He imagined maquisards scuttling away like ants in the face of this obviously superior force. What an understatement. He could almost hear the clatter of boots and the shluss of worn espadrilles on cobblestone in the center of town.
No doubt, Petra continued to issue his warnings. “Run far! There’s no cowardice in surviving to seek your revenge.”
Darkness encroached. Against cool stone, Domingo eventually dozed until footsteps alerted him. Delicate candlelight created ghostlike shadows on the belfry stairs, so he flattened against the wall, but a steady voice wafted up.
“Son, I have brought you something to eat.”
The priest, older than Père Gaspard, stood shorter and more rotund. Yet his eyes communicated exactly what Domingo knew his own priest’s would—selflessness and concern.
“You must be hungry.” He slid forward a bowl of potage.
“Merci, merci.” Domingo downed the soup as he would a cup of coffee.
The priest rubbed his temples. “You traveled far to warn us?”
“Far enough. What’s going on down there?”
“The tanks sleep, but some officers have retaken the normal school. Lights still burn inside, with much murmuring, and sometimes they rise to a shout. Morning will tell the tale.”
“Stay away. I have seen them at work— they’re remorseless.”
The priest held his forehead. “So it is. All that bloodshed on Jour-J has come to this. The excitement of conquering a few of our oppressors entered into us all. Like Chapou, many considered that local victory a permanent liberation, and believed it stood for France’s overall freedom. Now once again, only two days later, we cower.”
Domingo tried to orient himself to days and hours, but it seemed as though a month had passed since Gabaudet. Those scenes spurred him to make a suggestion. “Maybe your church can serve as a hospital.”
The priest leaned in close. “You have seen much. Do you wish to speak of it?”
Domingo shut his eyes. No, maybe never. His wordless response must have communicated as much, because the priest changed the topic.
“A hospital—you are right. We’ll need bandages. I’ll see to it.” He reached into his bulging pocket and handed Domingo a hunk of bread. “I almost forgot. Will you come down and spend the night in the rectory?”
“No, I’ll stay here. Which direction is the school?”
The priest pointed. “Sunrise will show you.”
“You will not go down to the square, then?”
“I will follow my heart, my son.” His quiet shuffle down the stairs faded into silence.
Sleep seemed impossible, yet sometime in the night, Domingo dozed off. He had no sense of the time when Petra entered the belfry and roused him from restless sleep.
“They brought more than tanks and armored cars—artillery pieces, too. They've cordoned off the streets.”
“How many men?”
“More than enough.”
“Did you locate any partisans?”
“No, but I sent a message with a local boy.” Petra dropped on the stone floor. For a fleeting moment, the moonlight revealed doubt in his expression. “So little we can do.” The whites of his eyes rolled upward. “If we could only transform this bell into a cannon.”
“We could build a catapult and launch it into a tank...”
Petra managed a lop-sided grin. “With twenty more bells, that might work.”
“Remember, you said we do what we can. Rest. I’ll get your supper. The priest will be up, anyway.”
And he was, presiding over a growing pile of fabric strips in the rectory kitchen. While he scurried for food, the wooden table intrigued Domingo. Scarred by knives, burns and scuffs, the homely piece carried him away from Tulle, the capital of Correze, to his own small Department of Lot.
Always, his family’s table centered their lives. Around that wooden circle, they gathered their wits as well as their bodies. There, they thought things through. The last evening everyone had sat in the kitchen together, sunset flaring through the window.
Maman stood quietly behind his father, who explained why he must leave. “They need us, and I must heed the call.”
The pain in her eyes told Domingo she knew something already, maybe about Ander. But even Aitaita would tell him nothing, and when he accompanied Papa part of the way to Spain, Domingo assumed Aitaita would bring Ander home. Then Papa, too, would return.
For months, that hope braced him, until Aitaita returned, bringing dreadful word. Neither Papa nor Ander would ever come home again.
The aroma of hot soup and the priest’s voice returned Domingo to the present. “Here, my son. May your comrade be in health.”
