“Domingo, I have missed you.” They embraced like father and son.
“Père—how ...”
“You live. Thanks be to God.” The priest’s rangy form almost disappeared in Domingo’s arms, but he reached a hand toward Kate.
Domingo flashed a glance her way. “Agent Merce, meet Père Gaspard, who taught me most of what I know.”
Strong hands enveloped Kate’s, and Père Gaspard’s voice shifted low. “You borrowed your name from Our Lady of Mercy Espagnol, who appeared with refugee children under her robes?”
“Oui.”
“But you look like a Kathryn to me.”
At Kate’s inquisitive look, Domingo held up his palms. “He has a seeing gift.” He tapped the priest’s arm. “How could you know?”
“It’s the fire in her eyes—Kathryn means pure. Mademoiselle, I trust you like our lovely Department of Lot, the soul of France. Except, of course, for this miserable war.”
“Your hills and valleys go easier on my shoes than Le Massif Central.”
“You’ve trekked up there?” Not waiting for a response, he sought Domingo. “What brings you home? I heard our partisans blew the Decazeville collierie last night.”
Domingo merely cocked his head, so Père continued. “You know already, I see. Word has it the mine will be unusable for months. Since we shackled their electrical works in March, the Germans have assigned twenty-five hundred men to restore it—the Bosche don’t like idle people. But you two must have passed through there when you came down from the mountains, n’est-ce pas?”
“We kept out of the way.” Domingo glanced at Kate. “Rough climbing, but worth the safety. They must have rewired the collierie about that time.”
“Yes, and all for naught.” Père’s wide grin overtook his entire countenance. “Since our humble Maquis has disabled France’s largest opencast mine.” Quickly, he turned serious again. “But this success will bring fury down on our local prefects.”
“And the SS Waffen units?”
“With the entire winter for repairs and new recruits from Alsace to fill their quotas, they stand ready.” A visible shiver crossed Père’s shoulders. “But back to the mine. Losing it makes the local units look bad. Besides, the next level of command seems inefficient in carrying out Hitler’s orders. It also hints at problems with the big bosses, Laval and Darnard.”
He twisted toward Kate. “Perhaps you heard that last year, the Waffen-SS took Darnard, our own countryman, into its legions when he organized the Milice française?”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and Kate recalled what she’d learned about Darnard.
“Sickening—a Frenchman as Sturmbannfuhrer over the Milice—who’d ever have imagined such a thing would come to pass? At first, Darnard organized only five thousand, but now the gendarmes multiply seven times over, and practice even greater harshness. As if our enemies were not enough, we suffer this from our own.”
Domingo’s nod must have encouraged him to continue.
“They’ve already deported six hundred Figeac men to Montauban for German labor camps. Not one teacher remains at the College, no pupils over sixteen, nor an artist or skilled tradesman.” Père rubbed the stubble dappling his chin.
“Never underestimate the Gestapo, the Milice, or Das Reich. Brutality marks the SS commander and his underlings. Every ratissage they carry out has clear calculations behind it—German storm troops leave nothing to chance.”
Père Gaspard untied a packet from his bicycle basket and sighed. “I wouldn’t doubt they soon give up on Vichy altogether. Then the last vestige of law will be gone from our departments, and the Germans will do what they please with our women and mortar our villages.”
A flock of pigeons dived overhead, but the men paid no notice. “Your gifts are many, Père but I hope you aren’t prophesying...”
Père moved to a low wall and gestured for Domingo and Kate to sit. “The Milice already penetrate far into the countryside. Abbeys and maquisard strongholds have become the only place of refuge. So many have already fled to them, they barely maintain supplies.” He snorted. “And now, renegades like you blow mines and cut the German supply lines left and right.”
Domingo showed his dimples. “You taught me how to follow orders.”
“Indeed, and halting Das Reich is a worthy goal. We locals will pay in reprisals, but of all the groups this war has created, the Milice rank lowest. Already, the Maquisards have made examples of several collaborators.”
