with the train as it trundled slowly out of the station. The journey was slow, but uneventful. There were no spot checks, for which Mother Marie-Pierre gave thanks, as at such close quarters it was likely that even the most short-sighted inspector would notice that there was little similarity between the picture on the second nun’s papers and the person it purported to represent. It was with great relief that they climbed down from the train when it finally reached Amiens. Here too the station was busy, as the train disgorged its passengers to add to the crowd waiting not so patiently to board the train.
“Keep close to me,” murmured Mother Marie-Pierre as she edged her way through the crush towards the exit. Terry nodded, and shuffled along behind her, trying to keep his boots hidden below his habit. There was a long queue at the gate, where two German officers were checking documents. Mother Marie-Pierre paused, allowing several people to pass in front of her. Terry waited at her side. The people in front filtered through the checkpoint and the two nuns moved forward. As they reached the gate and Mother Marie-Pierre presented the two sets of papers, Terry stood demurely behind her, eyes lowered, hands in sleeves.
“I thought you were on your way to Paris, Sister,” said a loud voice behind them. Mother Marie-Pierre turned round to find the German major at her elbow.
“We are, Major, but I have an errand to run for Reverend Mother in Amiens on the way.” Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts were racing. Her excuse sounded lame even to herself, but something at the back of her mind warned her to say as little as possible.
“Oh, you have a convent here in Amiens?” asked the major.
“No, but we have links with some of the parishes here.” Mother Marie-Pierre summoned a smile to her lips and turned back to the soldier scrutinising their papers. He was now holding them out impatiently to the two nuns, who were clearly known to the major and thus hardly a threat to security. Reverend Mother took the papers with a quiet “Thank you”, and pushing them into the pocket of her habit gave the major another, more spontaneous, smile, then turned to Terry. “Come along, ma soeur.”
Masseur! Again, Terry heard the word he’d been waiting for and nodded dutifully, before tripping along behind her as she strode out into the street.
Knowing how conspicuous they would be even on the crowded streets in the centre of the town, Mother Marie-Pierre turned into a side street as soon as she could, so that the German major, who had come out of the station behind them, should not follow their progress.
Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the Church of the Holy Cross. The street was quiet and no one paid any attention to the two nuns as they pushed open the door to the empty church. The faded light of the winter’s day hardly penetrated the ornate windows, and in the gloom the red sanctuary light glowed before the altar. In the Lady Chapel several votive candles flickered in the draught from the door, but there was no sign of anyone else in the church.
Mother Marie-Pierre led the way into a pew at the back and knelt in silence for a moment or two. Terry did the same. She sat back. “You did very well, Terry,” she said softly. “Especially when the German came up to us on the platform. Pretending to say the rosary was a clever move.”
Terry laughed. “I wasn’t pretending, Mother, I was praying like hell!”
Mother Marie-Pierre couldn’t repress a smile at his forthright answer. “I should continue to do so,” she said. “You wait here. Stay on your knees with your head bowed and then even if someone comes in, they won’t bother you. I’m going to find Father Bernard. We’re in his hands now. If he won’t help, I don’t know where we go from here.”
“You’ll go to Paris and fetch your Sister Danielle,” Terry replied promptly. “And I’ll disappear into the woodwork.”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. All right?”
Terry nodded and remained on his knees as she left the church and crossed the road to the priest’s house.
Madame Papritz opened the door as before, and immediately recognising her visitor led her straight through to Father Bernard, who was working in his study.
“Mother Marie-Pierre!” he exclaimed as she was ushered in. “What a lovely surprise!”
Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Thank you, Father. I hope you’ll think so when you’ve heard why I’m here.”
The priest’s smile faded. “I see, well you’d better tell me.”
Mother Marie-Pierre knew that having come here she had to trust Father Bernard implicitly. He could do one of three things, he could inform the German authorities about them, he could remain silent, but send them away, or he could offer his help in some way. Mother Marie-Pierre had gambled on the last, but if her trust were misplaced, then she and Terry were in trouble.
“It’s like this, Father,” she began, and told him the whole story, from Sister Marie-Marc’s discovery of Terry Ham hiding in the shed to their arrival in Amiens.
He listened without interruption until she had finished. “And this young man is waiting in my church now?”
Mother Marie-Pierre replied that he was.
“Then I think you’d better go and fetch him straight away.”
When Terry was safely installed before the tiny coal fire in Father Bernard’s study, his host looked at him with interest before turning to Mother Marie-Pierre. He spoke with a smile. “I see how you got away with it… this time. You were lucky he is not a big man. Still, I think the first thing should be to turn him back into a man again… he won’t bear close scrutiny, you know.”
Mother Marie-Pierre gave Terry a quick translation and the young man looked very relieved. “He’s right,” he said with fervour. “I can’t wait to get out of this hat thing.”
Father Bernard took Terry upstairs, returning moments later without him. “I’ve given him some of Father Gilbert’s clothes.”
“Won’t Madame Papritz wonder…?” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but Father Bernard shook his head. “Madame Papritz sees everything and says nothing. She is the perfect priest’s housekeeper. I trust her completely.”
“What are we going to do with Terry now, Father?” Mother Marie-Pierre at last asked the all-important question.
“Don’t worry about him,” Father Bernard said calmly. “He’ll be all right. I have connections. Better you know no more than that. Is the little Jewish girl safe?”
“Yes, she is.” Mother Marie-Pierre smiled at him. “You weren’t fooled then either, were you?”
“No,” he agreed, “but I had ample opportunity to study her. Anyone meeting her in the street might well have accepted her as what she seemed.”
“It was because of her that I came to you,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “I had nowhere else to turn.”
The door opened and Terry came in. He was wearing the collar and cassock of a Catholic priest. “It’s a relief to get out of that hood,” he said. “But I’m still wearing a bloody frock!”