A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  The little muscle in Paul's cheek jerked as he gestured with his hand. “We follow that ridge to the city’s edge, and commence at eleven o’clock, when the shift changes. Twenty minutes later, Résistance Fer members will muffle all protests within the ranks. These iron workers have committed themselves at great risk.”

  After a voluminous breath, Paul’s visage enlivened. “But they understand the threat. Tens of thousands of troops are on their way here. Seven Panzergrenadier units, 20,000 Das Reich troops, two hundred tanks and armored vehicles.”

  Electricity ignited the circle. Partisans set their shoulders.

  “We will sting General Lammerding, a conscienceless brute, like a hoard of wasps.” He squatted, and everyone else followed suit.

  “At the ridge top, you’ll see the rail yard.” Paul unfolded a dilapidated paper square and pointed with his dirty finger. “We’ll set charges here, here, and here on the west side. Opposite the station, here, here, and here.”

  His finger smudged a circle. “After eleven, insiders will station themselves in the central switch house, and we’ll hit all six centers. No train will enter or leave here for at least two months.”

  He surveyed each man and stopped at Domingo. “Follow me.”

  What did Paul see? On the other hand, what difference did it make? The others fell in line behind Domingo, and half an hour later, Paul gathered them behind some bushes.

  “Now we check the sites, prepare the plastiques, and set the charges. When the whistle blows, we move into position.”

  He instructed Giriotte, “Take three men. Check the northern tracks.”

  Giriotte’s eyes glittered like fireflies as he skittered off. Paul motioned for Domingo and two others. “We’ll investigate the station house.”

  He eyed Domingo. “You are the one they call la foudre?”

  Domingo almost laughed out loud. His fame had spread.

  ~

  Roses in December ... how did the rest of that poem go? Something about memories, but lying here on her raised hospital bed, Kathryn could only recall those three words. Still, they reminded her of something good, something pleasant, so she clung to them.

  In December, good things happened for her. Yes, that was when she found passage to London ... Red Cross—those words had a special meaning that escaped her right now, too. Leaving from Canada, she’d typed all the way across the Atlantic.

  She’d wanted to find somebody over there. Someone important, but who? She opened her eyes when a female voice commanded her to help out a little. Help out with what?

  “We’re turning you over so you don’t get bed sores, ma’am. If you can hear me, throw your left arm over your chest. Do you think you can?”

  Left arm ... chest. Kathryn attempted to connect words with meaning, but that other world pulled her back. Oh, that lovely chest of drawers in her room at that lady’s house. A very proper lady, connected to her employer. What was his name?

  Mr. ... Mr. ... Tenney! Yes, and his mother. They’d been so kind while she searched for ... someone. At hospital after hospital, people commiserated with her, studied their patient lists, but shook their heads.

  “I know how hard this must be, and I’ll call you if anything changes. We get new transports nearly every day, you know.”

  One day, Mrs. Tenney took her to her dentist friend. “You’ve nursed that sore tooth for weeks. We’ve tried oil of cloves, strong tea, and who knows what all. It’s no use, the pain won’t dissolve on its own.”

  The dentist drove hot air into her tooth with a metal tip before he filled it, and she cried actual tears. Embarrassing, considering all the pain wounded soldiers faced.

  The dentist tried to salve her pride. “Ah, I’m so sorry. Sometimes these bloody cavities have to get worse before they can get better, and tears aren’t all bad. I learned that at Dunkirk—gave me a metal plate in my head, and a jolly good dose of perspective as well.”

  Then she noticed the scar along his temple. Get better. The other day, Darlene told her to do just that. “Oh Kathryn, everyone misses you so much. If it weren’t such a drive to Boise, Gabby would be here. Dear little Mara said she’s praying for you. Oh, and her pony has learned to work a cow.”

  “It does me a world of good to see you, Dar, even though I know it’s a sacrifice.” But Kathryn’s words hunkered down in her throat like recalcitrant germs.

  “Just you keep in mind that I’ve gotten to see my new little grandson more often. Staying overnight makes the trip a lot easier, and I’m sure you’ll be better soon.”

