A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  “Danger stares him in the face, but he fiddles around, like our people. Some felt they owed Petain allegiance, but last December, the Germans killed two gendarmes and badly injured two others. Why obey a government that hires you one minute but shoots you the next?

  “Discovering the right thing to do has become a tightrope walk. Every day the rope tightens, and with each decision, the cravasse below deepens.”

  “But you keep on.”

  “What else can we do? Our fate lies with Churchill and the Allies. The Free French say one thing, Vichy another. The Gestapo threatens at every turn, and now, Das Reich encroaches—tank units crossing our beautiful countryside. Ach!”

  He slapped the steering wheel. “I fear for my people, once safe and secure in the heart of France.”

  Quiet enveloped the cab, and Kate’s thoughts wandered to Madame Ibarra and Gabirel. If the Gestapo came, what would they say about her absence?

  Her mind returned to Domingo, then to the other trainees in her SOE group, Charles and his mother, and then Addie—dear Addie in London, working as a secretary. Maybe she’d even have a chance to write, always her desire. Père’s foot on the brake brought Kate back to the present.

  “See that stone house back in the trees? This kindly old couple provides much for our cause.” He wrestled the lorry to a shaking halt behind a tree in full bud. The canvas flap hit the top of the lorry and in a few moments, Albert grinned from outside Père’s filmy window.

  “You’re doing all right back there?”

  “No worse than other times.”

  “Give the man and woman who live here as much as we can afford.” Père ruffled his hair and Albert hopped toward the back again.

  “Once loyal to Petain, loyalists never would have dreamed of deceiving the government, but now their four sons have dispersed with the Maquis. Four of them, mind you! The Fuhrer must scratch his head concerning the French—how can a country that surrendered so quickly a few years ago produce such opposition now?”

  A slender peasant emerged from his barn, pitchfork in hand and pipe between his lips. The lorry shuddered when Père turned off the motor.

  “This clutch always slips.” He sent Kate an appealing look.

  “As they say, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Albert offered the parishioner an armload of food, and Père tumbled out, hands extended. “All is well with you? Is Madame inside?”

  As if waiting for the call, a woman bent nearly double limped forward. Père Gaspard rushed to take her hand, and Kate waited a distance away. “Madame Merlat. You fare well?”

  She clasped his hand. “Well enough. And you?”

  “SS Waffen units are advancing from the south across Lot. I can’t imagine them meandering onto this route blanche, but we’ve angered them greatly. Do all in your power to stay out of their way.”

  The farmer raised his pitchfork like a weapon. “Of course. And who knows? Maybe they may get in our way.”

  “All goes well for your daughters?”

  “Ah, yes, and five grandchildren, one more as of yesterday.”

  “Oh my—we’ll have to baptize that little one soon.” Père glanced toward the house as though reluctant to leave.

  “God’s blessing upon you and your family.” They stood still for the sign of the cross, like humble confirmation students receiving a final blessing. Then Kate followed Père to the cab and he started the engine.

  When they heard the canvas flap drop, he let out the clutch and proclaimed, “Onward.” Kate clutched the dashboard with a last look at the man and his wife, a French caricature of Grant Wood’s American Gothic. At the Chicago Institute of Art, the painting had sold for three hundred dollars—another piece of the trivia that constantly circled through her mind.

  “Madame Merlat must be in pain.” That delicate woman’s condition wasn’t trivial.

  “Rheumatism. The two of them started school together, they once told me. So they’re the same age, but women weather worse than men in these times.”

  “Like Madame Ibarra. That Gestapo visit took years off my life, too.”

  A slow-moving herd of cows challenged them next, blocking the road, and Kate’s cultural training identified their breed—Limousin cattle. Tolerate vast temperature extremes. Thick winter coat varies from deep yellow to reddish-brown, sheds at first warm weather. Distinguishing pale rings surround eyes. Bulls reared for beef.

