A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  Impossible to know, and she must sleep. She buried her face in her pillow.

  The aroma of boiling coffee woke her in full daylight. She wiped sleep from her eyes—a new day, and tonight would bring another location, along with more meaningful work. The thought spurred her out of bed to splash her face with hot water burbling on the woodstove.

  The door creaked, and silence bade Kate to look up. One glance told her something terrible had happened. Père’s drawn countenance paled against his black hood. Even his wild hair seemed limp and its roguish red diminished.

  But he made an attempt at cheer. “I trust you had a good sleep?”

  “What is it?”

  “The SS has gone into a fervor, burning villages, looting everything in sight. They’ve even ransacked peasants’ farms. From the smoke...”

  Kate’s heart leapt into her throat. “Domingo’s mother?” Père Gaspard whitened even more at the echo of gunshots in the distance.

  “I’ll fetch that transmitter and we’ll be off. The lorry will meet us at ten o’clock. Perhaps the driver will have some idea...”

  He mounted the ladder and straggled down under the radio’s weight. She handed him coffee, and they drank in quietness. Then he lifted the radio again, and at the meeting point, settled his burden on the earth. He sank on a fallen log, twisted like a pretzel.

  A squirrel clattered down a pine, scattering bark every which way, and Kate hurried to see what chased it. Good pretense for a walk, after being inside so long. In the heavy pines, she mouthed fervent prayers before turning back.

  Père Gaspard’s rested his head on his arms. A while later, he paced between two massive pines and a chestnut, still silent.

  On one pass, Kate dared a question. “How do you keep from hating the SS?”

  “Who says I don’t hate them?”

  Digesting his answer led to a question that haunted her since the war began. Alexandre gave his life for freedom—she accepted that long ago. He knew he risked death, like Charles Tenney and so many others.

  But why didn’t an all-powerful Being intervene for all these innocent lives? For those children murdered with Sancha, and the helpless elderly, like Madame Ibarra?

  Something stirred in the bushes across the road and alerted Père. Then, like a lamb’s mewling, a far-off noise drifted from somewhere.

  Ramrod straight, he strained until the noisy lorry appeared over the last bump, a veritable khaki warrior. Its dented front fender trembled when the driver braked. He leaped out and broke into the Langue d’ Oc. Kate caught only some village names, the SS, Gestapo, and gendarmes.

  He apologized for keeping them waiting. Then, palms uplifted, he croaked, “Where can we go now?”

  Père looked years older today than yesterday. “Henri, you know these parts. Where would a transmitter be safe? The communication with London must continue tonight.”

  Henri, a long-nosed fellow with scabby ears from sun and wind, cranked his enormous hands to his hips. His elbows stuck out like bony chicken wings—yes, like those raw bones Kate and Addie once split while butchering a dozen roasting hens.

  When Henri silently rubbed his forehead, Père’s face distorted in thought, and Kate’s heart fell. Surely, there must be a place—there simply had to be.

  Chapter Twelve

  A peculiar acrid odor woke Domingo. He stuck his head out the back of the lorry to get his bearings. They’d veered off the mountain road onto a gravelly route blanche, but murky haze obscured his view.

  Then a slim moon slid from under a cloud and revealed a familiar outline. Ah, they traveled close to Saint-Céré, parallel to the river. He grasped the vertical edge of the lorry and sniffed. The heavy odor of smoke—much too powerful.

  A heavy sensation under his breastbone foretold trouble. You have a strong spirit, but you will rule that spirit, my son. Intensity laced Aitaita’s words on that long-ago day of their hunting excursion.

  “What does it mean to rule my spirit?”

  “Life itself will teach you at every crossroads.”

  Now, that prophecy mocked Domingo. Surely he reigned as lord over nothing. Even the snores of the weary partisans around him seemed to scoff at him.

  Five minutes later, the lorry pulled to a stop. The driver scuttled toward the back, but not before Domingo hurled himself out.

  “Your ride ends here, gentlemen. Bonne chance.”

  As if to ridicule the meaning of good luck to you, a dark figure sashayed out of nowhere, gun in hand. “You must be the demolition team?”

