A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  “This, my friends, equals an encyclical from Pope Pius himself, who shows restraint after the terrible aftermath of his public stand in the Netherlands. Perhaps you recall those dark days.”

  After the service, Domingo questioned Père, and his answer came fiery-eyed. “In ’40, Pope Pius sent expressions of sympathy to the Dutch Queen, the King of Belgium, and the Grand Duchess of Luxembourg when the Nazis invaded. Accordingly, the Dutch bishops sent an anti-Nazi letter to every Dutch Catholic parish. In no other country did the bishops protest so strongly.”

  Père’s gaze swept the backs of his little flock taking their separate ways home. “Mussolini charged that Pius made himself enemies with Italy’s ally, but Pius said he would rather be deported to a concentration camp than deny his conscience. The result of the Dutch bishops’ protests still haunts him to this day—ninety-two Jews killed. With every new outcry for a public papal statement, he recalls that proclamation’s disastrous effect.”

  “These days, a particular choice may appear the moral one, but the next minute, proves the opposite. The Pope’s example leads us to stand against the forces of evil regardless of our personal safety or reputation.

  “Do you recall when the Germans overtook Rome, they hauled away only one thousand Jews? A small fraction of all who lived there, and the Nazis knew it. But what could they do? Even now, behind the scenes, parishes, scholars, and no doubt the Vatican itself, shelter hundreds, perhaps thousands of God’s Chosen. One day, the truth will come to light. When we alter above water, we submerge.”

  Pere’s words on that day still echoed in Domingo's ears. And now, this agent from America had joined the fight. He guarded her given name more closely than his own.

  A gritty, low shout brought him back to the present. The schoolteacher-turned-Résistance leader brandished his fist in the air, very much like Père did that long-ago Sunday.

  “Those collaborators, as evil as Hitler himself, shall not prevail. Surely you have heard what happened in the small village of Fraysinnet-le-Gelat just two weeks ago on the route from Fumel to Gourdon?”

  Domingo well remembered, but felt no need to speak of it.

  “The SS rounded up and killed all young males from one-child families, so their family lines would die with them. But every cruel strike fuels our fury.”

  Domingo stayed silent until finally, Giriotte’s tales ended. “You live nearby?”

  “Not far.” Surely he observed their differences in dialect and espadrilles—why spell them out? During teacher training, Domingo’s professors called these distinctions divisive, like using his native tongue.

  He completed his teacher training to make Maman proud, but then wayward pilots needed help. How could he teach and watch over her, Gabirel, and the sheep while traipsing that route at a moment’s notice? When this was all over, Giriotte might return to teaching, but Domingo had no wish to do so.

  Something rustled in the brush and he held up his hand. A beret appeared, and Domingo stole along the ravine to get a better look ... a partisan whose pinched face declared his hunger. They shared bread, and like a snake charmer, Giriotte's singsong tone brought forth the fellow’s history.

  “Our southern band has lived in giriottes and bergeries since ‘41. Now we unite south of Figeac with Limoges, Tarn, Lozere, and Ardeche.

  For once, Domingo cleared his throat “Remember those near Carcasonne, where the Cathars fought against the Albegensian crusades? They attained the name ‘les purs’, but lately it’s used for the Maquis in general. Can we claim to be the pure ones? And how did you happen to come north?”

  “We heard that London dropped Maxime at Carennac with his WT operator in January, and you have a Colonel once associated with the Résistance Central Council. Then we heard you received Maxime’s arms instructor for arms training.”

  “All true. He turned us into a fighting force.” Giriotte turned to Domingo. “But you were not there?”

  “No.” No need to explain his wild trek with Katarin.

  “On May eleventh, during the SS occupation, the Milice arrested our leader in Figeac. You know this, right?”

  The stranger shook his head. “No. Tell me.”

  “They deported him, some say to the Carlsbad camp in Germany. Can you believe that underground word travels so far?” Giriotte rubbed his ear. “His instruction gave us confidence, but his arrest put steel into our souls. At Figeac, they paid us back for destroying their Ratier works in January.”

  “You helped in that raid?”

