A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  Another man set simple food before her, and told her someone would arrive under cover of darkness to bring her a bicycle for her trip. Then, as if traveling between worlds, she found herself whisked into a kitchen where a woman kneaded bread.

  “Etes vous américaine?” Panic struck—had she not disguised herself well enough?

  Next, Kathryn climbed the stairs of an old building with a small child sitting on her shoulders, and in a large room lined with beds, she tucked the little girl in. Then she went outdoors and hid in some bushes to eavesdrop on two men conversing about a new agent’s arrival.

  All these figments seemed real, and the spoken French beckoned her deeper into that world. But why did these incidents contain no logical thread? How had they gotten out of order?

  When a dark eyed young man approached, she felt certain she knew him. He placed his hand on her wrist, and in his calm gaze, her puzzlement lessened. Behind him, a white-haired woman cooked porridge at an iron stove, and outside the window, a dog collected some sheep in a stone pen.

  Suddenly, analyzing everything became unnecessary. Without making sense of the flood of scenes, Kathryn knew all would be well. Freedom and serenity engulfed her as the young man uttered one simple phrase.

  Va avec Dieu—go with God. She took her first long, deep breath since she entered this place. Her shoulders eased into the mattress. The ether smell drifting around her subsided, the doctor and nurses crowding her room receded, and natural sleep overtook her at last.

  ~

  The narrow loft left little room for her head, but Kate held her lantern high as she stepped onto a sturdy plank floor. Someone already covered the lone window. She pulled extra stitches from her hemline to remove papers with parachute drop coordinates, checked the battery, and sat down.

  Soon, mathematical directives and variables engaged her so fully, she lost track of time. The ladder creaked, a mellow coffee aroma ascended, and her watchman’s busy red hair greeted her from the top of the ladder.

  “My mother always hoarded the best for another day, so we’d have something to look forward to. She’d say, ‘Now, Henri, Jean-Luc, Marietta, and Noelle, save your holiday treats for the coming days. Don’t you remember how gloomy January can be?”

  He flicked the side of his mug with his fingernail. “I once claimed her motto, but now, tend to think just the opposite. Enjoy what lies before you—you need it now as much as you will in the morning. Take whatever good this moment brings—see it as your gift.”

  Kate reached for the cup. Père read her gratitude and held up his palm. “In all honesty, I needed this, too, to construct my Ascension Day sermon. How’s your work going?”

  “If I can only finish this last message before my listening time from ten until one, I’ll be satisfied.”

  “I want you to know, I’m using you in my Sunday sermon, unless I notice any Gestapo types infiltrating our service.” Père leaned on the top rung and sipped from his cup.

  “Me? How?”

  “The disciples had trouble accepting that their leader must leave. He explained everything, but that changed little. Yet after he passed into the cloud to heaven, they experienced great joy.” Deep thought lines crisscrossed his forehead. “You know the story?”

  “Aunt Alvina saw to my education at her country Lutheran Church.”

  “Ah, good. It occurs to me that the Ascension has to do with communication. In the Incarnation, our Lord revealed God’s incredible love, and His leave-taking did the same.”

  “How is that?”

  “Once He ascended, the Holy Spirit came. His followers preferred to look into his eyes to read his meaning—how could anything surpass that close relationship? But after He’d gone, and the Spirit entered their very souls, they finally understood. What once seemed better to them had actually been second best, for now he would remain with them forever.”

  “But the crucifixion already showed God’s love. Why did he have to prove it again?”

  “My answer verges on heresy, I suppose. Although our Creator God made us in his image, we can be stupid, like sheep. To be shown something as life-changing as His love, one lesson will hardly suffice.”

  “Sounds like realism to me. But what does my transmitting have to do with that?”

  “Oh, I’ll think of something.” Père’s mischievous grin made Kate giggle. “On with your work then, you courageous girl.”

  Courageous. She rubbed her eyes in the scintillating coffee steam, considering her mother at the front lines, and her father, the Intrepid Fox, performing spying feats. Now, twenty-some years later, here she was in France. But courageous? She wasn’t so sure about that.

