The road meandered south along the lake before venturing west, ascending into the mountainous terrain. The ambulance took up the width of the road, and the forest was dense on either side. We climbed into the Alps as the moon climbed into the sky from its dimmet cradle.
Charlotte did not bother with the lights; the moon provided enough illumination as we followed the old man’s directions higher and deeper into the mountains. The hamlet of Digny-Saint-Clair was nestled in a valley amidst towering peaks. The moon gleamed white off the limestone cliffs to the east. The village was quiet, shutters drawn to hide any glint of light from within.
“No one is going to open their door to direct us to the abbey,” Charlotte said softly, glancing around as she drove through the village.
“There.” I pointed into the hills to the west. A stone structure stood out from the forest like a beacon in the moonlight. “If that is not it, we will at least have a vantage over the area.”
We followed a lane that led east from the heart of the mountain hamlet and drove into the hills. The way was dark, the trees leaning in to create a canopy over the path. The clearing came suddenly around a curve, the woodland giving way to the grand stone structure and grounds. The lane had wound around the hill to the back of the structure I had glimpsed from below. A stone wall girded the grounds.
Charlotte brought the ambulance to a halt at the edge of the trees. The bell tower and apse were unmistakable, even in the dark. “This is at least a church.”
“Aye. Now to learn whether it is the abbey of which the nun spoke.”
Charlotte parked the ambulance at the iron gate, which was locked. After instructing Otto to remain with the vehicle, I boosted Charlotte to the top of the stone wall and then followed her over.
Neat hedges lined either side of the path leading to the abbey, and when I used the brass knocker, I could hear the echo within. Silence was the only answer for several long minutes. I stepped back and scanned the stone facade. The door creaked open, and a nun appeared in the thin gap, haloed by the lamp she carried.
Her query was in French, but she lifted the lamp and peered past Charlotte as she began to respond. The nun’s eyes widened, and she opened the door further.
“Owain?” She glanced behind me. “Did you bring them? We heard you had been—” She broke off as she looked at me more closely and backed away. “You are not Owain.”
I placed my hand on the door, fearing she would close and bolt it. “He is my son. Please. I need to find him.”
She studied me, gaze searching my face. “You best come inside. Did you walk?”
“We drove,” Charlotte said.
The nun pulled a ring of keys from the folds of her habit. “I will unlock the gate. You may park in the barn.” Her worn face softened at the sight of Otto when she unlocked the gate, and when he leapt from the vehicle and approached her, she leaned over to cup his muzzle in her hand and speak softly to him.
When the gate was once more secured and the ambulance was parked in the bay and hidden from view, the nun led us into the abbey. It was dark within, the sconces on the walls giving off the weakest of light that created more shadow than illumination. The interior was vast and cavernous, the ceiling lost to the dark, our footfall a soft echo.
“I hoped I would never again have to see the day when I had to lock the gate and bolt the door to the church,” she said as she slid the bar into place across the towering arched door. “I am Mother Clémence.” Her eyes widened as she glanced behind where Charlotte and I stood, and she held her hands out to us before we could turn. “Please, do not be alarmed and do not retaliate. She will mean you no harm once I explain.”
I turned as a young nun separated from the shadows. A rifle was clutched in her trembling hands and leveled at my chest. I raised my own hands and held them up before me. Charlotte reached for where her Colt was hidden, but I nudged her shoulder with my elbow. “Wait.”
The abbess stepped past me, her hands extended. “Tout va bien, mon enfant,” she said, voice gentle. She continued to speak soothingly as she placed herself in the line of fire and approached the other woman. The younger woman’s eyes darted from the abbess to me, haunted confusion etched into the fragile lines of her face.
“Il veut nous blesser,” she whispered.
Charlotte tensed beside me. “Non. Non, il ne le fait pas. C’est un homme bon, un homme gentil. Et il ne vous blessera pas.”
“C’est vrai, mon cher,” the abbess said. “Rappelez-vous Owain? C’est son père.”
“Son père?” The young woman studied me, face working, and when the abbess placed a hand on the barrel of the rifle, she did not resist as it was relieved from her grasp. She blinked at me, and then her gaze fell to the side and caught on something beside me.
I glanced down to find Otto observing the woman with his head tilted and ears pricked. He padded forward, and his tail wagged as he nudged the young woman’s now empty hands. A smile trembled across her lips.
The abbess set the rifle aside and released an uneven breath. “May she take your dog to the kitchens and feed him? She responds best to animals. I promise you, she will not harm him.”
Charlotte glanced at me, and when I nodded, she said, “Il s’appelle Otto.”
As the young nun turned away, her belly, swollen and heavy with child, was unmistakable beneath her habit. The abbess sighed as she gazed after her. “That is Sister Angelique. You must forgive her. Her mind is not what it once was.”
“We were warned there are Germans still in the mountains.”
Mother Clémence’s mouth tightened. “Oui.” The word was clipped, and she offered no more as she gestured for us to follow and led us through the church. A nave led us into an open courtyard, and the abbess directed us through the cloister to what appeared to be the old rectory. The room she invited us into was a simple study, unadorned aside from the rustic desk, three chairs, and a crucifix on the wall. “S’il vous plaît, be seated.”