  Domingo wanted to clap his hand over Giriotte’s mouth. “We stopped the Luftwaffe’s production of variable pitch propellers. They still haven’t been able to resume. Maybe they never will.” A proud smile softened Giriotte’s weary features.

  “Tomorrow we meet a descendant of the Camisards with the Résistance Fer and trained by the British in sabotage. He fights with the FTP, and with his railroad knowledge, we’ll destroy a large center tomorrow night.” Giriotte ran his sleeve over his mouth and stood.

  “Whether I fight beside a Communist or a man drunk with the idea of liberty, from Poland, Belgium, or Spain, or with a German Jew who escaped before the Reich took over, what does it matter? To l’invasion!”

  Traces of dawn showed along the horizon, and the stranger saluted them. “I must hurry. Bon courage.” He ducked back down the ravine, and soon his beret bobbed out of sight.

  Giriotte nodded once and took the lead at a maniacal pace, heading downslope in the opposite direction. His rhythm enervated Domingo, and for once, he followed another’s lead without chafing.

  ~

  In late afternoon a lithe young man in a dapper Parisian hat, incongruous knee-length socks, short pants, and espadrilles handed Kate more messages. She lost no time climbing the ladder, with the courier’s exclamation ringing in her ears.

  “En effet, l’Invasion est venu!” His eyes darted, matching his news of the Invasion beginning.

  Hours later, at a muffled tap, Kate descended.

  Another tap-tap-tap. She obscured the ladder and faced the door quavering. Why hadn’t she thought to look out the upstairs window? Moonlight might have given her a clue who waited out there. She put her ear to the door and stilled her pounding pulse.

  A coarse whisper loosed her tension. “Ascension Day.” She breathed again—Père Gaspard. They’d never agreed on a password, but this worked perfectly. Like a refreshing mountain breeze after a long, hot climb, Père beamed down at her with his soutane wafting a mysterious chocolate scent.

  “You’ve come back.”

  “I missed the warmth of the fireplace. All is well?” He wiggled his eyebrows and pulled something from his robe.

  “Your soutane proves a blessing again?”

  “This garb hides a multitude of sins. False identities and baptismal records, grenades, your American pencil explosives...” He stepped back to study her. “Your eyes widen, Madame. Did you think these hands dealt only in bread and wine?”

  “No, but I never imagined a grenade in those folds.”

  “Some call it a cassock—same root as the great Russian warrior Cossacks. My vows promised a stimulating life, but tonight I bring only bread and cheese, with more coffee.”

  Kate sniffed a couple of times.

  “Ah, yes. And a bit of chocolate from ... an undisclosed origin.”

  “I have nothing to offer in the way of sustenance, but I do bear news from London.”

  “Have you heard then? Is tomorrow the day?”

  “Unless my mind fails me, indeed it is.”

  He crossed himself. “Merci, mon Dieu. At last.”

  He set the supplies on the table. “The planes in the skies alerted me, but I knew I mustn’t jump to conclusions. We must celebrate, but first, let me take in this glorious news.”

  He waved her to a seat. “I supped with a family just down the road, and news of l’Invasion filled the room. The Allies hold us spellbound with expectation.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Did you ever pi
cture yourself aiding a secret army, traipsing the Massif Central, handling life and death transmissions, and making an enormous difference in a vast war?”

  “Never. My husband yes, but not me. Yet I always hungered to make a difference. At the news of Alexandre’s first crash, I admit that I left for London ready for adventure. So many men had joined up, but women were just beginning to see the opportunities.”

  Père Gaspard’s quiet acceptance instigated questions about Kate’s father. Would le Renard Intrepid listen to her like Père? Would he allow her to ask her questions? The old rafters creaked, jiggling the windows.

  “Must be windy out. Did Albert make it home all right?”

  “He spotted Gestapo, but took shelter in to a farmhouse, the one where I received this bread and cheese a while ago. Jean-Claude spent a sleepless night worrying, but joy came this morning when Albert appeared, hale and hearty. Hungry?”

  Her eyes must have spoken for her, so Père set out the food.