  The coffee worked magic, and while her machine rested, Kate stretched her muscles. Only then did she wonder how Père Gaspard managed to navigate the ladder with two full cups. It wasn’t enough to tote hers up to her—he must have wanted to share the joy.

  Nothing pertinent came from the BBC tonight, so after her monitoring time, Kate switched off the machine, crawled down the ladder, and fell onto the bunk. Père still read beside the fire and pattered over with a blanket.

  “Good work. Now, sleep as though you were born for it.” His hand swished the sign of the cross over her and she heard him blow out the lantern.

  It seemed as though only minutes had passed when a shaft of light struck her closed eyelids. Kat stirred, incredulous that morning had arrived already. Someone moved near the stove, in sync with the coffee pot’s burble, burble, burble. What was that other aroma—something with eggs?

  A quick trip outdoors for a whiff of the new day invigorated Kate. The tall pines seemed friendly, but soon she would be alone.

  Père had worked a miracle. Kate gaped at the full plate he set before her. “Crepes? How did you manage?”

  “Four eggs and a cup of milk don’t come along often these days. I took it as God’s smile upon your work.”

  “Someone has been here already?”

  “No, I paid someone a visit.” He puckered his brow. “Would you like to hear my Ascension Day connection?” He grinned as she dived into her food.

  “Just as German spies convey important news to the Fatherland, so our Creator longs to hear from us. London devises machines to transmit messages, too, but I’ll use the Reich as an example, in case of unwanted Gestapo visitors this week.” He steepled his long fingers.

  “Long ago, our Heavenly Father created a communication system far better even that German enigma machine. He imprints His messages on our innermost being. Then because of the Ascension, His Spirit translates them.” His nose wrinkled like a curious chipmunk’s. “What do you think?”

  “Bravo, but I’d like more wisdom to understand those heavenly messages.”

  “My sentiments, also.”

  “How do you think infiltrators would respond to your sermon?”

  “Not at all, at least outwardly. But secretly, who can tell? The messenger never knows the fruit of his message.”

  He reached for some papers from the shelf behind him. “Speaking of which, about twenty minutes ago a courier brought these messages for you to send. I must be going, but my prayers remain with you. Stay close, although the day bodes well for a lovely walk.”

  He gestured for her to follow him to the back passageway. “See how this latch pushes the ladder into the wall, so you can hide it from above? This simple action could save your life.”

  He donned his beret. “You’ll stay indoors after dark? No telling who or what might happen by.”

  She touched his sleeve. “Merci encore. Now, you entrust me to Him who keeps Israel, who neither slumbers nor sleeps.”

  He blinked. “I needed that benediction. Today I must visit an Abbey, for...” He inspected behind him. “Pour les innocents, God’s Chosen. Be assured that you help them too, with every tap of your keys.” He opened the door and hurried toward the lorry.

  Kate worked until pounding developed in her left temple and radiated behind her ear. She descended for leftover coff
ee and opened the door a crack, then a little more. Spring greens against dark furry pines called her to explore.

  But she stalled, kicking at a pebble. “No. No. You will stay right here, Agent Merce. If Miss G dropped in from London, she’d say, ‘Breathe in slowly, now out again. Do some calisthenics, and then back to your work.”

  Later, when day waned, Kate circled the house three times while a dove murmured to its mate. That low, intimate sound produced Alexandre’s profile in the trees, but all she could do was lift her eyes.

  “Help me carry out my mission, just as he did.”

  Hours later, she’d deciphered five complicated messages, but the latest one loomed even more difficult. She startled at a knock downstairs, descended the ladder without a sound, and stood listening for the password.

  “ABERNATHY.”

  She breathed again and opened the door to a man she had never seen before. “You have messages?”

  “Yes, come in.”

  His intelligent eyes urged her to honesty. “Can you wait? I’m doing battle with two more.”

  “I’ve transmitted some in the past. Maybe I can help.”