She sat behind the desk as Charlotte and I took the two chairs opposite. The abbess set her lamp to the side of the desk and adjusted the wick to brighten the light. She peered at me. “The resemblance is uncanny.”
“Aye.”
“I wish I had better tidings for you, but if you have come seeking your son, he is not here.”
“You said you had heard something, though, of his whereabouts?”
She folded her hands as if in prayer. “We received word that he was captured and held by the Gestapo.”
My chair scraped across the floor as I stood and paced away. I rubbed the back of my neck. “Where? When did you receive word?”
“Five days ago. Our radio contact said that he is in Lyon.”
I met Charlotte’s gaze, frustration simmering in my chest. “We know of his work.”
Mother Clémence stood and collected the lamp. “Then there is something I must show you.”
She directed us through the inner cloister into a different section of the church. “There is a hidden room below the crypt,” she said as she led the way down a winding flight of stone steps. “That is where we keep them while we wait for Owain and Sévèrin to provide safe transport.”
The mausoleum was cool and dark, the only light the pool from the abbess’s lamp, and our footsteps echoed in the heavy quiet. Arches were cut into the walls, some serving as enclosed tombs, others with human bones either stacked or placed on careful display. She led us to the last sepulcher, which was deep and housed a dozen human skulls. When she reached within and began to gather them in her arms, Charlotte took a step back, unease clear on her face.
“I think they would not mind, oui?” Mother Clémence said as she set the skulls aside and then climbed within the newly emptied space. What appeared to be a solid stone wall at the back, she pushed aside and then dropped out of sight. “Have a care here. It is a slight drop onto the steps and the footing is uneven.”
Charlotte glanced at me. “Will you manage?
”
“I must.” I handed her up into the opening, leaning in and keeping hold of her wrist as she dropped off the back edge of the sepulcher.
“I have my footing now,” she said.
I followed her, the stone scraping against my shoulders as I crawled through. My stomach and lungs tightened, and sweat beaded my forehead.
The sepulcher had been built to seal off—or conceal—a narrow spiral staircase that led down into the darkness. The abbess was already descending when I dropped off the meter-high ledge onto the steps. Charlotte waited several steps below me, and she reached back and caught my hand as we followed Mother Clémence. I had to turn sideways to navigate the steps, the walls were so narrow, and only Charlotte’s certain grip on my hand kept my heart from thundering from my chest.
It was a relief when the steps leveled abruptly and led us into what appeared to have once been a chapel. I stumbled to a halt at the scene before me. I could not seem to draw air into my lungs, and it had nothing to do with the cramped space from which we had emerged. Charlotte’s fingers clutched mine, and her face was colorless.
“My god,” she whispered, and when she looked up at me, her eyes were wide and dark.
The abbess looked back and forth between us, a line forming between her brow. “You said you know of Owain’s network?”
I opened my mouth, but no sound emerged. I thought I knew of my son’s network, but what was before me were not pieces of art or trunks of family heirlooms.
Instead, nine children stared back at me.
8 April 1942
Dear Nhad,
We are now all required to carry an identity card.
Every one of us over the age of sixteen.
I think no good will come of this.
-Owain
xiii
Henri
I knew from their faces what the man and woman found in the caves. The woman’s eyes were wide and dark, her face colorless; the man’s features were grim and set. The nun he carried in his arms would not last the night.
Once they were out of sight, retreating to the farmhouse where they had made camp the night before, I searched the caves myself. It would be a terrible place to store paintings with the dampness of the underground river. Owain dabbled at drawing, and though he was not talentless, he knew nothing of art. He simply wanted to make a difference in the war effort on the side of the Jews.
I chuckled to myself as I followed the labyrinths deeper. Make a difference. Individuals were but a drop of rain compared to the ocean of existence. The arrogance of those eager to lend their lives, believing they could make a grand contribution to some effort never ceased to amuse me.
I had never fooled myself. My name would be forgotten, and I would fade from memory. Perhaps even before I was gone. Nothing survived but art.
I did not mind so much that Göring confiscated the majority of the ownerless collections I retrieved for the Paris Hauptarbeitsgruppen. He did not have a love for it. The fat, shrewd bastard collected it because he thought it made him appear cultured. But that was more acceptable than Hitler getting his small weasel hands on it. That dummkopf would not know Rococo from Baroque from the paper he used to wipe his ass.
I kept the best for myself, of course. It had been my downfall. I had been arrogant enough to think my purloining would go unnoticed. It had cost my loyal, faithful Gerhardt his life. My stomach churned at the thought of those bastards in my home, drinking my best vintage, lounging on my furnishings. Touching, hurting my wife.
I followed each narrow tunnel deeper into the belly of the earth, searching the caverns for the paintings. You must find them, Heinrich, Göring had said. His work is part of the heart of Blut und Boden. It would not do to have the pieces left in those filthy hands. I had found them two years ago, though I had not bothered to tell Göring. I had found them in a tiny attic in Paris and had immediately imagined how the paintings would look hanging together in my library.
