A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  “Don’t tell me you can’t speak French, girl.”

  “She has always been slow.” Madame Ibarra’s tone remained steady even as her cool, chafed fingers settled on Kate’s wrist.

  “Ach! Then what good is she? We should deport her like les Juifs.”

  “She cares for the sheep, makes goat’s cheese, plants our potato field, and cultivates the lavender. I could not live without her, for my husband and son died in the Revolution.”

  The officer puffed his chest. “We have camps for such vermin.” He spat into the straw. “So, you manage this place yourself?”

  “With our close neighbor’s help.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Working, I think.” Madame Ibarra’s French garbled into the Occidental tongue for a time before she summarized, “Perhaps in a work camp for Monsieur Petain.”

  “Don’t fool with me, old woman. This area is a Résistance hotbed, but you say you’re a Petainist?”

  Time stopped. Nicotine stains marred the officer’s raised hand. An animal brushed against a gate somewhere, and Kate ached for breath. Why did Madame Ibarra not answer?

  Just when the tension seemed unbearable, the officer chortled. “You’re certain this neighbor of yours does not meet British airplanes and carry explosives up the mountain to the fighters in the night?”

  Madame Ibarra made a scoffing sound and took her own stool. Finally, the officer dropped their identity cards on a divider and turned toward Kate. “Tell me the meaning of your name, girl.”

  Perspiration broke on her forehead and fever flamed in her cheeks. She glanced toward Domingo’s mother. “Maman? My name? I think it means good wife.”

  A raucous guffaw echoed. “A mockery—some wife you would make.” He struck a match on his boot and acrid smoke rimmed the lantern light as he bent over Domingo’s mother.

  “Achtung, alte parasiten.”

  Kate shuddered at the meaning of his injunction—Warning, old parasite. His steps echoed down the alleyway. But instead of following him, the guard neared Kate again.

  He leaned toward her with a faint smile, so close his green-gray eyes shown like a cat’s. Then silently, he raised his hand and lifted a stray strand of her hair.

  Eyes squeezed shut, Kate bowed her head. Slowly, as if to show her he could do whatever he wished, he slipped the hair behind her ear. Shivers coursed her neck and shoulders, and she felt sure he noticed her tremble.

  An eternity later, he backed away. The barn door slammed, causing the goats to skitter. Then the lorry door banged shut amidst unintelligible German phrases. The driver gunned the motor, sending acrid fumes clear back into their stall. Only after the lorry turned onto the road and gained speed, did Kate hurry to Madame Ibarra.

  “Oh, Madame, you are a true mother of la Résistance.”

  They clung to each other in the barn’s relative safety long after the vehicle roared off toward Figeac. Shadows slanted darker around them, and Madame Ibarra’s shoulders stooped a little more.

  To change the atmosphere, Kate thought of an unnecessary question she could ask, for Domingo had already instructed her. “Madame, please show me how to feed each animal.”

  His mother took a mighty breath, cleared her lungs, and moved from stanchion to stanchion. “A scoop of corn in this trough, two scoops of oat groats here, and a pail of ground corn in the pigs’ swill.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’ll come in as soon as I finish.”

  Mrs. Ibarra ran her contorted fingers over the cow’s backbone before leaving. Kate lingered beside the goat pen, observing her tortured gait. Her arthritis surely must be painful, yet Domingo said Gabirel was only fourteen. How old had she been when she’d given birth? She must have been in her late forties when he was born.

  The urgent, innocent bleats of bright-eyed baby goats reminded Kate of her most recent loss. Last summer ... her miscarriage seemed ten years ago, but anguish erupted as fresh as the raw milk in these pails. Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she knelt to tousle the kids’ ears. Nothing to do but wait for the swell of grief to pass.

  “Rest well here with your mother, little ones. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ten minutes later, oat porridge in thick yellow cream swam in Kate’s pottery bowl. Domingo’s mother pushed the honey pot closer, its thick, translucent liquid still bearing the meadow’s scent.

  “You gather this from the hills?”

  “Toward our far boundary, near Edorta’s land.”

  After a second bowlful, Kate slid her chair back. “Oh, that tasted so good, Madame.”