Be in health. Feeling as brittle as this old table, Domingo wanted to hide in some secret room, never to be found. He longed to sleep forever, to hear nothing, ever again, about war. Yet the look in this humble brother’s eyes urged him to persevere.
“Godspeed, my son.”
Petra roused at the smell of hot soup, and his expression softened. “Many have eaten their last meal tonight. I fear what tomorrow will bring.” He chewed without hurrying. “But all for liberty, oui? As Charles de Gaulle proclaimed, ‘Pour les fils de France ...”
Domingo took up the message that had once energized him. “Yes, ‘for the sons of France. Wherever they may be, howsoever they may be ... they must fight the enemy by all means at their disposal.'”
Petra gnawed a crust. “I fear that means will prove far too weak for the sons of France in Tulle. Yet they have no recourse.”
Leaning on the cold stone wall eased a steady pain in Domingo’s neck. “What would you be doing, Petra, if not for the war?”
“Ah ... what use to talk about it?”
“I don’t know—I just realized I’ve never asked you your occupation.”
“You’ve never asked me much of anything, my friend. Why do you now?”
“Maybe for that reason—because I never did. Because this all can end so quickly.”
“Yes. Well, I will let you guess.”
“You worked in your father’s business.”
“Um ... what sort of business was that?”
“Something with your hands. Maybe stonecutting.”
Petra’s half-grin revealed nothing. At least the guessing game quieted Domingo’s racing thoughts.
~
Darkness eased, then settled again. The swish of skirts and nylon hosiery grated on Kathryn’s nerves. Why wouldn’t they let her sleep? Someone prodded under her ribs until she wanted to scream. But before she could muster the energy, she drifted into that other world.
Once, she woke to see wires extending from her mouth and someone working at them with a pliers-like tool. She tried to touch her lips, but something—or someone—held her hand down. Twisting to free herself, she looked directly into a woman’s eyes. The stark white cap pinned in her dark hair never moved, and her taut lips announced that she was in charge.
“Now, ma’am, calm down. You’re in good hands. They brought you in last night. Kept you in surgery for quite a while—the surgeon said he’d never seen anything quite like your injury. From what I hear, you’re mighty lucky to be alive after the fall you took.”
Lucky ... fall ... what was she talking about? Kathryn wanted to ask, but she couldn’t make her jaws move. Something fastened them together. Her chest tightened, and perspiration rolled down her temple. Thankfully, the nurse wiped it away with a moist cloth, but the next moment, she jabbed a needle into Kathryn’s arm.
Coolness swabbed the spot, and the scent of alcohol drifted up. Then the room’s white walls swirled around her, and whatever the nurse said faded away. Kathryn had no choice but to close her eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
At dawn, shots rang out. Petra stared down from the belfry and waved Domingo over. “See there, straight over from the highest roof? That’s the school courtyard, with houses surrounding it.”
“You went down there last night?”
“Close enough to see their positions. Tanks sit there, there, and there, to make a show of force.” Petra’s index finger stabbed the directions.
“Pssst ... pssst. Men, are you still here?” An aged voice wafted up the stone steps.
Petra grabbed his pack and Domingo followed him down the stairway.
“I’m going down there, my sons.” The priest met them with seeming serenity. Thank you for warning us.”
“But the Nazis have lost all respect, even for...”
“For men of the cloth? Well, then, I become one with my people, as I have always wished to do. The enemy disrespects them, too, but notre Dieu cherishes us all.”
He turned to go. Petra strapped his pack over his shoulders in wordless agreement. His glance told Domingo they would accompany their determined host, at least for a distance.
With each step, daylight grew. Doors opened along cobbled streets, dispersing the scents of home—fires burning, coffee and porridge boiling. People moved from their front stoops as their priest passed. Some came forward to touch his hand. Several older men joined him, canes or walking sticks in hand.
Near the town’s center, the priest turned to Domingo and Petra. “Go into this restaurant and give Monsieur Faisant my blessing. Tell him you have need of his upstairs room, and mark well what happens here. Then you must continue to warn others.”