“So I heard. Shot and roped up in public squares.”
“These displays delight the locals, but every time the people celebrate, the Nazis plan reprisals. We must fortify ourselves for whatever comes.”
A ground squirrel chattered high in an oak tree across the road, reminding Kate that nature continued as always. Domingo’s dusty espadrilles, wide-necked shirt, and beret complemented Père Gaspard’s black robe, embedded with dirt and bits of straw. Of course—they’d both been out on missions—who had time to consider cleanliness these days?
“Where do you strike tonight?”
“The railroad bridge west of le Bourg.”
“You do God’s work. How may I help?”
“Our agent must send messages to London.”
Père Gaspard led them down a narrow walking path. “And move every three days, no less.” He gestured toward a cottage. “Come in for some hot chicory. Together, we will ponder.”
He ushered them over the threshold. “And your mother, Domingo? Is she well?”
“With Gabirel back home, yes. But we already received one visit from the Reich.”
“Ah, indeed—they have penetrated that far into the countryside.” Père Gaspard rummaged at the stove while they discussed local peasants, so Kate let her mind wander to the hand-plastered archway, the closed-up stuffiness permeating the cottage, and numerous deep scrapes on the heavy wooden door, as if an ill-behaved cat or dog once reigned here.
Soon, sweet-smelling chicory coffee filled brown pottery mugs, and heavy steam offered a foretaste of the almost chocolaty taste to follow. Thicker than American coffee and much stronger than London’s watered-down version, the brew bore a bitter taste at first, but Kate had grown fond of this bracing drink.
Père joined them at the table. “At fourteen, your Gabirel has become a man. War has scant respect for youth.” His frown spread. “The Gestapo has proliferated like rabbits since April. You know about the diversion our partisans created last month when they occupied Cajarc?”
Domingo raised one eyebrow ever so slightly, and Père accepted the gesture as a yes or no, Kate couldn’t tell which.
“Their audacity took the pressure off the Communist Resisters farther north in Correze. The Gestapo has been onto them for some time. But our occupation of Cajarc gave those Correzian fellows a mild reprieve—the River Lot never saw such a feat.”
He addressed Kate. “Can you believe our people rang up the Germans to inform them terrorists had overtaken the area?”
“Rang them up?”
“We’d hooked into their telephone transmission line months ago, so why not go ahead and ring them up? When we did, the Germans amassed Miliciens and Gendarmes for battle along the river. Our Maquis suffered few losses and convinced the Germans of their skill and determination. Of course, the corroborators looked like fools.”
His sigh mingled with a feeble half-smile. “In Cajarc’s town square, our Maquis also executed three Milice collaborator police convicted of denouncing resistors.”
Domingo’s jaw tightened and Père patted his elbow. “Some Milice do harbor patriotic motives, but things have been so confused since Petain stepped up. People who lauded him in the Great War couldn’t comprehend that he would eventually succumb to the Fuhrer’s bidding.”
His sigh contained a tremble. “Discerning a Vichy collaborator from a citizen stalwart for liberty has become impossible. Did you hear that someone denounced me?”
“Who?”
“A regular
at Mass. I’d blessed him just that Sunday, and would have guessed he supported us.” Père turned to Kate. “You see, my so-called ‘seeing’ ability works only sporadically. Would that God bestowed more consistent gifts, eh?
“At any rate, Cajarc proved we could join several groups under one command. Before that, the Communists under the FTP refused to fight with a Fee Fee Résistance group. Of course, the FTP battles against Fascism, in order to set up a Communist France, and boasts hundreds of monthly kills.
“Whether by sabotage or knife blades, all come together with the de Gaullists now.” He met Kate’s eyes. “If you wanted excitement, you chose the right place at the perfect time.”
He wound the wires of his spectacles over his ears and unfolded a map. Domingo helped him spread the crackly paper like a delicate lace cloth.
“I know of no collaborators in our area, though one peasant who fought under Petain still believes the general secretly communicates with De Gaulle. I hoped he might retain London connections, too, but when he sentenced one of our leaders to two years internment, I gave that up.