  “Oh, I hope so. Follow me.”

  He bent over her notes. “There must be a way. Let me think.”

  Grateful, Kate stretched her back and legs. Even if he found no breakthrough, sharing this perplexity released her tension. Then she remembered Eugene. What if this man, too, had turned traitor? As he scanned and calculated, analyzed and plotted, she swallowed her fears.

  “See here ... if A equals quadrant and G equals four, and this configuration stands for airfield, then don’t you think ...”

  She studied his figures. “That makes sense. So the drop will come in the north quadrant, tonight. You must have trained at Baker Street?”

  “British Security Coordination recruited me and sent me back here for counter-intelligence work. But with so many drops, we ran short on couriers today. I must say, in some ways, working out these codes comes easier than foraging in the hills. Do you mind if I try the other one?”

  Without waiting for a reply, he went to work, and Kate copied down the first. Half an hour later, mission accomplished, he started down the ladder.

  “I’m happy to carry news of landing spots. This month alone, we’ve received over one hundred containers. Finally, we have enough weapons for the fight. Already, we’ve derailed five engines south of here and blown bridges on the Toulouse-Capdenac line and from Capdenac to Decazeville.”

  Kate followed him down. “Do be careful.”

  “You remind me of my daughter, only I hope she does less dangerous work. I last saw her on the first of May, when we occupied Gramat.”

  “Your home?”

  “It used to be. After that day, people either loved or hated the Résistance. Early in the morning we occupied the city hall and post office. We requisitioned food, and citizens brought plenty. Then some of our partisans marched straight into homes and demanded weapons. In one afternoon we amassed many, and pilfered all the gendarmerie’s guns, too.

  “Our leader stationed men in the square with weapons drawn, but the gendarmes willingly handed over their knives and guns. Many of them have been stealing ration cards for us for a long time.”

  “And you saw your daughter that day?”

  “Yes, a special moment, since I’ve been back and forth since ’36 when I fought against Franco. My father taught us that each man deserves his chance rather than being bound up in a bundle of sticks, fascist style." His dark eyes flashed, and he swept back his fair hair with a jerk of his neck.

  “I followed my older brother off to fight and we came back refugees. When he went to work at a northern cheese factory, I stayed in Montauban, met my wife and eventually brought her to Gramat. When our government capitulated to Germany without even putting up a fight, you can imagine our discouragement.

  “Not long after that, a British organizer needed experienced fighters with language ability to train British intelligence. We had two little ones, but my wife encouraged me to go. I worked in Scotland and Canada, and by the time they sent me here, all kinds of intelligence had surfaced.

  “I warned my wife about the Maquisards’ parade to the war memorial. Clearly, the Germans would react, so she promised to take our children north to my brother while the trains were still running. His boss offered her a job. He welcomes all, and there is food.”

  “I hope she went.”

  He let out a long breath. “I’m certain she did.” His face clouded. “And on May 11, the Bosche rounded up all the men of Gramat in a field. Our town sheltered Jews, and the beasts found out.”

  “Did your family hide any?”

  “My cousin worked for the mayor, and learned how to forge identities. She kept stores of Résistance supplies in a village shed, a bad example for my wife.” His crooked smile belied his concern. “I’ll be proud, whatever she does.”

  “Do you have enough food in camp?”

  “A priest up in the mountains claims a special calling. He hunts game to roast, even poaches from others’ traps. We forage, too, and haven’t starved yet.”

  He swung out with a final warning. “Stay close. The Gestapo lurks everywhere.”

  ~

  At about eleven that night, Paul Verlaine’s poem came through on the radio. The verse froze Kate to her chair:

  Les sanglots longs

  Des violons

  De’lautomne

  Blessent mon Coeur

  D’une langueur

  Monotone.

  The last six words confirmed her hopes that the Invasion would begin within twenty-four hours. She continued to tune in, and the announcer threw Abernathy into the personal messages. At this signal for the local circuit to forge ahead, Kate’s fingers turned white gripping the table.

