“You must move the radio tomorrow. I will return.” He slipped toward the back of the barn. Beyond him, through the window, a mere filament of light still brightened the horizon.
~
Clack, clack, clackety-clack. Pause. Kate’s fingers made far too much noise on the radio keys. Gauzy pale blue dragonfly wings shimmered in feeble torchlight How would such a creature make its way from the creek up into this granary?
“As unpredictably as me tapping out signals from this granary,” Kate muttered to herself.
The local organizer had sent highly sensitive information to her with a wayfarer, so once again, lives depended on Kate’s transmissions. Below, a cow mooed, and some small nocturnal animal sprinted across the yard.
When she contacted headquarters during her wilderness trek with Domingo, an experienced operator oversaw her. But here on the farm, Kate transmitted on her own. Gradually, the details returned.
Messages at least two hundred words long, including a number corresponding to each letter of five words from your chosen poem.
Her instructor called Kate’s chosen poem odd, but it worked. By the shores of Gitche Gumee, By the Big-Sea-Shining-Water …
After long minutes, confirmation arrived, so she relaxed. At ten o’clock, she tuned into the personal BBC messages, and after a few tries, the word ABERNATHY emerged in an illogical sentence.
The code’s unintelligible phrases contained a message designed to throw off Nazi decoders. If they picked up her signal and succeeded in interpreting it, disaster might follow. The other danger, that her consistent clackety-clacks would alert the Gestapo if they drove by, worried Kate just as much.
At least if they cut the electricity to isolate and identify her signal, the battery would still prevail. Still, detection vans or agents with electronically sensitive apparatus might be canvassing the area between the Dordogne and Lot rivers tonight. Why did the enemy have to be so scientific?
When she switched off the machine, footsteps sounded on the ladder. Kate froze, but soon, Gabirel’s black curls showed over the opening in the granary floor.
“Your machine wakes the night.”
“Sorry. Stopping every twenty minutes slows me down.”
“Why do you do that?”
“To break the air waves, in case the Germans detect my frequency.”
“You think the Allies really prepare for l’Invasion?” Gabirel launched his question with an arched brow and the changing voice of adolescence.
His words bubbled freely, unlike Domingo. “Today is June third, right? Nearly a month ago, didn’t the BBC broadcast all the right messages to signify the day?”
Gabirel flicked his hair back. “But no one came.”
“The mission halted only because of bad weather, since pilots require clearance. Perhaps a storm blew up after the broadcast that night, but with so many drops all around us, we can be sure this time.”
“At the encampment, I saw stacks of guns and grenades in crates. Domingo carries one, doesn’t he?” His tone wobbled on the last phrase, finishing the question in a soprano.
“Many do. Did you ask him?”
Gabirel rolled his eyes. “And they carry pills that kill you, so you don’t give away secrets under torture?”
The lipstick Kate’s mentor gave her, with one of those tiny pills hidden at the end, lay in Kate’s pack. No use denying facts.
“Only for impossible situations.”
“Domingo has one?”
“I don’t know, Gabirel.”
“Perhaps the British and Americans, like General Petain, make big promises, but fail to deliver.”
Compassion filled Kate. During the past four years, he endured one after another of Vichy’s broken promises.
“Did partisans talk this way at the encampment?”
“No, but sometimes, I wonder if this war will ever end.”
She touched his fingertips. “Of course you do. Domingo still believes.”
Gabirel blinked “Yes, but tomorrow you both leave.” He scooted down the ladder and murmured to the animals as Kate willed herself to focus on her final transmission.
Toulouse cells cite Waffen SS units heading north from refitting stations. Harassment increases at petroleum plants, coalmines, and railroad bridges. As a result, the Gestapo presses harder on rural departments.
Parachute welcoming committees required on Lot plateaus … high alert from now until Jour-J … le Débarquement at hand …
These reports all confirmed l’Invasion.
Understanding Gabirel’s impatience, Kate sat back and rubbed her temples. After all, hadn’t she eloped with Alexandre in youthful emotion? She clicked off the radio and lifted the gunnysack Domingo’d hung over the granary’s high window. Cool evening air drifted from the darkness covering the countryside, but a full moon lent enough light for the parachute drops to proceed.