Now, they may very well cost my Mila her life. I closed my eyes. Years I had been away from home now, but I could remember every detail. Which board would creak underfoot, how the breeze carried the scent of the ripening vines, the fine texture of Mila’s hair between my fingers, the depth of Gerhardt’s bark and the weight of his warm bulk draped over my feet. I would not be returning to the same home, I knew that now. My own greed had ensured it.
I did not find the paintings. If Owain had hidden them, they were in depths I did not dare venture without risking losing my way back to the surface. The grotto did not frighten me, though. There was a tranquility here in the bowels of the land, a quiet closeness that reminded me of the trenches. I had drawn some of my best portraits there. Each stroke of charcoal had felt heightened and important, essential, in that setting. Suffering and sorrow always made for better art.
I did find what had so disturbed Owain’s father and the woman traveling with him. I grimaced at the scene stretched before me and knew immediately who was responsible. Some men sought any excuse for gross, unnecessary excess. Some had no understanding of artfulness and subtlety. Some only appreciated heavy-handedness and blatant displays of power. The Butcher was certainly one of those men, and I knew where to find him.
I retreated from the caves and raided the farmhouses on the western side of town for food. I checked the walls and cellars for art but found nothing worth the effort of carrying it with me, so I turned the motorcycle back to Lyon.
11 May 1942
Dear Nhad,
Five students have been arrested
after an anti-German demonstration at a boys’
secondary school in the 15th arrondissement.
Little more than children,
and I fear they will face the firing squad.
-Owain
xiv
The cathedral was silent, more shadowed than not, for the only light came from the fulgurating flames of votive candles near the altar. I rested my elbows on my knees and rubbed the back of my neck.
“Tell me it is not true.”
“Nhad, I can explain—”
“What is there to explain? What possible excuse could you have?”
“Rhys, please,” my mother began.
“You knew?”
“I did, and I knew you would—”
“I had to find out from Gareth Driscoll that my son is a goddamned conchie!” My voice had risen to a shout, and I turned away, rubbing my forehead and pinching the bridge of my nose.
“I am not a soldier, Nhad.”
“It matters naught what you think you are in times of war. You will go back and—”
“I will not.”
I rounded on him, and his chair scraped back as he stood. He almost stood eye to eye with me now, and he did not flinch as he met my gaze.
“There are ways to fight in this war without a gun.”
“You are a naïve fool.”
“I want no part in the killing!”
I pointed a finger at him and noted absently that a tremor shook the appendage. “I will not call a coward my son.”
He sucked in a breath, face paling, shoulders hunching.
“Get out. I do not want to see your face again until you have learned to be a man who accepts his duties and responsibilities.”
“Rhys, no—”
It was Owain who held up his hand to silence my mother’s protests. He held my gaze, shoulders straightening, and then he pushed past me to retreat into his room.
In the morning, he was gone.
The soft tread of approaching footsteps brought me back to the present. I knew by the light, crisp fragrance of peppermint it was Charlotte who sought me out before she settled on the bench beside me. She did not attempt to make conversation but sat with me quietly, her presence a soothing balm.
“Where is Otto?” I finally asked.
“In the crypt with the children. They seemed comforted by him, and he is basking in the attention.”
&
nbsp; I raked my hands through my hair. “Esgob annwyl. Children, Charlotte.”
Her hand came to rest on my shoulder. “I know.”
“And held by the Gestapo in Lyon…” My stomach churned at the thought. “He was right there.”
“There is no way you could have known.”
My throat was so tight I could scarcely force the words out. “I found out from a neighbor that Owain was a conscientious objector. I was livid, I was, and…” I swallowed. “And ashamed. Embarrassed by my own son.” I scrubbed my hands over my face, dragging my palms over the fading bruises at my temple and jaw. “War would have destroyed him. My son always was a…a gentle soul, and war has shredded many a harder man. I knew this. I dreaded it for him. But a man does what needs to be done, what duty calls for him to do.” I turned my head and met Charlotte’s gaze. “I called him a coward, told him I could not call him my son.” I thumped my chest with my fist. “I was the coward. I allowed my embarrassment to overtake my love for my son.” My voice broke, and the tears that blurred my vision prevented me from discerning any expression on Charlotte’s face.
She slid closer to me and caught my hand where it was pressing against my breastbone to prevent my heart from cracking apart. She wrapped her hands around mine, voice soft but firm and insistent. “You were angry. You lashed out in the moment and said something you regret. You were human. Everyone is fallible. Everyone. Sons and fathers. But you are here. In a strange, torn country in the grip of war, searching tirelessly for him. You can tell me of your wrongs 'til the cows come home, but that…that tells me more about you as a man, as a father, than words you spoke years ago that haunt you still.”
“I have to find him,” I whispered. “I must.”
She squeezed my fingers. “We will. We can leave tonight and return to Lyon. We can leave now.”
Once More Unto the Breach Page 13