Père gave no response, but touched Kate’s elbow. “This will suit your purposes?”
“It’s perfect. We’ll figure out a way to string the antenna.”
“Good.”
He turned to go, but Mother Hélène faced Kate. “You transmit mostly at night?”
“Yes, after the BBC broadcast.”
“Downstairs, we have a smaller set, but when you finish listening, you must turn the dial from that frequency. People have been punished for tuning their radios to the BBC.”
Back through the maze of doorways, rooms, and hallways, Kate memorized the route. Near the row of beds, Mother Hélène announced, “You’ll sleep here.”
Then she listed more atrocities. Père’s replies revealed how closely he knew the population. And the enemy—nothing seemed to surprise him.
“You think the beasts have headed on to Normandy now?”
“If they’ve caught a whiff of L’Invasion, surely. But the commander seems not to mind lingering here in Lot, for our maquisards have thwarted him at every turn. He lumps us all together as one disobedient child, and shot some partisans and innocent citizens outright.
“No one has explored farther than the closest village. On the outlying farms, injured people may still wait for aid.” Mother Hélène ’s wide gesture spread the deep arm of her robe. “You will visit our wounded now?”
“Um. Then, I must go to Terrou. On the way, I’ll visit every homestead possible.”
“Through that door. I’ll be in soon.” Mother Hélène turned to address Kate. “Please follow me.”
A wide parlor opened before them, centered by a wooden table, a settee and an armchair. Mother Hélène reached into the table’s single drawer for a miniature radio.
“I’ve never seen one that small.”
“Once, another agent brought a large transmitter like yours. But she said this crystal one made listening easier, though it doesn’t transmit.
“When she left in such a flurry, we acquired our own ‘ears.’ You’ll spend enough hours up in that stuffy room. You may as well listen here, but first, come along.”
She brushed under an archway to the kitchen, with a square black and white tile floor. Who would guess men bled in the sanctuary nearby? “Help yourself to whatever you need.” Mother Hélène left, and Kate leaned her head against a cool cupboard door.
Things had greatly worsened for the people of Lot. Last night when she dared a peek at the sky, flashes from north to south marked hundreds of parachute drops, but otherwise the countryside was dark—these peasants had learned not to build bonfires when they awaited a drop. The sheer number of drops would have been a clear sign of l’Invasion, had Kate not already deciphered London’s message.
The ordered progression of succinct checkered tiles quieted her restless thoughts. She carried a glass of water to the foyer and tuned the tiny radio, hunting for the BBC. A voice from London cackled random information, and somewhere in that mumbo-jumbo might be a message for her circuit.
The courier who helped her decode yesterday said someone would come tonight for further messages, but how would they know her whereabouts? The answer had to be Père, who functioned like an electric company’s central control.
In any case, worrying wouldn’t help—she must focus on transcribing everything correctly, as yesterday’s courier emphasized. “We mustn’t lose even one drop. If S.S. troops bivouac anywhere near the flash of our welcome committee’s lights, they’ll kill the committee and use the ammunition against us.”
With so much static, Kate could barely make out the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony introducing les messages personnels. The opening notes corresponded to Morse Code for V ... for victory.
“Give me clear reception.” If angels could bring bread and water to Elijah in the desert, surely they could tangle the enemy jamming devices creating this static.
The room’s wall hangings intrigued Kate as she listened. Plaques, painted flowers, and hand-stitched Bible verses hung interspersed on the walls. Over the decades, many sisters must have gathered here in the evenings.
Now, these cloistered women chaperoned little Jewish children over the hills of this hostile world, a daunting task in pants, much less robes.
“The cellar door is open,” drifted over the airwaves—the clear cue for her new circuit’s message. A few minutes passed. “The sun shines on the Acropolis today.” And a little later, “The woman clenches a broken spigot.”
Sure enough, the two remaining messages followed. A thrill ran through Kate from head to toe—Operation Overload had indeed begun.