She let the gunnysack down, and the fragrance of sweet clover hay, heady straw, and ever-present manure carried her back to Addie’s farm, but Gabirel’s mood still settled over her. Surely, the Allies would come—unthinkable that General Eisenhower and Winston Churchill made all their preparations in vain.
Perhaps the magic words would float to her via the BBC during the next few hours. Kate flipped the switch to listen again.
Chapter Four
The darkness of the road to Montredon closed on Domingo like a dark tunnel as he navigated the five kilometers on his cycle, its headlamp turned off. Once, the lights of an oncoming vehicle loomed too late to kill his motor. Abreast of the shiny vehicle, he held his breath—most likely they were Gestapo investigating the conflagration caused by this night’s work.
He shrank back from the vehicle’s rush. Its shimmer took him back to the night of his beloved Sancha’s death, but Domingo refused the familiar call—no good came from dwelling on what might have been. His next thought denied that truth, as that American pilot reappeared in his consciousness—impossible to shrug off those eyes, since Domingo bore responsibility for abandoning him.
His next thought, of Katarin staying with Maman, sent fiery emotion through him. No, he mustn’t contemplate the American agent. Not now.
Thankfully, the vehicle maintained its speed, whipping his shirtsleeves in its wake. Since he’d lit another fuse just several hours previously, a suffocating sensation gripped his throat. If someone stopped him, the smell of sulfur would testify to his participation.
Crossing the Lot River Bridge eased his breathing. He threw cold water on his face and neck before gunning the cycle toward Figeac. At long last, the glow from Decazeville faded. Figeac slept, except for two men standing in the street, staring east—friend or foe, who could tell? Domingo idled downhill, and two streets past a tall steeple, turned toward home.
The very word enticed him. Home. Months had passed on the trail until circumstances forced him to bring Kate to this isolated corner of Lot a few days ago. After the circuit supplied her radio, he relayed daily messages from the Résistance leader north of Prendeignes, and took whatever nighttime assignments headquarters supplied.
This time, they included a motorcycle, though he’d almost killed himself on the back trails earlier. Recalling that out-of-control slide constricted his throat, but this machine certainly cut down his travel time. Maybe he could stay home awhile, to lighten Maman’s load.
Though she hid her worries, he must attempt to take his father’s place. Perhaps now, with another woman, she would let down her guard. In spite of language obstacles, maybe Kate could comfort her more than he.
Around the final curve, Domingo turned off the motor and secured the cycle under a vine thatch. Good—no light from the granary. But halfway down the path, the transmitter’s incongruous clamor met his ears.
His chest tightened. He must find a new place for Kate’s transmissions tomorrow ... today. But where? He strode toward the barn, aware of something troubling him even more—how had he come to feel so responsible for her?
He pondered th
e first query and shelved the second at the sight of Gabirel standing watch outside the door. Heat burned the backs of Domingo’s eyes as he touched his brother’s thin shoulder.
“Thank you for watching. I’ll do morning chores—sleep.” Gabirel withdrew to the house in the ebbing night.
Past doleful barn animals asleep on the hoof and spent kidlets sprawled beside their mama, Domingo reached the granary stairs. Usually, clarity reached him in this haven, but the transmitter intervened. Still, his answer came to him as he climbed.
Only Père Gaspard could secure a safe transmission location, just as he had provided the agent a new Basque identity.
Mottled hair streamed from the knot at the back of the agent’s neck. She must not have heard him steal up the ladder. The shock in her eyes when he appeared so suddenly the other night troubled him—mustn’t repeat that error. He didn’t want to startle her.
When he rattled the ladder, she focused beyond him, as if waking from sleep. No wonder. It was nearly four o’clock, and she’d started working before he left. But then, a relieved smile broke out and tawny waves brushed the hollows of her cheeks. Domingo glanced away.
“Your mission went well?”
He let his eyes answer for him. “And yours?”
She pointed to an envelope.