“Now, back to our challenge. “Do you prefer a chateau or a pigsty?”
Domingo answered for Kate. “Whatever is safe. These messages must get through.”
Père’s sloped forefinger traveled the map. “We have transmitters here and here. The higher the better.” He pushed his glasses up his thin nose. “Perhaps we begin here, a fair climb, but difficult for the Gestapo to reach.”
“The vineyards?”
“Surely the Gestapo has far more productive places to search.”
“You will take her?” At Père’s assent, Domingo flushed. “Merci.”
The same sudden flagrant heat swept Kate. After all they’d experienced, she might never see Domingo again.
“Very soon l’invasion begins. I have it on high authority.” Index finger pointed upward, Père attempted to lighten the moment as Domingo donned his beret.
“Where do you want the transmitter?”
“Inside the door, for now. A lorry should arrive shortly with spring greens and potatoes for the camp.” Kate trailed them toward the motorbike, where a strapped container held her heavy transmitter.
“We’ll disguise this with vegetables or Jean-Claude’s supply of baked goods. Perhaps a gendarme will accompany us, although that most often happens in daytime.”
“You trust them?”
Kate strained to understand the Basque Domingo slipped into, but Père Gaspard studied her before responding in perfect French.
“Only locals who protect me on deliveries to my poorest parishioners. The truth has become a mixed parcel.”
Kate followed his gaze to new growth brightening the countryside. To the east, an almost cloudless expanse of blue sky met hilly terrain.
“Thank the Lord, the seasons remain. Winter gave way to spring, and the Allies mount their attack. As for the gendarmes, if the Gestapo happens by while we are en route ...” His eyes held an extra twinkle.
“Seeing my protectors, they’ll think all is well and leave me alone to continue my good works. Perhaps even those nasty Gendarmes will have a good deed on their side when it comes to dividing the sheep from the goats.”
Père Gaspard hefted one side of the transmitter. “Save your strength for tonight, Domingo. You’ll probably run for miles.”
An itchy sensation enveloped Kate’s throat. Blowing a bridge tonight, and tomorrow night, demolishing something else?
“You have a strong arm for the ascent?”
“You think of me as an old, weak man, but ...” Père flexed his biceps.
“Never. After all, you taught me how to score at pelota.”
They lowered the transmitter and Domingo grabbed his beret. Kate swallowed a cry that poised on her tongue as he gave her a slight bow.
“Va avec Dieu.” Go with God—exactly what he said on her first night in France.
Kate’s throat constricted, and she could barely croak, “Merci, et vous aussi.”
His glinting onyx eyes held hers for a moment. He touched her sleeve and a thousand sparks enveloped her arm. Then he hurried to the cycle, and the motor roared into action in an acrid haze.
Père Gaspard made the sign of the cross over his diminishing figure. “A good man, if one ever lived. Godspeed.” He sighed and faced Kate. “We must pack supplies for your stay.”
After the cycle’s buzz faded to a faint drone, she followed him into the rectory, breathing in the enclosed scent of stored linens, binned potatoes, and shelves of books.
“Be sure to take plenty of potatoes, carrots, and any fruit still worth eating. Between winter and summer’s abundance, we must scavenge.”
Addie would play around with that word, but Kate knew their scavenging held no candle to how Domingo would survive these next days ... weeks. Who knew how long?
She filled her pack with necessities, all the while lifting him heavenward in silent prayer. Despite him leaving, excitement flooded her. Maybe she was, after all, born for this work, as Monsieur Le Blanc prophesied when they first met in London.
Père rummaged in a closet and thrust out a folded linen cloth. “I keep some sisters’ garb handy for such times. What do your papers say?”
“Milkmaid, the Ibarra’s dim-witted daughter.” She wondered he had forgotten, having so recently reinvented her identity card.
“Ah, yes. We’d better fix that. I shall make you a teacher, with more travel allowances. If necessary, you can throw on this garb. Hum ... the Gestapo deported your family, maquisards overtook your school, and your priest sent you on this retreat.”