At about the same time, Mother Hélène answered a knock and called, “Someone seeks you, my dear.”
The same man who helped her yesterday stood there. But Père hadn’t even left yet—how had this partisan found her? His greeting gave Kate no clue.
“Enough planes have passed overhead, this must indeed be Jour-J?”
“The BBC just verified the message. I haven’t written it down, but you won’t forget, will you?”
“Hardly.” His deep-set eyes gleamed as he handed her a packet tied in white string.
“Urgent messages for London. I’ll return later tonight.” Before she could ask him anything, he fled.
Kate turned right into Mother Hélène, who grabbed her shoulders. “Jour-J has arrived, no?”
“Absolutement. I must send these messages.”
“The number of detection vans has increased. Keep your transmissions to nine minutes each.”
By the time Kate reached her Type 3 MKII transmitter, marked C on the side, G on the top, she was panting. “All right, MK two, there’s hard work ahead.” Her fingers jitterbugged from latches to dials and her mind raced with the news—British and American soldiers had indeed landed on French soil this morning.
Hours later, Père Gaspard rounded the corner and set down a cup of chicory. One look told Kate that fear no longer clung to him. He whispered, “I must go again but will return for you.”
“How did you find your fam...”
He put a smudged forefinger to his lips, raising the scents of the forest, cheese, and ink. “Now to your work.”
Later, someone brought a plate of steaming vegetables. As Kate gobbled the food, planes whizzed above amid distant explosions, like symphonic tympani drums. For an instant, it seemed Alexandre hovered near.
Once, during a short walk to the window to lift the heavy quilt nailed there, she spoke to him. Outside, starlight caught on the Abbey’s metal-capped corners and chimneys.
“Alexandre, you’d be out there tonight dropping bombs on hydroelectric plants, factories, and train tunnels if you could. But maybe one of my messages will save a pilot’s life.”
Addie’s face went through her mind. “Oh Addie, I’d give anything to have you here with me.”
Perhaps Harold already wrangled with the enemy on Normandy’s northern beaches—hopefully, Addie knew that and no longer concerned herself with him showing up in London.
Several reports came through of Rommel with the seventh German army on the coast. Such a war-hardened commander’s presence created an ominous picture of lovely French countryside ravished by bombs and tanks--but in the end, the Allies had defeated his troops in North Africa.
Returning to her radio, Kate set her mind to complete her work in this sitting. No use contemplating what was happening hours north of here, except to plead for mercy for the invasion. But since this war had to be, she wouldn’t mind if every Allied soldier brandished Harold’s pent-up rage.
Chapter Fifteen
Sunlight glinted through thick sycamore and chestnut foliage, as Domingo listened to a leader at the camp. The slight commander addressed an unkempt crowd perched on tree stumps and logs. Maman would call them ruffians, but now, her very life depended on them.
“Headquarters has sent us new codes—vert for railroad sabotage, bleu for electrical facilities, marron for engaging enemy forces to reduce their power at Normandy,
and violet for cutting underground cables.
“Some of you may have already taken part in raids, but now, we fall under the Allied Forces direct command. The BBC confirms L’Invasion, and today our northern contingent makes over 500 railroad cuts, severing all telephone communications in Normandy. Gas and oil will be unavailable to the Huns—we’ll delay or stop their advance however we can.”
Nearby, workers stirred three huge pots hung over open fires. Ragged clothes waved haphazardly on a line stretched between saplings. Brush piles and hand-dug trenches ranged over the hill.
“We continue to receive Operation Jedburgh supply drops in the German rear areas. The Special Air Service brigade operates behind the lines too, so we’ve tacked posters of their uniforms around camp. Be aware of their locations to avoid confusion. If anyone here has questions, see me afterwards.”
Groups of three or four gathered toward the front. Domingo’s doubts might have propelled him forward, but a loyalty deeper than patriotism harangued him. How could he leave without knowing Gabirel and Maman’s fate?