  The fellow inched closer. “Good work. But around Figeac, Frontenac and Terrou, the Second SS and the 189th Division have gone mad. Completement fou, I tell you.”

  Domingo’s heartbeat scathed his ears. Completely crazy... Terrou, Père Gaspard’s village, and Figeac—he must get to Maman and Gabirel. Panic washed his throat, and he longed to rip more information from the messenger’s throat.

  “Everyone who can has fled to the mountains.” The messenger wiped his brow. “And now the tanks have begun hitting the countryside. Be sure to break up when you travel—you’ll be too obvious.”

  Another concern rose like fire in Domingo. Had they pinpointed Katarin’s latest transmitting station? What if they had taken her prisoner? The thought stole his breath away.

  “The Allied landing has begun. Tens of thousands swarm the Normandy beaches, and our people are determined to dismantle every railroad in the whole of Lot by tonight.” The messenger’s tone strengthened.

  “General de Gaulle says our nation lost her heart when she surrendered to the Reich. Well, we may have faltered when the SS marched into Paris, but now we will prove that France retains her soul. Come with me, if you will.”

  Unable to stand still another second, Domingo tore off southeast like a wildcat. Trees and vines swallowed him, but he pushed on toward his valley.

  ~

  “Come on, Sister.” Père bent for the transmitter. “We must be on our way.” They scrambled inside the lorry, where he turned quiet.

  Henri jammed down on the accelerator, backed halfway down the hill and waited for Père. But advice took a long time coming. “Straight. Go straight until we figure this out.”

  A sharp corner took Kate by surprise, throwing her into Père’s shoulder, but he paid no attention. Before them, a dirt road spread, seemingly endless. The driver downshifted with a loud grind.

  “We ought to head for the Ségala, but I hope you understand I cannot leave my parishioners. I must discover what has happened to my family, too. Do you understand?”

  Kate nodded. Half a minute later, Henri asked, “Can she transmit from a burned-out village?”

  Père hunched his shoulders. “If we only knew which one to choose. How many times can the SS destroy the same place?”

  Henri spat out the window. “Once they’ve looted and killed as many as possible, why should they return?”

  “Oui ... that gives me an idea in keeping with our sister’s disguise.”

  Did he mean the time had come to enter the cloistered life? Despite such grim circumstances, a slight grin edged Père’s lips.

  “To the dismay of my spiritual superiors during my training my dramatic talents have always lent toward creating diversions. And at present, they might come in handy.”

  He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, and Kate held her hand to her stomach. Too much strong coffee, no food, and wild, bumpy curves.

  “First, we’ll see how Figeac fares.”

  “From what I hear, the hospital and doctors at Cahors and Saint-Céré provide medical aid, so you can go directly to them.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Père folded his hands and lapsed into his own world.

  Kilometer by kilometer, they covered about a third of the way from Halberton, Iowa to Cedar Rapids, where the Collins Radio Company manufactured transmitters for the military. Strange how she still judged distances by comparison to points back home. Perhaps Collins even supplied radios for the SOE. Kate reminded herself
to turn hers upside down sometime to check.

  Père’s eyes shifted under his veined lids. How did one pray at a time like this? Kate could only plead—send help for Père’s family and his parishioners. Give the Allies success. Deliver Madame Ibarra and Gabirel, and keep Domingo safe. Do not tarry, oh God.

  From all outward signs, Père might be asleep. His pasty color added to his vulnerable look, but thoughts, ideas, and prayers somehow meshed when he shut out the world. Kate knew this because when he roused, fresh insights poured forth.

  Her mind clung to that old word, tarry, implying purposefulness, or the choice to be late. And she mustn’t be late tonight—the messages Père brought this morning contained German troop movements and logistics for several parachute drops. Her fingers itched for the keys.

  Henri struck a pothole and set the brake so suddenly, Kate’s head hit the roof. Before she realized anyone stood outside the lorry, Père Gaspard launched into a conversation with a scruffy man, three-fourths of it lost to her in the local brogue. The wayfarer’s face crumpled when the priest added something about Terrou, waving his hand like a traffic flag the whole time, with Gallic expressiveness.