  The surgeon said the same thing when he checked her. “We had to wire your jaw. This will take some time, but it’ll get better. For now, you’ll be on a liquid diet, and by the way, I have every assurance you can hear me, so we’re going to continue to talk to you.”

  Better ... better ... Better is a dinner of herbs where there is love, than a fattened ox with ...

  But she’d been thinking about December, the month she floated through the air and landed in that beautiful place. Like a giant bird, with something heavy strapped on her back. Stars and moon as witnesses. Pulled some strings, important to do it at just the right time.

  Memories ... roses in December, and the mellow sweetness of lavender stored over the winter. Oh, for that heady scent again, or a steaming bowl of porridge with wild honey.

  But where had she been? In a simple kitchen, a diminutive woman stirred a big pot over an old iron stove. She turned, her black eyes sparkling. In a barn, they milked some goats, but then soldiers came...

  Utter terror returned, but Kathryn realized she’d called out only when a nurse came to her side. She rubbed her cool hand over Kathyrn’s arm.

  “Something troubling you, hon?”

  Troubling me ... yes, those soldiers. Yet that spry little lady maintained control. She must’ve been as frightened as I was...

  Then she was back in London, with Mr. Tenney telling the staff a worker from the office had been killed in a bombing raid the night before. The worker had been a warden, like his mother. That night, Kathryn donned a metal helmet and served as a fire warden with Mrs. Tenney. They might have been killed, too.

  She learned how to snuff out incendiaries, how to find hiding spots. In that other beautiful countryside, the little woman made do each day in her stone cottage. Worried about her sons—yes, what were their names? So concerned that her youngest would join some fighters...

  The dream—or whatever it was—transported her to her first day of school in Aunt Alvina’s town. In the school cloakroom, the warmest brown eyes and a shy smile won her heart, and when a boy started to taunt her, Addie stuck her finger in his face and yelled, “Johnnie Jorgenson, you stop it right now, or I’ll tell her why you had to go home from school last...”

  The boy’s face flamed and he fled. Better yet, Addie whispered, “Don’t ever let him bother you again—he had an accident and had to go back home to change his pants.” That Saturday, Aunt Alvina said she could invite Addie over to play, and they skated on the river together.

  Better a dinner of herbs where there is love ...

  But she returned to that small woman’s house, and someone knocked at the door. Another one, out in the woods, with pine trees all around. Frightened, she climbed down a ladder, and someone handed her papers. Messages for someone—so important they arrive tonight...

  Clackety-clackety-clack-clack-clack.

  What was that racket? Always in the background, making her mind whirl. Doors shutting and opening. Climbing secret stairs, pulling up ladders, hurrying out back doors and ducking through alleys. Granite stairs then, and a hidden closet opening up into more rooms.

  Nothing like roses, these memories taunted Kathryn with scanty details and constantly skipped around in time. So many different places... Who had she searched for? These memories made her jaws ache, even though she still hadn’t uttered a word.

  Chapter Eleven

  Moving off like an animal in the wild, Domingo tore off through a wild
berry patch. Thorns ripped his hands, and he flattened when a German guard issued a sharp command. His partner breathed far too loudly.

  Boots again clacked on stone, so Domingo crawled to a break in the bushes and stared into the rail yard. Not a soul. He pulled out Aitaita’s gold watch: 10:30.

  Half leaping, half-crawling, he made room for his comrade. Tension flowed between them, and soon, his partner pointed left down the tracks. The light from their cigarettes clearly marked three Bosche guards as they smoked, chuckled and intermittently broke out in loud guffaws. Their guns dangled from their shoulders.

  Domingo gulped cool night air and stepped across one set of tracks, then the second, his flexible espadrilles making no sound. The outer wall lay in dark shadows. For that, he breathed merci, and continued in a crouching run.

  Around the corner, a signal post rose between the two sets of tracks. Loud laughter wafted from the guards as he darted back to the berry patch with his partner close behind.