All things are possible. Père Gaspard proclaimed that even mustard-seed-sized faith could accomplish amazing feats. Still, Domingo felt certain Maman could never survive such a journey.
He’d searched at every farmstead along the way. Older peasants unable to fight shook their heads when they heard about Maman. “Such terrible times—if we see her, we will take her in.”
In half-deserted Figeac, Domingo checked the school, the grand hall, the church and city hall. What could he do now but join the fight? He lifted his face to the sun. “Show me.”
The simple utterance shifted his burden. Then he waited, a beggar desperate for bread. At some point, a shadow fell over him, and he opened his eyes to a familiar face.
“Domingo.” Wide coals for eyes, tipped black beret, dirty canvas pack slouched over one shoulder, and worn espadrilles defined Petra.
Petra. Over a year ago en route to the Spanish border, Petra’s presence had been like an older brother’s. His powerful handshake jolted Domingo.
“What have you been doing, playing pelota?” Petra’s quick smile showed a broken bottom tooth. He leaned against a tree and waited.
“When you left with your load, I headed east with that agent who climbed up to the landing field, and we watched the Albi railroad burn.”
“Ah, yes, now I remember. A woman. How did the trip go?”
“Word came that someone betrayed her Clermont-Ferrand circuit, and an organizer said the Dordogne workers needed help. But on the way, we met a wounded agent.” Domingo shook his head. “The agent nursed him, and strange as it sounds, before he died, he confessed he was her father’s brother.”
Petra scratched his head. “She seemed American to me.”
“Yes, but her mother married a Frenchman.”
“The agent met this man here?”
“Non, in London. He led her into secret work. Now she operates a radio, and my priest is helping her.”
“Any more trips to the border?”
“Only one.” Domingo winced at the memory. “If you had been there, we would have found more success.”
“Tell me.”
In spite of himself, Domingo opened his heart, the words flowing like a torrent. “A British agent and two American pilots ... one American insisted on talking, no matter how I warned him. Close to the border, he fell and broke his leg, and before I knew it, the Gestapo was upon us.
“We carried him, but they gained speed—we could see their lights closer and closer. Then a stench rose, and we stumbled on a deer carcass. The American had the idea of hiding his comrade under it.”
“So you did?” Petra tilted his head.
“Yes, and I promised to return for the wounded man on my way home. But ...”
“He was dead?”
“Gone. Dragged away. Not a day goes by that I fail to see his eyes peering out from under that mangy pelt.”
“What else could you have done?” Petra rubbed his forehead.
“You would have thought of some way to save him.”
“My friend, you know nothing of my own failures.” They sat in silence for a time, and then Petra inquired, “Your family?”
Domingo's throat tightened. “Gone—our home ransacked.”
“The S.S.?”
He nodded, staring at the dirt at his feet.
“Ah.”
“And you delivered those radios?”
“Oui, and plenty more. They call the Ségala the land of a hundred valleys. Well, I am the deliverer of a thousand canisters. My feet threaten to separate from my body.” Petra stared beyond the fresh trench below them. “Das Reich razed our homestead, but my people escaped. I keep on, especially with the Allies here. This is our hope, non? You sense the certainty, don’t you?”
A petulant crow jawed at a yammering squirrel in a nearby tree. The squirrel flitted down a branch and leaped to more hospitable territory. Domingo stretched his neck and shoulders, but Petra made no move to stand.
“Your young brother and your mother are missing?”
Domingo’s voice caught in his throat. “No sign of them anywhere. Perhaps they were hauled to Montauban.”
Petra’s rough hand on Domingo’s shoulder eased the catch in his breath.
Petra read his mind. “Perhaps the railroad suffered irreparable damage before they arrived in Montauban.”
“But then Maman would be in a camp like Gur ...” The very thought soured Domingo’s stomach.
Petra swung his beret between his fingers. “My Aitaita said this world’s darkness sometimes defies the truth, but we continue to move forward—this is our faith.”
“Faith can shrivel.”