  If only she could whisper the news in Gabirel’s ear, to still his doubts forever. Restless, she climbed up and down the ladder a few times, then boiled coffee and peered outside. Images of Allied planes and troops storming the northern beaches passed before her.

  Her radio, an irrepressible magnet, drew her again. Every second, every sound, took on enhanced meaning.

  Chapter Nine

  The explosion, followed by a strange prolonged crackling, made its own unique, tinny music. Acts of destruction had never delighted Domingo, but this train transported troops to kill the Allies. Each sharp crackle marked the demise of a wooden bridge support. Every bridge destroyed halted the German advance, if only temporarily.

  During the first blast, he shared the shudder with a laurel tree. Fawns would die tonight, along with birds and lambs just beginning their lives in this valley. But such was war’s way—innocents suffered.

  The fierce rumblings faded, and two massive smoke pillars melded into one ominous cloud, forming an avalanche that filled the valley. Domingo pulled on his pack, and a faint rustle met his ears—probably the leader of this mission, who indicated they would travel together to Figeac.

  “If we handed out Legion badges for valor, you would receive one.” The demolition leader’s voice pierced the cool night air. “Ready? Once we get to Figeac, I have directions. Lead on.”

  “No one else comes with us?”

  The leader shook his head, so Domingo plunged headlong down the path, down, down, down. Night breezes zinged his ears. Relentless through bracken and bushes, he set his sights on Figeac. Some time later, at the outskirts of a town, they paused for cheese and bread, so his comrade turned to him and spoke.

  “For this night, call me Giriotte.”

  Giriotte—a stone beehive hut built to protect peasants from storms out in the wilds. A likely nickname, like many partisans were given.

  “And you, what shall I call you?”

  Glancing at Giriotte’s ruddy complexion and greasy hair, Domingo considered. “How about Cazelle?”

  “Ah, another name for the same shelter. However, I have already heard others call you La Foudre. Now I understand why, for you run as fast as l
ightning.” Giriotte picked at his boot lacing. “I prefer not to mention my real name, with Gestapo and Das Reich encroaching.”

  Domingo swallowed what he wanted to ask—then why must you talk so much?

  “But the blood of the ancient Cadourques flows through my veins. Those warriors acted the hero even though they knew the enemy would cut off their hands.” He leaned against a tree. “Now, two dozen people have been shot to death in Saint-Céré, and the Bosche even deport our women.”

  A wave of sickness pummeled Domingo. Please keep Maman from such a thing.

  “Montpezat-de-Quercy has been looted, along with many other villages. Whoever imagined Orniac ransacked, women shot in Cardaillac and Lauze, and others yet unknown?”

  The buzz of insects in the brush called to Domingo. He and this Giriotte rested between two feats of destruction, but birds still warbled from their perches, and a couple of wrens, orange-brown in the sun, swept over the area. Were they upset or simply playing with each other, like two airplanes doing acrobatics?

  He might have instructed Giriotte to jabber less. But the fate of those women he had mentioned—plain, rural women—festered in Domingo’s heart.

  Katarin gave up her name for the cause. The thought rose unbidden, just as this agent had come into his life. For all Domingo knew, Père Gaspard had imposed yet another identity on her by now. She might have stayed in her homeland, where his Basque leader sought refuge, yet she risked her life here.

  Her country had become one of few safe spots left in this world, but unlike many of his schoolmates, Domingo harbored no desire to go there. Intense desire to regain his homeland quickened his pace, and Père’s sentiments from the pulpit a few months earlier swept over him. “We are les inconnus, the unknown. But our heavenly Father sees us, and our faith summons us to treacherous involvement.

  “We must save les Juifs and restore the liberty of France. I follow the bishop’s orders, and so, my children, must you, each in your own way. We may not see or touch les innocents, but no effort we expend on their behalf goes unnoticed.”

  On the Sunday all the parishes had read the bishop’s letter, Père praised the brave woman who rode a bicycle for two days straight to deliver the sealed encyclical in time for all rural priests to read at Sunday mass.