  Domingo’s mother said nothing. Mentioning the enemy visit could do no good, so Kate stacked the dishes and poured boiling reservoir water into the dishpan. But Madame Ibarra nudged her aside with a brief message.

  “My work.”

  Kate donned her coat and circled the stone pen where le Chien kept faithful watch. She whistled her best imitation of Domingo’s call and squatted beside him.

  “If Russians can train dogs to perform dangerous missions, surely you can learn to accept me. Gabirel will soon be home, so I can begin my work. And then ...”

  She leaned back against the wall into the stuffy scent of warm wool and hot breath rising from the sheep.

  Then what?

  Domingo’s priest would help her find safe transmitting locations, but after London issued the order for partisans to join the fight, wouldn’t staying in touch with her circuit prove impossible? Always before when plans went awry, someone had sent a clarifying message, yet now ...

  Having to leave Le Chambon-sur-Lignon for Clermont Ferrand had taught her to manage uncertainty. After that, when her mind leaped into the future, she forced her thoughts back to the present. That was the secret, but having specific assignments certainly helped.

  Distant sycamores stood like watchmen on either side of the road Domingo would follow. Compared to guiding downed pilots, negotiating this limestone plateau must seem as easy to him as feeding the pigs.

  As if to remind her of their presence, a sow grunted, and several others squealed as afternoon gave way to sunset. Kate walked until flaming orange and russet outlined the Ségala, and halfway to the crag Domingo once pointed out to her, headlights glittered. A prayer sprang to her lips.

  “If that’s the Milice or the Gestapo, befuddle them. And please keep the tanks away from here.” Then the soldiers’ visit replayed.

  “Oh Lord, thanks for keeping Mrs. Ibarra and me safe.” Kate’s mind skipped to Addie’s pasture in Iowa, replete with smelly cow manure, and she recalled an agent describe learning to plant mines in cow pies. When a tank crossed over them, they went off--

  Résistance crews from here to Toulouse surely did that very thing.

  But tonight’s visit still made Kate quake, and the idea of the Waffen SS carrying out reprisals on these peasants for aiding the Résistance sent a chill down her spine. As though stiff-arming a thought could prevent its implementation, she willed it away.

  Chapter Three

  Late afternoon, and Gabirel should be home from Edorta’s by now. “Bring him soon, and keep Domingo safe, too.”

  During her first isolated months in France, Kate pleaded the same for Addie, Charles, and his mother when reports of Germany’s new Vergeltungswaffen rocket strikes on London filtered in. Such random news found her in conversations overheard on the street, or through glimpses of forbidden newspapers. She prayed even for Addie’s controlling husband Harold, who prepared to cross the Channel with his unit.

  But what of her own service to the Allies? Domingo had brought her radio from the Gaboudet organizer, but she chafed when Gabirel left for Edorta’s this morning. Especially after that visit from the soldiers, she must not transmit without him here. Besides, she had no messages at this point.

  The urge to stamp her feet possessed her, rousing a memory. When she was young, this attitude always produced a smile from Aunt Alvira. “Now Kate. Have patience.”

  The last silver-pink reflection of
day faded into twilight. One more turn around the barn and a sweep of the yard for anything unnatural drew Kate near the back door. One more look for safekeeping.

  “Maybe this is what it’s like for people with a home. They feel responsible for everything.”

  Home—what did that mean, anyway? She barely remembered her first home. Her mother’s face remained with her, probably because Aunt Alvina displayed her graduation photograph on the mantel. As for Kate’s father, she recalled nothing.

  Aunt Alvina had filled her childhood emptiness, but now she was gone, too. If only ... “Oh, what was my hurry to leave that dear woman and the home she made for me?”

  Kate rubbed her shoes on the iron boot scraper. Maybe home was an elusive phantom. You enjoyed it until restlessness overtook you or disaster reared its head, and then you started over in someplace new.

  Darkness dipped a final covering over sunset’s last shaky fragment, and the sheep shuffled within their fold. For Domingo, such sounds signified the place where he belonged. What would it be like to belong here, to belong somewhere in this world? Wistfulness accompanied Kate into the house, where she barred the door.