  Though the description seemed insignificant, she memorized what she was told, for a milkmaid ought to recognize common local breeds. But now, she’d become a teacher. Only hours ago, Père presented her with a new identity card.

  “Mademoiselle, consider yourself a member of the novitiate at St. Joanne de Castonelle.” His smile revealed rows of sturdy teeth. “One never knows who one might become, eh? Careful—let the ink set a while longer.”

  One never knows could be her motto. The cows’ owner lagged behind, confident they would wait for him. His black beret shaded his forehead like an awning and his gray and white moustache twitched when he came abreast of the lorry.

  “My cows are holding you hostage?”

  Père smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “What news have you?”

  “Hard times ahead, Monsieur Chapou.”

  “Though I can claim no ancestral link to our leader, still, I am proud to bear this name. Our son met him in Labastide. Long may Chapou live—Vive la liberation!”

  “Amen to that. But the Liberation fighters may go hungry if we fail to deliver their potatoes.”

  The peasant nudged an animal with his stick. “Move ahead, there, off the road.” His wards obeyed him, sending tufts of coarse hair floating onto the path and leaving behind other smelly deposits

  “Merci, Monsieur.”

  The man lifted his hat and kept on his way. Above the racket of starting the engine, Père leaned toward Kate.

  “He’s told me that story more times than I can count. Meeting Chapou obviously impressed his son. I don’t know if he realizes how Chapou surprised us in February when he professed allegiance to the Communists.”

  “Yet he still leads the Résistance here?”

  “Oui. I believe his main reason was practical, for the Communist FTP provides arms.”

  Père turned silent and a pungent odor rose from the road—the lorry must have smashed a large cow pie. The image the smell produced brought Addie’s farm to mind. Ah, but Addie had tried hard during those years with Harold—always did the best she could to mollify his consistent anger.

  Then, incredibly, Harold found a way into the armed forces, and Addie came to London.... and I left her there. Kate winced at the memory. Why did every decision have to be so complex?

  After three more stops, Père wrangled his long legs from the lorry. “The camp lies up there.” He gestured toward a steep incline. “Someone will soon arrive to carry up the supplies. Stretch your legs, but keep the lorry in sight.”

  Along a path spattered with chamomile and chickweed, Kate relaxed in the luxury of walking. Ducks quacked in the distance, and the serene scene before her belied the war’s rising intensity.

  She and Addie had once formed bouquets with these small white pairs of chickweed flowers—ten petals each, like conjoined hearts. Addie’s hens loved the plentiful chickweed behind her chicken coop. Kate grinned, remembering her fond name for the hens.

  “The girls love spring, because then they can ravage the chickweed patch. They peck until nothing’s left, but every rain brings it back.”

  So much had changed since that week Kate spent on the farm two years ago. Addie had grown strong enough to stand up to Harold, or maybe he became more honest—blatant would be the correct term. At least now, as a soldier, he could spend his rage on the Nazis instead of Addie. Maybe this old world still boasted some justice.

  What was it about women like Addie, hardworking, meek, and faithful? They held the world together, but suffered so much in the process. Surely, her mother couldn’t have b
een like that. Being married to Le Renard Intrepid might not have been easy, but would her mother coalesce to his wishes like Addie did with Harold for so long? Kate groaned—why waste time asking such questions, when she knew they were unanswerable?

  Domingo said morille mushrooms flourished here, so she searched in the shadows, but she saw no sign. Then she found a place to relieve herself and started back, looking over her shoulder, to the safety of the truck—the last thing Père needed was her capture, along with the messages for London sewn into her pant legs.

  Before she arrived, he’d completed the transaction. A couple of ragtag men wheeled loaded wooden carts up an impossible path—all she would see of La Résistance today.

  En route again, Père turned to Kate. “Mission accomplished, and may the same prove true for your transmissions. Now, we proceed to your new location.”

  He lowered his voice. “By the way, I told those fellows a nun rode with me, so they fled.”