He held up a length of coarse cloth and squinted at her. “Too big, but the less of your form those beasts view, the better. I’ll see to your carte d’identite right away and we’ll be off.”
He handed her a large backpack, and his use of the word we staved off the pang edging Kate’s breastbone. Barely used to her present identification, she sloughed off her attachment to Emazteona Giselle Ibarra, a plodding young woman with an idyllic Basque home and three brothers. Posing as an orphan after losing her family offer less challenge—not far from the truth.
Kate rehearsed her new family history as she packed the heavy linen robes, a massive cross necklace to complete her outfit, and plain black shoes. She hoped she wouldn’t need them.
Somewhere, a bird tweeted. Kathryn felt sure she heard that sweet sound, and strained her ears. But a swish-swish of someone’s skirt blocked out all else. She pressed her head and back against crisp sheets and accustomed herself to the smells around her.
The bird call faded. Nothing here of nature—wherever here was—but rather, invasive scents, ones that seemed pleasant at first. She’d wakened in a place where every sniff told her that each aroma covered something else, something you didn’t want to smell. Oh, to be out in her back yard, where azaleas had started blooming, and the lilacs imbued every breath.
That swish-swish irritated her, though she realized it must be women’s hosiery declaring to the world that their owners were walking down a hallway. A hallway? Yes, that must be it, although Kathryn couldn’t open her eyes to look.
Why couldn’t she open them? Nothing wrong with her hearing, and though a quick brush of her face with her fingers revealed bandages to high heaven, her nose still worked. That was something, at least. She concentrated—yes, she’d fallen, a ridiculous topple over that railing high above the pews at Good Shepherd.
Then Doc came, and a man wearing brown tweed and bearing that strong whiff of robust Gauloise tobacco. She’d never liked it back in France, but today—at least she thought it was today—it had an intoxicating effect. Even now, just remembering it swept her back again, against her will. No, she must stay here and wake up. She must see who walked up and down the hallway outside this room, and figure out how to get out of here.
But the swishing came closer, a cool hand held her wrist, and a man said, “Keep her sedated—the surgeon is on his way from Portland right now.”
<
br /> Chapter Six
To the east, smoke plumes still rose from what remained of the blown collierie. His ears still ringing with last night’s detonation, Domingo gunned the engine. He’d meant to ask Gabirel if he’d heard the blast, but something else happened just then—he couldn’t even recall what it was. Things were like that with Gabirel lately. If you missed your chance, he might close his heart to you and the opportunity might be gone forever.
Maman’s chin had trembled and Gabirel had blinked hard when he and Kate left. During his frequent disappearances, Maman’s frame had shrunken more than ever. He hesitated to embrace her lest he break a bone, and yet, a fresh awareness made him want to hold her close.
Maman stroked Kate’s hand. “You must visit us again in a better season.” The emotion in her voice surprised Domingo. Standing there, he decided to think of this agent as Katarin.
This agent's glinting eyes gave him pause. “Madame Ibarra, you have taught me so much. I hope to return to visit you some day.” Then she held out her hand to Gabirel. “And thank you so much for keeping watch. You made my work easier.”
Gabirel gave her an awkward look, but stared at the ground when Domingo approached with his usual, “Take care of things here.”
Domingo saluted him and gave his mother another gentle embrace before he whisked Katarin toward the cycle. “Have you ridden one of these before?”
“No, but I’ll adjust.” That was her way with whatever needed to be done. Her father went by Le Renard Intrepid, and undoubtedly Monsieur le Blanc had earned a nickname, as well. Katarin could be le caméléon, with her ability to reinvent herself at a moment’s notice.
Domingo’s mind leaped to the moment they said good-bye. Had he allowed his emotions to show? He flicked back his hair. If only he could do the same with his increasing thoughts of this American girl.
Speeding toward his next mission, he took comfort in the Gestapo swarming Decazeville tonight. That meant they would pay less attention to this area of Lot.
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