  Domingo’s mother bent to her knitting. Kate fed the fire and asked questions, though Madame Ibarra’s heavy accent rendered understanding her answers difficult.

  Her people originated just over that ridge. She jerked a needle in the appropriate direction. “Providence gave us three boys and a daughter. I prayed for more, but four it was … the will of the Almighty. Now, the eldest has already gone to be with his Maker—my dear Ander.”

  “Where does your daughter live?”

  “She married an honest man from across the river and is now with child.” Madame Ibarra pointed her needle south.

  “Oh, that Ander,” she mused, reverting back to her firstborn. “A fine lad, so like Domingo. I had a bad feeling when he went to fight in Spain, a divine warning. Domingo’s father died there, too.” Her mouth tightened. “And now... Godspeed my other sons’ return.”

  A few minutes later, her head dropped forward, forcing black chin hairs into her shawl. Tenderness overwhelmed Kate and she determined to do her best for her.

  The fire’s crackle witnessed her silent vow as she peered through the curtains into the yard. Oddly, she felt closer to England here than in Clermont-Ferrand, high in the Haute Loire.

  Very soon the Invasion would begin, maybe even tomorrow—how she itched to listen to the BBC! The long-awaited Allied advance would mean more bloodshed, but at least some of it would be Nazi.

  Finally, Domingo’s mother stirred. “What can be keeping my Gabirel?”

  Had that lorry of feldgraus waylaid Gabirel en route? Madame Ibarra carried the lantern to the back room, so Kate banked the fire and layered thick quilts near the hearth. Her mission had changed again, from courier to guardian of a peasant woman.

  Guardian ... what a joke, considering the courage Madame Ibarra displayed with those Germans. For tonight all was well, but what if real trouble arose? Kate’s contemplations joined the fire’s artwork on the wall, like the wispy cloud forms she watched this afternoon.

  Some time later, tapping wakened her. A young man built low to the ground, with thick legs and torso, stood outside. When Kate opened the door, Gabirel slipped in like a shadow and hurried up to the loft without looking Kate’s way.

  His companion pushed his Breton beret back, uttering a mongrel mix of French and Occidental. Kate gathered he was asking for supplies. “… food for the partisans, en route from Gaboudet. Picked up bicycles at the Ratier factory in Figeac.”

  What should she send? Then she realized he also hungered to unburden his heart. Over a glass of buttermilk, he leaned into the doorjamb, a deep weariness reflected in his eyes.

  “Today, the SS herded our men into a field. They discovered our hidden Juifs and made them carry rocks back and forth until they fell exhausted. Then they beat them and demanded they carry some more. When they finally loaded the Chosen into lorries, they let us go.”

  “Did Gabirel witness this?”

  “No, we picked him up at Edorta’s.” He shifted his weight, drawing Kate’s attention to his footwear, worn espadrilles dusted in powdery white and bearing the smell of flour.

  “So far, I have been a sedentaire, helping the cause from my home, but today changed everything. I looked into my wife’s eyes—we had heard how the Germans hate les Juifs—now we saw that hate for ourselves.

  “She will manage our business while I cook for the fighters. When the time comes, I will fight, too. They say the planes from London drop Sten guns by the carton each night. Whatever the leaders ask, I will do.”

  He handed Kate a folded paper, then nodded toward the lorry. Before she could respond, Madame Ibarra bobbed through the main room.

  “Gabirel has come home. He’s upstairs already.”

  Mrs. Ibarra gave a quick nod before conversing with the visitor. Kate recognized only cochon—swine, and Gabirel’s name.

  The partisan tipped his beret and signaled to two others who had waited outside in the truck. They leaped out and commandeered a pig amid squeals wild enough to waken the Gestapo kilometers away in Figeac. With the hapless animal secured on the lorry bed, the old vehicle rattled to life. Blacked out taillights gave the faintest flicker before inky darkness consumed the exhaust.

  Madame Ibarra touched Kate’s shoulder. “Domingo may eat some of that cochon.”

  “You maintain hope, Madame.”