  “You’re better at lying than you are at driving.” As if to prove her point, the lorry narrowly missed sideswiping a massive tree.

  “I hope you will suffer no dislocations, child.”

  Where three paths converged, he veered left. “I also hope you will not take my deceits as foolhardy.”

  “Remember, I’m not who I appear, either, and you have provided my latest deception. At least you are who you say you are.”

  His belly laugh buoyed Kate. “You mustn’t be too sure.”

  If not for the glint in his eyes, she might have doubted his priestly call. Domingo knew what he was doing, turning her over to this jovial fellow who charmed his way through this twisted world. Addie’s Harold would fault Père’s practical theology, but then, he would find fault with the Lord Himself.

  But would he risk his life to save a Jewish child or an agent from another country? She couldn’t imagine that. No, Harold would make a perfect gendarme, loyal to Vichy, following the letter of the law.

  Père yanked the lorry into one more turn. “A final stop. I almost forgot.”

  He and Albert dragged a burlap sack of potatoes and carrots still musty with the smell of earth to a small cottage. Kate straggled along toward a slender middle-aged woman who emerged and craned her neck up at Père.

  “Madame Beaulieu, I hope you are well."

  When she nodded, he continued. "And your family also?” The priest’s voice held comfort. “Your husband and sons are safe?”

  She held up her palms. “God willing.”

  Père raised his hand over her. “May the Almighty protect your household.”

  The woman bowed and sank back into the shadows. Every farmstead had a story to tell because of the war—oh, for the time to entertain each one.

  As they traversed the sharp curves of the road, a mix of trepidation and excitement battled within Kate. At the top of one hill, Père shifted into neutral and rolled to an idle.

  Albert appeared outside his window. “We’re finished?”

  “Thank you for your help, son. Please go straight home, and tell your father I’ll have the lorry back early in the morning.”

  The lad trotted off into an oak forest, where the growing afternoon shadows swallowed him.

  “He’ll walk all the way back to the village?”

  “Only a few kilometers from here, though it must seem to you we’ve traveled far afield. We only wound around to the other side of the valley. Albert knows the route. Our next stop will be your temporary home.”

  He hurtled around yet another curve, slowed, turned into a gated pasture, and gave Kate a nod. She clambered out and worked loose the rusty chain. With some pushing and screeching, the ancient wooden contraption swung wide. After the lorry passed, she re-latched the chain and a short distance farther, they parked in a dense stand of poplar and pine.

  Père hurried to the back and hoisted the transmitter. “Follow me.” He shook his head when she lifted her hand to help him.

  “At least let me take your bag.” He eyed her askance and lumbered on.

  Soon they angled deeper into the forest, and evening coolness closed in with a clean pine scent. The last rays of sunshine cast feeble light, and it took careful attention to mark each step.

  After making their way around a curve, Père cocked his head. “There, ahead. Do you see it?”

  At last, Kate’s eyes adjusted to the dimness. A building stood about ten yards away, partially obscured by undergrowth.

  “The door should be unlocked, if you could...”

  She strode ahead, fumbling for her torchlight, whose feeble rays revealed a table, two chairs, a fireplace, and wood stove with logs stacked nearby. The smoothness of the metal torch gave a measure of comfort, and her pack held three more torchlights if this one failed.

  “Bless whoever filled the wood box before they left. We’ll get a fire going once I haul this thing upstairs.”

  In a back passage, Père caught his breath. “See? I’m stronger than I look.” His smile widened, and despite his robe, he conquered the deep rungs of a homemade ladder, ascending to a loft.

  By the time he backed down, Kate had lighted the lantern and fired up the stove.

  “An amazing feat, climbing that ladder, especially with your garment, sir.”

  “At times, my soutane seems a bother, but more often than not, it proves a blessing. Let’s have supper. You need strength for your work.”

  He pulled parcels from his stained canvas bag. The tightness between Kate’s shoulders relaxed at the thought of having company for a while.

  “So, Mademoiselle, I sleep here, by the fire.”