  Craning his neck to see past her, Henri gaped at Père, whose fingers quivered against the door handle. Finally, Père responded, his voice terse and hoarse. “Keep moving. That’s all we can do.”

  Fear billowed in the small cab like the dense, milky aroma of a steaming pot of porridge. Kate pondered whether the millions of requests going up to heaven right now overwhelmed the Almighty. Why did He seem so slow to respond? Why did He allow people to suffer so?

  At every turn where freshly leafed out foliage allowed a view, smoldering fires marked the horizon. Many local people aided the Maquis, but some did nothing to harass the Germans. Why should reprisals fall on them as well as the guilty?

  The answer rose like Kate’s sigh—of course, Das Reich had no list of names to consult before they mortared an area. Aunt Alvina’s pastor back in Iowa suffered, too, because of his German heritage. People like Harold judged him a spy without even meeting him or considering his kind heart.

  Sunshine for good and evil, reprisals for both innocent and guilty. Had the Gestapo come down on the churches and organizations sheltering Jewish children in Le Chambon sur Lignon by now? Was little Linden, the fragile Jewish waif who delighted to ride Kate’s shoulders, still safe? Had her brother ever returned, or would she never see even one of her family again?

  In retrospect, that precious child had eased some of Kate’s pain at losing her baby. Right now, she could almost feel the orphan’s warmth.

  “Divine provision,” Père would say, “just like your rendezvous with Monsieur le Blanc.” But at this moment, he withdrew.

  Navigating a severe slope, Henri’s elbow narrowly missed Kate’s jaw. A man of fifty, perhaps, with an arched nose, deep forehead, long neck, hairy nostrils and ears, Henri’s beret swayed mere inches above his nose.

  Sweet-sour wine scented his breath, something Kate became used to in Clermont-Ferrand, when she often visited the square where lots of people drank wine. She leaned her head against a metal pipe extending horizontally above the tattered leather seat and let her thoughts rove.

  Did Addie still enjoy her work for Mr. Tenney? Had she overcome her fear that Harold might discover her whereabouts and shadow her to London? If Kate could transport herself anywhere in this chaotic world, it would be to Mrs. Tenney’s for just one evening with Addie.

  The next moment, Kate almost landed in Père’s lap. His eyes shuttered open and he patted her shoulder as she rearranged herself. The driver blurted something and Père issued a comment.

  “Ca va.” He referred to Henri’s wild driving, and he would say the same about everything else, too. It would all work out.

  The sun warmed the cab, and understanding stole in—God joined with them right here in this smelly old lorry. Even when her world turned topsy-turvy, Kate had always hoped for this to be true. But something about this situation tipped the scales toward belief. Truth settled down in her soul.

  As if to juxtapose with her insight, smoke funneled behind a church spire. What did it mean? Perhaps the Gestapo had already entered the village set a fire—but how could He be present in such an act of destruction?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Truffles. Je cherche les truffles.” The startled peasant dropped his basket, of rich, soil-crusted mushrooms. Under his wool beret, his chin revealed a quiver. Even the crushed brown velvet of his trousers trembled.

  This simple man with his pig, snout to the earth, was simply minding his business. But Domingo, keeping a straight line toward home, had collided with him headlong.

  “Pardonez moi, I was in such a hurry ...”

  The peasant’s dark eyes traveled skyward what is he looking at in the sky. Then his slight shoulders relaxed. He retrieved his basket and re-settled his hat.

  “Has Das Reich come to your land?”

  “Das Reich?”

  “The SS—tanks. Have you seen them?”

  “No, but I heard them rumble two valleys away.” The man launched a forefinger southeast. “The earth shook as it did in my youth, when the mine at Courrières blew up in the Pas-de-Calais. I felt the earth move.”

  So many kilometers away? Surely, he imagined that.

  But the peasant continued. “Gasses in the mine caught the workers’ lamp flames. My brother Louis survived by eating the victims’ lunches, and someone slaughtered one of the horses. They held on for twenty days. When Louis walked down our path alive, Maman shrieked with relief ...”