  “Albert often accompanies me on produce runs, since his father owns the market. If anyone stops us, his regular deliveries fit our mission perfectly.”

  “Do they check your papers often?”

  “Plenty. But so far, all is well.”

  “Albert doesn’t attend school?”

  “The local schedule instructor doubles as a Résistance leader. Even our children pay a price, it seems. How is your work going?”

  “Better, like playing the piano after a long absence. The responses, bode well.”

  “For a week last winter, someone transmitted from the rectory attic.” Père shrugged. “Things have probably become more complicated since then, but let me know if I can help. I’ve arranged for transport in the morning, and also brought a small diversion.”

  He pulled a hinged board from under his soutane. “Perhaps we might have time to play checkers?”

  “You’re full of surprises.”

  “What better way to assuage my wayward contemplations?”

  A brilliant defeat later, Kate acknowledged she’d pitted herself against a checkers master. But she learned a new move and several of her questions about Domingo found answers, because Père described Sancha’s mission.

  “She went to Haute Loire, to help the children—only because they needed workers, or she never would have gone.”

  “To Le Chambon-sur-Lignon?”

  “Yes. She was so young, so much of life before her, but the Gestapo ended it all, and murdered the children, too. They earned their retribution.” In silent agreement that the rest of the tale belonged to Domingo, Kate only nodded. But then Père described the deaths of Domingo’s father and brother in the Spanish Revolution.

  “No wonder he raced so fast from the heights, and paled at Gabirel’s absence.”

  “I call all my young parishioners ‘son,’ but Domingo has always been special. Obedient but thoughtful, he read his lessons long before I assigned them, and entertained questions of integrity.”

  Père emphasized his last word. “The Almighty can see us through the worst, you know—as long as we hold to an honest course.” He thought for a while. “I have shared too much, perhaps. But Domingo’s experience taught me about the place of violence in love, as at the crucifixion.”

  The gale rattled the windows again. “You know about the Basque president, Aguila, now in your country?”

  “A little.” The chicory’s invigorating aroma filled the room. Sip by sip, the long night ahead seemed less daunting.

  “My Euskara helps me, as does the Spanish tongue, with so many Spaniards descending on us. The government calls the Langue d’ Occident outdated, but Domingo’s family keeps it alive. When a language dies, what hope remains for its people?”

  “Many of our Indian tribes have died out, like their languages.”

  “What about the Cajuns?”

  “In Louisiana?”

  “Yes, I met an agent from there who filters information on the Reich’s plans. Is his language valued in the United States?”

  “I doubt it, if we treat Cajuns anything like the Indians. How did he come here?”

  “Army intelligence channels.” Père pulled a book from his pack. “Time for you to work, and for me to study.”

  Chapter Ten

  In early morning light, Giriotte inspected a blistered toe. “These boots should serve me better. Do your feet give you trouble?”

  “Am I studying sores on my toes?” Domingo chuckled under his breath.

  “I may have to go back to the old ways.” Giriotte grimaced. “Leather boots seemed to have more to offer, at first glance, anyway.” He dipped his feet in a cold stream. “After Papa visited Paris, my parents decided to modernize us.”

  “If you want good espadrilles, you must attach yourself to a village, you know.”

  “Would yours adopt me?” Domingo left the question hanging as Giriotte scraped his heel on a rock. “When did you join the fight?”

  The horrific beginning of his personal commitment rushed before Domingo’s mind. That awful day when he and Philippe discovered innocent children’s bodies hidden in thick brush, along with Sancha’s. The reality still stung—murdered by vile oppressors, thrown away like rubbish. Even now, the memory of the coppery smell of blood assailed him, but he shook it away.

  “For me, it wasn’t a matter of joining. Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

  “Once or twice.” Giriotte dressed his feet and sighed. “But I am who I am, just like you. You were born to range this land like an antelope. Fortunately for me, they’re picking us up in Saint-Céré. Another thirty miles beyond that would only energize you, but might render me an amputee.”

  He would make a good comedien in a traveling troupe, Domingo reasoned. But then Giriotte brought up a detested subject.

  “Have you ever seen the interment camp at Vernet?”