  “You’ll stay tonight?”

  “Is it not customary for someone to keep watch while another transmits?”

  An inadvertent sigh escaped Kate’s lips. “Use the bed—my transmission list is long.”

  “The better for me to prepare my sermon.” Père held up a paper packet and raised his eyebrows. “I pilfered some real coffee from the parish. Looking forward to this in the morning will help us, like prayer.”

  His face stayed as serious as it was long. Finally, he cracked a smile. “All things work together...”

  “... for good. I know that verse. It comforted me when my husband died, and again when I lost our baby.”

  “You lost a child? May I ask how long ago?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “And your husband ... to the war?”

  “RAF—his plane crashed on a mission.”

  “I see.” He paused, eyebrows furrowed. “Je suis désolé. This senselessness makes it difficult to see the good, or shall I say impossible? The concept must contain a time lapse, don’t you think? How did you decide to enter your present work?”

  “It’s a strange story. A Frenchman recognized me on a London street when I was walking home from work one day. He recalled my mother’s face from the Great War and encouraged me to volunteer.”

  “That sounds peculiar enough to be holy. Your mother—she was American?”

  “Yes, she worked at the front as a Bell Telephone girl and married a Frenchman. They moved back to the States after the war, and...”

  “You must tell me more about that.” He filled the coffee pot. “Look here, the last person to use this place even left us a pail of water. Stacked wood, a full pail, and we have real coffee. Small things make all the difference.

  “But I’d like something big, too, like having Domingo stop in, unharmed, or a sudden armistice, or...” Père’s ample eyebrows did a polka. “My desires rarely seem to find full satisfaction.”

  “You wouldn’t have to stay tonight. You could go home and sleep in your own bed.”

  Père’s shrug replayed on the whitewashed wall. “With detection vans on the prowl, you need a watchman. I hate to picture you locked away in some prisoner of war camp.”

  “You think the Gestapo would find this desolate outpost?”

  “Never underrate their tenacity—or God’s. My double motto.”

  “Would you mind
if I take the lantern up, so my torch lasts longer?”

  “By all means.” He rummaged in the cupboard and pulled out another lantern. “I happen to have connections for lamp oil, but don’t ask me if my network merits the bishop’s blessing.”

  “Well, it has mine. Does that count?”

  “Indeed.”

  Climbing the ladder, Kate felt secure with those brilliant blue eyes watching her. She peered down before entering the loft and her new friend lifted his hand.

  “Do call me if I can help in any way.”

  Chapter Eight

  The French loft faded from view, and confusing thoughts and images took the place of the transmitter. Aware of low conversations, Kathryn tried to open her eyes. Where was she?

  “Nurse, give her another dose. The pain’s going to be intense when she wakes up.” A needle jabbed Kathryn’s arm and she eased back into that other world.

  But that other world had changed from France to London, where a smartly dressed woman proclaimed her a courier. “And you rated high in radio operating, as well.”

  Clackety-clack-clack. Suddenly Kathryn found her fingers hitting the keys, but the racket faded, and she slept again.

  Next, a man with curly red hair trekked with her across a high plateau. “We’ll get through this somehow, but our homeland will never be the same.”

  His rare blue eyes and gangly figure stood out against a late afternoon horizon, and a rocky limestone path threatened to trip them. But where were they headed? Glimpses of summertime in terrain awash with green and gold and smelling of ... what was that luscious scent that reminded her of Iowa in late May?

  Her comrade signaled a stop, and off the trail, the answer came, for purple, white and yellow irises ranged through the grass. Their intoxicating perfume vied with a nearby stand of pine, and above jagged rock cliffs soared a kite—or was that a buzzard? Were they in Central France, and those cliffs Le Massif Central?

  Then, as if a curtain opened on another stage, the scene shifted again—a small study lined with dark wood bookshelves. Voracious, Kathryn read about the efforts of French churches on behalf of the Jews and details about authorities tearing children away from their parents.