  He wiped a stray tear from his cheek. “Yesterday the earth shook again. Even Jean-Paul felt it.” The peasant gestured toward his pig. “This morning, I met some people from Terrou on their way to higher ground.”

  “And?”

  The man flopped his arms at his sides. “Most of the men had already fled, except old useless dogs like me. Women and children ran up there.”

  He jutted his chin toward a high point. “The feeble ones, they stuffed into carts, like loads of potatoes and onions.”

  Domingo shuddered. Maman would never survive such treatment.

  “But you stayed to gather truffles?”

  “What better occupation?” The peasant’s cracked lips spread over irregular brown stained teeth. “My wife prepares a fête du cochon.”

  Then his mind slipped into the past. “After the rumbling, I hurried north to search for Louis. Maman cooked a feast when we returned home. Only a few survived—over a thousand died. Maman declared that Louis had been visited by grace.”

  Friends gathered for pork and mushrooms in a humble home—a pleasant memory, but so incongruous with present reality. Had this peasant taken leave of his senses?

  “If soldiers come, we have little to offer, only truffles. They may eat our cochon and our truffles, but will leave us alone.”

  Domingo shook out his legs, for pausing had become harder than running. “You have seen no soldiers yet?”

  As if responding to a different inquiry, the old man replied, “I am Martirena Sheriden by name. My grandsons follow the wind, as I once did, to Spain. Now, I cannot leave my wife alone.”

  One tooth caught on his lower lip. “The soldiers stay far from Sheriden land—perhaps they fear me.” His wild grin startled Domingo. “Your father fought in Spain, too, I venture, but we have become useless.”

  Papa’s countenance rose before Domingo’s mind. If he lived today, would he be leading a Maquisard band?

  The peasant’s mind seemed to clear as Domingo swigged some water. “The enemy raided Terrou twice before, but this time, they burned the whole village. They have issued a new order now, for those who do not cooperate.”

  He spat into the grass. “Why waste their time on us? We know nothing. We only pray for l’Invasion to come soon.”

  “It has, my friend, this very day.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Oui. Protect your wife, and blessed be your hunt
ing.”

  Domingo took off again, his thoughts racing faster than his feet. The old fellow had a point. Why not hunt truffles? Do what your hands find to do.

  Once again, dark eyes swam before his vision. Maman’s, Gabirel’s, and now, an Amerikan girl’s—so many pairs of dark eyes.

  Then Père Gaspard’s blue gaze danced with the brown. With this fresh havoc raining down, how would he ever find a safe place for Katarin? Domingo had no idea, but Père’s word provided assurance.

  The swish of grass between Domingo’s legs whirred like the rustle the threshers made when they sifted chaff from grain on great canvasses held high. The process had mesmerized him as a child, longing for the day he would be old enough, strong enough, to help.

  But there would be no harvest this year. June had come, but field after field lay empty. Would a normal harvest ever return? Would the seasons one day pass without bringing more tragedy? Domingo wavered on a ridge, but the weight in his chest allowed him only a second of contemplation before he plunged forward again, splitting through the underbrush and winding around hedgerows designed to stop powerful beasts.

  Closer to his valley, dread pressed in on him. It still seemed unlikely that that old fellow searching for mushrooms had felt the earth rumble so far away from where his brother worked. But his premonition had tuned his heart to the predicament Louis faced--could this sense of foreboding that shadowed Domingo be the same type of intuition?

  Twice, he stopped to listen for familiar sounds in this wood far too quiet for an early June day. No one called to teams forcing plows through stubborn soil, or whistled walking home from market. Such an odd, uneasy silence.

  Martirena Sheriden, that wayfarer had called himself ... Surely, Aitaita would know him. But so many new names swam through Domingo’s consciousness, so many faces, pilots, agents, and an ever-growing parade of partisans.

  Their fates, especially Giriotte’s, haunted him. He conjured up all sorts of scenarios—Giriotte, broken and bloody, rolling into the brush, where a sympathetic railroad man found him, carried him home and nursed him. Or he stumbled on an injured worker and refused to leave him behind.