  “Once, I neared the camp at Gurs. That was enough for the rest of my life.” Bile climbed up Domingo’s throat. Even though he and Petra, his comrade at the time, had viewed the camp from afar, the stench stayed with him. What was it about odors that forever labeled a place or experience?

  “How many pilots have you taken across the Pyrenees?”

  Domingo shrugged, but Giriotte wanted to know more. “Were you with those hundred Jewish children from Chateau de La Hille, near Foix? What a story—from Germany to Belgium, and when the Nazis took Belgium, they fled to some chateau barns near Seyre, in Haute-Garonne.

  “The Swiss took them to Les Succors Swiss aux Enfants. A Red Cross nurse arranged passage for twenty over the mountains, but her superior besought the Vichy Chief of Police when French Police hauled forty more to Vernet, built for Spanish war criminals.”

  Domingo conjured up perilous routes through raging snow and ice storms. Adults created enough trials, but such a trek with children ... unthinkable. He crossed himself. Bless those who guided them.

  “And the Chief of Police agreed to let those forty go. Only a few days later, the Germans deported all the rest to death camps.”

  A deep curve in the trail led to a slight incline, and Domingo ventured, “Isn’t this our pick-up point?”

  “Yes, thank heavens.” Giriotte dropped beside a nearby stream to soak his feet again. A baby bird, fluffy down still visible under sprouting feathers, hopped near the water, the image of vulnerability. From a branch, its mother lifted an urgent call.

  “So you guided pilots, but not through that territory?”

  “You speak of Ariege. Many travel that route, through Agen, Toulouse, and on to St. Girons in Ariege. We moved farther north, on ancient family paths.”

  “Those in the south headed to Tabescan. And your destination?”

  The faint hum of an engine caught Domingo’s ear, so he lowered his voice. “Near San Sebastian. Shhh.”

  Giriotte gathered his socks and boots. Domingo rose as a vehicle approached. Two minutes later, they boarded a lorry that sloped port side and reeked of something rotten. Twenty-some kilometers
ahead, the road descended sharply. For the fourth time, Giriotte rammed into Domingo.

  “Sorry. Nothing to hang onto in here.”

  Domingo held his peace. He might fly into someone next.

  Two strangers rode in front with the driver, and six others lined the back. A scruffier lot Domingo had never seen—hopefully none was the munitions expert.

  But Père Gaspard’s perspective instructed him. “We are Les inconnus—we appear powerless, but every secret act matters to the whole.”

  In rising dust, Domingo pulled his kerchief over his nose and closed his eyes. Les inconnus—the unknown. Père’s label brought Katarin to mind once again. Where was she? Was she safe? There was no way to know, but at least he could check on his family.

  The lorry finally jolted to a stop. The team unwound cramped legs and waited at the precipice of a drastic incline. A man from the front handed a wooden crate out and returned for more, and a new leader spoke.

  “You all have blown things before. No operation should ever fail, but this one must not.”

  The leader swept his beret toward the last partisan to leave the lorry. He fell asleep minutes after the vehicle took off, workman’s cap flopped on the floor, jaw slack. Now, he appeared alert and in control, as his next instructions showed.

  “Tonight we will call our expert, Paul. But afterward, we never saw each other or heard that name, you understand?”

  Around the circle, faces hollowed by deprivation and lack of sleep nodded. Behind them, prolific wild vines sprouted along myrtle trees, and spindly poplar and sycamore saplings. In full leaf, they would provide full cover from the enemy.

  Domingo breathed deep of fresh air. A sense of purpose staved off his anxiety about Maman and Gabirel. Tonight’s action would bring SS reprisals, all too often against innocent civilians, as in Saint-Céré, where the Gestapo interrogated even the Sisters, and killed twenty-four citizens.

  A quiver traced his shoulders at the thought of the enemy in that beautiful medieval city, performing their vile deeds in sight of the towers of Saint-Laurent and the River Bave. No respect for even the Sisters there—Domingo felt his back stiffen at the unthinkable idea. When an important pelota game approached, he experienced the same determination—his team must win. But this was far more important than any game.