  The distance between this and the next detonation location allowed five minutes to set each charge, unless plastiques took longer. Well, they would soon find out.

  Most of the group, hunched down like jackals, waited for them. Domingo’s chest leaped at every chestnut that crunched under a boot, but the German guards still talked and chortled, unaware of anything amiss.

  In the warmth of close bodies, Paul’s eyes flamed against the night sky, his gestures mimicking an orchestra director.

  “You two take out the guards on each side. I’ll set the charges nearest the station house, with La Foudre.”

  “Girotte, you and your partner kill the other three, and the rest of you, keep watch with the guards’ guns.”

  A twig fell from the nearest tree and someone startled, but then the group quieted, a silent intensity connecting each man. Like a panther, every nerve taut, they awaited their prey.

  Stay low, watch, light your charge, flee with hell at your heels.

  Engine brakes squealed, train cars clanged together and tore apart with nerve-jangling wrenches as workmen unhooked heavy iron latches. Shouts rang across the rails. Axle grease and coal dust wrapped the yard like a shroud.

  After picking and shoveling all day, the workmen’s soft conversations carried on the slight breeze. Help them hear the alert and stay clear. Domingo had no wish for innocents to die.

  The smell of Nobel’s number 808 explosives, oddly akin to almonds, but stronger, hovered. Then, like a shrill night bird’s call, only much louder, the yard whistle shrieked. The killers loped along the path between brush and tracks.

  Domingo shadowed Paul, stooping and twisting, all the while balancing his delicate box like an egg basket. Once, a sharp cry was stifled abruptly, followed by a heavy thud. One Kraut would never again see his fatherland.

  They enacted a swift-paced scene, Paul in the hero’s role. At one point, Domingo glimpsed the partisans-turned-patrollers, now toting heavy German Karabiner 98k’s. All moved according to plan. He might be watching a movie.

  Paul slipped ahead of him as if he had blown this very station ten times before. Domingo handed him tools. One by one, Paul used and exchanged them.

  Aluminum-colored wire, tape, tweezers, pliers—ordinary useful items one might employ to fix things, hold pipes together, or even pull a child’s painful loose tooth. But tonight, they became lethal instruments.

  Wire ends scattered at their feet—such a slight noise—but the gentle twang echoed in the stillness. Paul’s fingers twisted, his elbows jutted. At last, his shoulders relaxed. Sweat doused his forehead as he motioned for Domingo to light the farthest charge.

  The charge barely ignited before Domingo slid to the next. Snort of sulfur-blue ... splash of light ... sizzle. A flaming trail darted along the fuse, but Domingo rejected his childhood fascination with fire.

  Run—jump those bushes. Torpedo as far and as fast ...

  Paul crashed into him and they tumbled along a ravine. Moments later, a blast rent the night with a stunning display. The force almost covered the screams coming from the yard. Then another blast, and silence. Finally a third, and two more on the other side.

  Domingo held his breath. One more. Come on Giriotte.

  Low to the ground, Paul held his temples. A groan, prayer-like, escaped Domingo’s lips as two more men slid against him.

  Paul braced his fist in the air. Pow! Ker-slam! The final detonation shook the earth with a magnificent fireworks display.

  Paul exhaled. “We did it.”

  Père Gaspard seemed very near, with Good Friday words followed by the annual crack of a book he slammed shut behind the altar. Every Holy Week, this ritual in the darkened sanctuary signified Roman soldiers sealing the tomb. Then Père’s “It is finished!” rang out. Domingo felt the same rejoicing this night. It was done.

  By the time they reached the incline’s crest, the rail yard swam in flames and fumes. Smoke spiraled above the tallest pines. They watched, entranced, as three more of their team crawled over the ridge.

  But not Giriotte. Where was he?

  Paul stared into the conflagration. “Five more minutes before this place crawls with Huns.”

  Time stalled. Hurry, Giriotte. I won’t mind you this time. You can bump into me on harsh turns—come on, come on!