Petra emitted a groan-chuckle. “Or it seems so because the odds increase. Come with me to blow bridges or whatever they tell us to do. I entrust my life to you, and you to me. We will stay together, and who knows? Perhaps we will come upon your family.”
~
Petra hunched along a mountain stream, gagging for breath. He collapsed on the earth and Domingo’s heart raced. They’d covered so many rocky inclines already. Most men Petra’s age would have succumbed to the heat and exhaustion long ago.
Domingo peered over Petra’s shoulder, as if checking on a sleeping child.
Petra’s eyelids fluttered. “What?”
“You’re all right?”
“Umm.”
Domingo filled his canteen and held it to Petra’s lips.
“Give me a few minutes. Then we go again.”
Step by step, Domingo walked out a cramp in his calf. Petra drank more, crawled to the stream and dunked his head. Then he turned back, shaking his torso like a dog.
“Might as well keep moving.”
“When they called us liaisons, they might have said runners.” Petra chuckled. “If only we could send our feet off on these assignments and meet up with them later.”
He hoisted his pack and they prepared to move out. But suddenly all bird chatter ceased.
Snap, scuffle, tramp ... they both froze. Boots, not espadrilles. Four or five men, not just one or two. Petra bade Domingo follow him under a higher rock overhang and they strained to see.
The travelers arrived at the spot Petra and Domingo had just vacated, and a coarse voice echoed, “Jemand var her.”
“Vielliecht ein reh.”
A third guffawed, “Vielliecht eine Frau fur uns.”
“Ruhig. Die lage ist ernst.”
An animal, probably a deer, thrashed near the Feldgraus.
A soldier’s comment floated loud and clear. “Siehen sie? Es war ein Reh.”
“Yah, yah.”
When their voices faded, Petra turned to Domingo. “Did you understand?”
“Something about a woman.”
“They knew something was just here. One said maybe a deer, the other, maybe a woman for us. The leader warned them to be quiet. If not for that deer, they might have searched up here.”
Petra’s
eyes glittered like gold nuggets. “We could sneak up and kill them. We have every advantage.”
His finger caressed his revolver while he stooped to check the knife tied at his ankle. But he hadn’t accompanied Domingo last summer on the search for Sancha. The Gestapo’s carelessness with the bodies kindled such fury that Domingo and Philippe sought out the killers and slashed them to death.
An eye for an eye ... Did Philippe ever recall that night? Mindless slaughter, fierce, all-consuming rage...vengeance.
Domingo had no desire to kill in cold blood again. Burning the Gestapo’s clothes and burying the corpses had brought no satisfaction. He saw Philippe, once again transferring Sancha into his arms. Now, he stared at his forearms, where her body lay during that impossible trek back to her valley. After he delivered her to her family, a great heaviness, emptier and stronger than any before or since, claimed him.
Then Père Gaspard came and wept with him. Without condemnation, he somehow understood and embraced Domingo’s fury. When he finally spoke words of eternal mercy, Domingo became a small boy again, guilty but accepted, full of shame, yet loved.
Now, he touched Sancha’s orange scarf inside his jacket and waited for Petra to make a decision. Petra pursed his lips, closed his eyes...but in the end, they allowed the Germans to go their way.
They delivered their messages, and someone asked them to help partisans cut railroad ties and telephone lines in a town to the southwest. After a night of racing against time to complete the work, Domingo and Petra dropped onto beds of straw in someone’s barn for a few hours and wakened to run again.
The days flowed together, with repeated news of Jour-J. The invasion had truly begun, and with it, opportunities abounded to contribute to the cause.
Today must be June eighth, Domingo thought—no, the ninth or tenth. Petra managed to keep better track of time. He determined to ask at their next halt, but in one instant, the whole world changed.
One moment, thrushes sang and baby rabbits scurried across the path. Blue sky gave no hint of parachute drops the night before or local peasants gathered with their carts to deliver the London supplies to the fighters.
A Purpose True Page 13