The proprietor saw them coming and swung his door wide. He gawked at the priest and shook his head. “Surely you will not go down there, father? They’re arresting all men between sixteen and sixty.”
“Then we shall see if they count me a man—actually, I am well past sixty, so they daren't take me in.” He gave a slight smile and kept walking.
Petra broke the silence. “Perhaps he believes his soutane will protect him.”
“Oui, and so it may. Come in, come in. I am Monsieur Faisant. You two should be in the Ségala. Our men fought a successful offensive here, but evacuated last night. Our two sons fled, as well.”
Something in Petra’s face gave Monsieur Faisant pause. “Have you not heard about those SS officers in Frayssinet-le-Gélat? They killed at least ten citizens, even a woman.” He shook his head. “And now this—the Second Panzer division right here on the streets of Tulle.”
Petra removed his beret. “Your upstairs room—may we use it?”
Up a narrow stairway that gave Domingo a suffocating sensation, the stout baker led them to a room where they hunched together at the window. A clear view of the town center showed the school’s courtyard filled with uniformed Nazis. They marched up and down while others paraded the main street, their tall black leather boots clicking mercilessly on cobblestone.
One of the soldiers halted and another handed an officer a bullhorn. He raised it to his lips. “Citizens of Tulle, you have defied our Fuhrer. You have decried Das Reich and your city will pay, life for life. You have declared yourselves liberated, so we shall see. The day begins.”
Several soldiers banged on the door of a home, crashed through and brought out a man. A woman followed behind.
“See how you will pay.”
Another woman ran from the house, screaming. “No, no. André, no!”
But the soldiers passed the man like a clothespin, along to others who bound his hands and feet, rushed him inside past the screaming woman, and a few seconds later, carried him out onto the balcony. Then they pulled back his shock of hair and throttled his neck.
In a blur of black and brown and feldgrau, the soldiers tied the neck rope to the iron balcony posts, thrust the man’s legs over the railing and gave him a push. Below, the woman shrieked and flailed against her captor.
The victim gave a few errant kicks before he dangled from the grillwork like a ham hung for winter. The soldiers in the street grinned up at him. Officers barked more orders and groups of three soldiers each spread like gnats to other houses, where the first scene replayed over and over until citizens hung one by one from balconies or lampposts.
When a few onlookers attempted to intervene, the soldiers roped their necks, too. Now and then a slap resounded. A guffaw rent the early morning mist. The whole time, women of the city sobbed and wailed.
At some point, the restaurant owner, ashen-faced, sagged against the wall. “I counted thirty hanging from the lampposts.” He cried out louder when the soldiers throttled a tall, slender fellow.
“Mon ami, Monsieur la James. How can this be? My dear friend, ah Mon Dieu!” He bent over in anguish. “This cannot be, it simply cannot be.”
Then Petra pointed out soldiers nearing the priest. They grabbed his helpless gaggle of men, and someone pulled the priest into the shadows. Within minutes, those who had joined him hung from balconies or lampposts.
The numbers, shouted by a German officer, transfixed Domingo. Thirty-seven men killed. Forty-four. Fifty-nine. Sixty-five. Eighty.
Eighty-three. Eighty-seven. Petra bunched his shoulder against Domingo’s. Eighty-nine. Ninety-two. Triumph tinged the officer’s bellowed announcements.
Ninety-seven. Ninety-nine.
The commander, a miniature puppet from their viewpoint, turned his men on anyone standing nearby. Chaos ensued. Shots echoed from the courtyard, blood flowed over stone, and Domingo counted at least twenty more slain.
Somehow, Petra maintained command of his tongue. “Surely they have finished. Let’s move.”
Domingo followed him down the stuffy stairway, his legs like wooden sticks. Sickness rode his throat. Surely, he would soon waken from this terrible nightmare.
Petra stopped to speak with someone in the street, and Domingo’s mouth went dry as a new idea struck him. Perhaps the same vicious commander that bloodied Tulle’s streets had ordered Gabirel and Maman taken away. A day ago, his mind held room only for them, but then all those killed at Gabaudet crowded in.