  Domingo’s mother stared out into the night, and her voice emanated from a deep place. “War makes one hopeful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In such times, hope becomes all you have.” Before she retired, her eyes acknowledged her understanding. Gabirel had worked with the Résistance tonight.

  In moonlight, Kate unfolded the note—logistics for a landing field. She must call Gabirel to stand watch.

  She climbed the loft ladder and shook him. “Sorry to wake you. Will you keep watch while I transmit?”

  The smell of evening dew still on his clothes, he leaped from his pallet. Thankfully, her radio responded, so she listened for word from London. Nothing. She sent the messages, and when she descended, bleary-eyed Gabirel made for his bed.

  Morning brought no sign of Domingo, but helping with the sheep kept Kate busy. They completed late afternoon chores under a smoky gray and purple sky—the better to hide the partisans. When Gabirel arrived home from Edorta’s, Kate breathed deeper.

  “I’m going out to check for messages now.”

  Up in the granary, she detected a distant whine, the sound of planes circling, a sure sign of the Invasion. She checked the BBC, but no messages came through. If only she had more notifications to relay to London, but she must be satisfied for now.

  Gabirel left when she descended the ladder. At dawn, he reappeared and slept for a while before pasturing the sheep.

  While Kate hung clothes on the line in the afternoon, Gabirel came running from the pasture. “I must go.”

  He fled, so Kate hurried to the sheep. Domingo would be upset about Gabirel’s activities, but what could she do? Some time later, a peasant wearing a simple homespun vest, tattered trousers and espadrilles approached, gesturing Kate to follow him with the sheep.

  At his unspoken command, Le Chien nipped at the sheep’s heels and drove them onward. Over a ridge, he collected the flock like a great wooly blanket. A birdsong cacophony blended with rustling leaves as a timid breeze lulled Kate’s trepidation.

  The stranger’s actions indicated some sort of danger, but what? Visions of Domingo’s fragile mother visited by those soldiers again haunted her, but the idyllic scene stilled her wild pulse and bade her speak aloud.

  “This could be a sunny day in the English countryside, straight out of The Wind in the Willows.”

  Purple and lavender violets, a white daisy-like flower, wild periwinkle iris and some yellow buttons sprinkled the expanse. Addie would surely uproot some to nurture in Mrs. Tenne
y’s clay-soiled London courtyard.

  If Kate let her imagination go, she could visualize Waffen SS troops closing in, so she focused on her instructor’s advice. “Lead your thoughts—don’t let them lead you.” Precisely why she'd brought a book along to read while the sheep grazed.

  If this vagabond life taught her nothing else, she’d become less prone to cling to fear. Maybe that stranger warned her because this was the day for of requisitions. He had disappeared now, but Domingo had explained how Vichy constantly claimed food from the inhabitants here.

  “Every week, we must tote our share of meat, milk, and produce to the roadside. But often, local Maquisards lock up the lorry driver, pick up the Figeac grain merchant’s employee and deliver the supplies to la Résistance. After they free the Vichy driver, the merchant reports a burglary.”

  That day, he’d stood arms-akimbo, eyes sparkling, black waves swarming the tops of his ears. “We fight back however we can.”

  Kate gave herself to her book until the same peasant approached from the opposite direction. Le Chien read his signals, and Kate shadowed the flock west for a quarter-mile. The sight of Domingo’s home warmed her, and she recalled Mrs. Ibarra’s comment yesterday.

  “You are like one of us already.”

  One of us. With her husband Alexandre, their baby, and Aunt Alvira, gone from this world, could Kate claim oneness with anyone on earth? Addie, yes—always. Northern France and the English Channel separated them, but they’d been apart before, and each time, their friendship grew.

  With the sheep secure, she entered the barn. Inundated by the dusty grain scent under the barn’s massive rafters, a wordless sensation enveloped Kate, like Aunt Alvina’s country church liturgy so long ago. Even with her incriminating radio and the Gestapo hovering so near, a sense of safety caressed her.

  Then, like a surreptitious wind, Domingo stood before her. Kate caught her breath—how had she not heard him enter?

  He put his finger to his lips. “Shhh—do not let Maman and Gabirel know. I brought you some messages—highly important, the organizer said.” He pulled at his top lip with his teeth.