  But when Paul gave the signal, Giriotte still had not arrived. Help him, Lord. All the way to the lorry, Domingo pled. Please, in this last few seconds...

  The engine sputtered to life. Explosions rose from the valley like the maelstrom he and Katarin observed that night over Albi.

  “That’s the munitions arsenal blowing.”

  Someone produced a flask, and Paul commented. “Ironic—we call them Bosche after their scientist who figured out how to convert Haber’s atmospheric nitrogen into ammonia on an industrial scale ... for explosives.”

  Another partisan chuckled, and Paul continued. “They both got a Nobel prize for their work, and what do we get?”

  “Sweet success!” The flask circled again, but Domingo had no heart for this empty victory. Dust and sulfur ringed his tongue, and he could think only of Giriotte. An urge to plunge into the darkness and launch a search nearly overwhelmed him.

  At the same time, calm logic reigned. If they turned back, even more men would perish. The night offered no figure loping toward the lorry, wild flailing arms against the orange and yellow background.

  “Above all else, maintain hope.” Domingo closed his eyes against his knees. “Remember, we are les inconnus.” Père’s words helped him as dirty sweat rolled down his face.

  He drank from a canteen his neighbor offered and passed it along. When he wiped his face, Giriotte’s eyes rose before him. Who could ever fathom the price he may have paid for that rail yard?

  Unknown—but known to God. Père shared one of his family stories, using his uncle as an example. “He was gassed in the Great War, and my grandfather found him in a field hospital. Grandfather watched over him until he died.”

  Starlight reached down through the cracks, and Domingo let his mind wander back to that other war. So many men fit the meaning of les inconnus—buried far from home and remembered only by their loved ones. The lorry faltered, and Domingo shook himself back to the present.

  Perhaps Giriotte had gotten away. Maybe the inferno disoriented him, and he’d run in the wrong direction, but still away from the rail yard. One day, they might meet again on some back woods path, and Giriotte could exult in telling him all the details.

  One by one, the other partisans dozed. Good, they needed the rest before their next missions. Domingo leaned his head against the rough lorry wall, but sleep remained a stranger.

  ~

  Into the darkness before dawn, Kate continued transmitting. Once, she glanced out the window and recalled what Père said earlier. Domingo’s home meant everything to him, like that Cajun who left America. Did people with a home live without the restlessness that never left her?

  Finally, she packed up the set, wishing she could
haul it down the stairs for Père. During the weeks since her mission to Albi, she’d longed for another courier assignment. When Eugene blew her circuit’s cover, another of her temporary homes had passed into the realm of mystery. Left without even a mailbox for messages, she felt at loose ends.

  Then Domingo became her guide and they discovered Monsieur le Blanc. Something had happened inside her as she waited with the injured Monsieur alone on that rugged wilderness trail, vulnerable to the Gestapo. She found his briefcase, learned his identity, and pondered the flawless timing involved in this unlikely reunion.

  Then Domingo brought partisans to transport Monsieur to the Résistance farm. Amid animals and manure, Monsieur’s dying became a sacred time, for he gave proof that he was her father’s brother.

  She and Addie used to giggle over Aunt Alvina’s matronly brassiere with its severe stays, but the contraption provided a perfect metaphor for what happened inside her when she heard his revelation. Monsieur’s dying message reinforced Kate like that brassiere reinforced her aunt's figure.

  Finally, so many of her questions found answers. At last, her meager fragments of information about her father came together.

  What were the chances of meeting a relative would bless her with clear recollections of her father and mother? Much like her first rendezvous with Monsieur in London, the scene defied understanding, yet Domingo had witnessed it, too.

  From now on, she could cast aside anxiety about her next move. If the Almighty could bring her uncle to her on a trail at the edge of the wild Massif Central, was anything impossible?

  Beside a dwindling fire, like a long smudge on the floor, Père Gaspard slept. Kate sank onto the bunk and tried to clear her mind of SS troop movements, bridges blown, rail yards destroyed, and supplies needed. But lists of coordinates ticked before her like a hundred clocks. Which mission had included Domingo?