Now, these unfortunate ninety-nine swung in his consciousness, too. Though he knew that the commander could not be in two places at one time, all German officers ranged through his mind as one—the epitome of evil.
What would Père Gaspard say to the slaughter he had just observed? A sudden longing to pour his heart out to him overwhelmed Domingo as he followed Petra by a back way to the edge of Tulle.
They would run until Petra could run no more, of that Domingo felt certain. And so they did. The aching in his muscles soothed his guilt at being gone from home when the soldiers came, and for allowing those Huns to live a few days ago. Compared to his shame, the fire in his muscles amounted to a good pain.
If only he and Petra could keep on running forever. He wished he could vanish into an isolated chasm of the Causse de Gramat. Yet he wanted to fight. He’d determined to do so before, but now, he must.
When Petra finally dropped beside a flowing stream, Domingo panted beside him. A short while later, he detected someone crawling their way, and touched Petra’s shoulder. The bushes parted, revealing a shivering young fellow with elbows torn from his jacket. He stared at them in singular terror.
Petra took a step toward him and motioned for Domingo to give him water. Finally, the stranger stopped trembling. Then the grim details from Tulle flowed from his mouth. Finally he ended his tale. “I watched them kill ten of us for every Nazi.”
“Oui. We saw them too. Come with us.”
Petra led the lad, who looked far too much like Gabirel, to wash in a nearby creek. Then they raced away again with him between them on the path. A new comrade—someone who shared the bloody visions that visited Domingo.
Once again, the eyes of that pilot he’d deserted under the carcass confronted him. But this time, they seemed a bit further away. Perhaps time would render them less disturbing, less searing—like Sancha’s.
In the schluss...schluss of the young man’s espadrilles, the future unfolded in Domingo’s mind. He and Petra would take him to headquarters to witness to what he had seen. They would do the same, and then they would fight together until this wickedness ceased.
~
Insistent banging
woke Kate from heavy sleep. Pale light streaked the edge of the window hangings. The unmistakable scrape of boots on stone reverberated up staircases and through hallways to her sheltered room. Then a man’s voice echoed, loud and unrelenting.
“Oh dear God, help us.” She clung to her blanket. If she could hear their boots, they must be...
But then Mother Hélène’s voice rang out. “Messieurs, I have now shown you all that is possible. You have seen our wounded, thanks to your own attack. I have allowed you into our sacred worship space. But you will not defile my sisters by entering our private areas.”
Authority filled her declaration, but trembling still swept Kate. Gestapo inside the Mother House ... today she must move again, no putting it off. She steadied herself and pulled on her underclothes, splashed her face and slipped on the habit Père supplied. After transmitting the last two nights, her color probably matched the habit’s faded straw hue.
By all means, she must listen for incoming reports this afternoon, for by now, the London transmitting team would have passed on the list of needs she’d sent last night. At Harrington, the S2 would have forwarded the information to the Operations room. There, an officer had already marked tonight’s targets on a large situation map, added the circuit agent’s name, selected take off times and issued flight organizers radar clearance.
How could she get the new coordinates to a courier before tonight? If she failed, precious supplies might fall into Nazi hands. Worse, for any parachutists, rifle fire instead of loyal French peasants would greet them, and they would perish instead of aiding the Résistance.
A man’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What about this whole southern wing? Surely, you have room for a transmitter there.”
“Monsieur, I assure you, we have plenty of room for many transmitters. However, do you suppose we would risk the lives of those wounded in your malicious raids? Would women devoted to saving life barter precious human beings for the sake of a few radio transmissions? I wonder if you are thinking clearly today.”
“Harrumph ... we’ll see when I report your insolence to Monsieur Laval. Sister or no, lying to the Gestapo cannot escape notice. We will find you out, and believe me, once a betrayer reaches Lyon, Herr Barbie will enjoy torturing them until they blurt the truth.”
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