“A message for me to deliver?”
“I’m sorry. You need sleep.” Her voice brushed his soul—such a gentle sound.
“We both do, but for the cause ...”
“Let me do the milking.” Her black-brown eyes glinted up at him. On that December night when he carried her to safety after she injured her ankle in her parachute drop, her eyes had conjured Sancha’s, but now distinct golden flecks marked the difference.
“Yes, and when I return, we visit Père Gaspard.”
“I was about to click the switch.” She did so and without thinking, Domingo patted her shoulder, then drew back. The night he left to search for Gabirel, he erred by standing too close to her. Maybe thinking of her as Agent Merce instead of Katarin would help.
Pre-dawn stillness accompanied them to the house, where Domingo submerged his canteen in the water pail, grabbed fresh bread, and wolfed some cheese. He whispered a final instruction to Kate.
“I’ll ride the cycle, so I should be back soon. Rest until you hear the cows call you.”
He pulled the door shut and retrieved the cycle. The sooner he delivered the messages, the sooner he could return, to Maman, to a few hours of sleep, and to Gabirel. But an insistent realization nagged at him. He would also return to this Amerikan agent.
He must cover the distance before daybreak, when the Milice brandished their fancy cars and pistols. A hidden turn-off gave way to high rocky country, and every kilometer increased Domingo’s sense of safety.
Soon, his headlight grazed jagged woods concealing the entrance of the Ségala encampment. A guard took the cycle. He would find the machine full of fuel when he exited.
Free-French agents and Francs-Tireurs-et-Partisans members, or FANA, claimed the camp now, qualifying it for extra supply drops, though London questioned other organizations operating under the FTP’s Communist arm.
The partisans borrowed the term Maquis from the Greek island of Corsica, where it meant the brush. And they stole other words, techniques, and ammunition from every quarter.
Jacques accepted the messages and waved Domingo inside. “Perhaps this intelligence comes from the National Council of Résistance. Tonight, the number of our local parachute welcoming committees exceeded last night’s. When dawn breaks with no reports of deaths, I’m always relieved.”
“Anything for me to take back?”
Jacques shook his head and sniffed. “You smell of sulfur and smoke. Except for that, I’d have guessed you had been sleeping after a day of tending your sheep.”
“As I would, given half a chance.”
Someone moved behind Jacques and he called, “Kerriac—more messages.”
A slight man emerged from the shadows. His immediate eye contact and ready smile gave him away—Amerikan—perhaps a new OSS agent.
“Hang around a minute, in case a question arises.”
Domingo shrugged. “I know nothing of the content, and today the agent moves to another location.”
“You’ll still bring us word?”
“Perhaps she must move too far away. The SS has reached the Causse de Limogne.”
“Brutes.” Jacques cursed and offered a cigarette, but Domingo declined. “Still, we take heart. Last night, our men pilfered enough Hun dynamite from across the Auverne to decommission a hundred train engines. They repair pylons too quickly, so we blow the engines and transformers now, since one small charge disables them.”
“You expect l’Invasion very soon?”
The squat leader ran his hand over heavy beard growth, and with two dirty fingers, pushed between his eyebrows as if fighting a headache. “One sure sign, mon ami—drops from a USAAF Flying Fortress last night.”
“A B-17? Here?”
“Never doubt the importance of our efforts.” Steel-gray eyes settled on Domingo. “Travel safely, and here’s to liberty.”
A team entered the encampment with rifles slung from their shoulders. Farther on, two tall Caucasians wearing khaki military-style jodhpurs chatted. Russians? Yes, their accents gave them away. Aitaita warned against such—Bolsheviks, Communistas—out to change our way of life.
But General de Gaulle’s Forces Français es de l’Interieur—the FFI—all stood united to free France. Everyone answered to General Koenig, de Gaulle’s chosen British commander. Some may have sworn allegiance to separate political organizations in the early days, but they’d now joined forces to dispel the Reich. From his grave, Aitaita might disapprove, but not if he were here.
One man in this gathering was a Spaniard. Another’s espadrilles gave him away as a Lot peasant. He stirred a huge porridge pot—perhaps a cousin’s cousin.
A guard guided Domingo’s cycle to him, and he kicked it to life. As the camp faded in the distance, one goal enveloped him—that he, Domingo Ibarra, citizen of Lot, France, perform his duty for the liberation. Hopefully, unlike Poland, this country would emerge free.
He touched the brake where he failed to slow the last time. But seeing a large branch torn from its trunk, he idled the motor. This obstacle could hinder the Milice. French police loyal to Vichy irritated him almost more than the Gestapo.
He tore off his jacket and shinnied up, littering the earth with bark, and smashed the branch down. Soon Domingo had created the perfect roadblock, another hassle for the Milice and five extra treasured minutes for the Maquisards. Small things like this could tip the scales.
Toward St. Perdoux, early morning cooking smells emanated from vine-covered stone houses, and a peasant led his sheep across the road. Then a gendarme stepped from behind a thick stone fence. Dressed to the hilt, his revolver bulged from its holster, and a scabbard tapped his thigh.
“Destination?”
“Home from helping my grandfather.”
“With a cycle?”
“His neighbor found a canister with this inside. He says we take what we get, payment for the trouble this war brings upon us.”
The gendarme twitched his turned-up mustache. “Papers?” Domingo handed them over. “Ibarra. That name sounds too familiar. Come.”
Domingo weighed his options. He could race off, but then would need a new card. He leaned the cycle on the wall and entered the building, greeted by a Petain bust.
Le Marechal Philippe Petain,
chef de l’etat français,
vainquer de Verdun
Under his kepi with its silly pillbox circle, arm outstretched, Petain portrayed a kindly older friend, but the message inscribed below soured Domingo’s stomach.
“Français! Vous n’etes ni vendus ni trahis ni abandonnes.
Venez a moi avec confiance.”
“French! You are not sold nor betrayed nor abandoned. Come to me with
confidence.” Who still believed this rubbish?
“You honor le Marechal?”
The lie came easily. “My grandfather keeps a bust on his hearth.”
“False information, I suspect. Go, but watch yourself.”
Along the way, a farmer strapped his iron plow to two oxen. The peaceful sight gripped Domingo. Could that Gendarme not discern how Petain had hurt these peasants? What motivated his loyalty to Vichy? His paycheck, or did he honestly believe Hitler’s puppet government worthy of his service?
When the River Célé glistened in the distance, Domingo slowed the cycle. Soon, rocky cliffs gave way to murky water sprigged with late spring insects and humidity. He walked the bike through a frog chorus, the muddy river bottom defying him to breathe.
Suddenly, sun flamed through the chestnuts, and he reconsidered his route. He could take the easy road, but this back way saved time. A few extra minutes meant a little more sleep, a precious commodity.
An early fisherman nodded, so Domingo wished him well. How often had Maman filleted and fried Papa’s early morning catch?
But where was that rocky turn-off? Domingo sniffed the fertile, weedy earth until a break in some low bushes led him to yesterday’s tire tread.
The long, quiet trail cooled his emotions, down through an area bedded with crushed rocks, then into a meadow and the sycamore-lined road winding past his generational homestead. Like this wide path, his life had become light and shadow, morning and evening and night.
Beyond the river, Ibarra land called his name ... ah, to stay here forever. But his conscience remonstrated. Katarin had no home, no family. She discovered her uncle only when he was dying. Long before this war, life left her with the same theft, betrayal, and abandonment Petain promised to stop.
Chapter Five
After appearing past the curve in the road ahead, the bicycle stopped, sending an explosion of dust up around the rider’s black skirts. Kate watched the woman unwind her long legs from the chassis and remove her thick goggles and beret. No, not a woman. A man.
Intense violet eyes scanned her and Domingo. Set in a broad face tanned by sun and wind, they contained the hint of a dare. Burnt-red hair curled over the lanky fellow’s temples and ears—the farthest thing from Kate’s image of a priest. But when he straightened his robe, thought lines encircled his bushy eyebrows.
A Purpose True Page 4