Two sets of boots resounded on the granite stairs, their steps fading away, so Kate lifted off the itchy habit and found a window with a view of the front parkway. An immaculate black sedan waited outside the Abbey doors. Within minutes, two German officers exited the building. Even through closed windows, she could hear the strike of their spit-shined boots on stone.
Near the door, Mother Hélène’s profile showed, keys in hand. She appeared placid as she watched the men depart, but surely she trembled?
As quickly as she could, Kate retraced the maze that first led her to this safe haven and met Mother Helene on the stairs.
“You derailed them.”
“For the time being. But that threat about Klaus Barbie unnerved me. He has no conscience at all.” Mother Hélène took Kate’s hand with icy fingers. “Why focus on him, though? To be a woman of integrity means being the same on the inside as we are outwardly, but this war teaches me I have a distance to go.”
“To live honestly these days, one must lie.”
“Indeed. Loyalty demands a high price.” Mother Hélène locked the inner door and turned down the hallway toward her office.
“I must go very soon.”
“Oui, but I do not know where to send you, and you will not leave without a destination. Let us pray Père returns to us.” Mother Hélène’s green eyes sparkled against her ashen skin. “You do know they call him the phantom of the Résistance?”
“No, but I can see why.”
“Yes, only the Almighty can keep track of his movements.” She turned her doorknob. “Our bandage supply has nearly run out...”
“Ah. I roll them like a professional.”
By the time the bells tolled two, the air grew oppressive. Kate wiped her forehead after passing the morning cutting cloth and rolling it into strips. At one point, Sister Margareta, one of the few remaining sisters on the premises, invited Kate to accompany her on her rounds.
“Every day I check the eternal flame.” She opened a small muted room with an altar at one end. “See there, above the altar? If I allow that candle to go out, God’s presence will dwell here no longer.”
Kate bit her tongue. As if she sensed her questions, Sister Margareta turned.
“This box contains the host, our Lord’s body. It is most holy.”
An image of the battered, bloody bodies languishing in the Abbey sanctuary flashed before Kate. Then she thought of Monsieur le Blanc’s worn-out flesh and his final exhalation.
She wanted to ask, “But isn’t Jesus with the wounded, too? And surely He was with Mother Hélène when she forestalled the Gestapo this morning?”
No, this was a time to consider a different way of looking at things. She stilled her inquisitive nature and once again, Addie’s husband came to mind. He would have a heyday here. Even with his slim knowledge of Catholicism, he often ridiculed the institution.
“Keep away from those Catholics. They worship a statue, you know.”
But perhaps her father had been born into a Catholic family—she’d had no time to ask Monsieur le Blanc. Sister Margareta smoothed the linen cloth around the host, kissed the latch, backed away and bowed three times.
In the hallway, Kate whispered, “Do you only come here to check the light?”
“And for adoration. I sit before the host and ponder what our Lord has done for me.”
Near Mother Hélène’s office, a sign of God’s presence arrived in human form, as comforting for Kate as the eternal light. Père Gaspard’s resonant voice drifted down the hall.
A great sigh overwhelmed Kate and she flung her arms around him. “How did you find Terrou?”
His smile quivered at the corners, so Mother Hélène took over. “What about the chateau? The owners have given over most of it to the Résistance, but...?”
“The Gestapo watches it too closely.” Père twisted toward Kate. “Isn’t your listening time almost here?”
“I was so worried about my next move, I almost forgot, and today listening is more important than ever.”
In the next room, she slipped out the miniature radio set. Amazing—in the midst of such suffering, Père still remembered her listening time. In the background he and Mother Hélène continued their search for her next location.
When Kathryn completed her work, Mother Hélène gave her a serene smile. “We’ve come up with the right spot for you.”
“Although getting you there may take some doing.” Père Gaspard rubbed his chin. “But then, you’ve become used to wild rides, oui?”
“The lorry again?”
“That and some other contrivances. We have a distance of only, umm ... I think about twenty-five kilometers to go, though the trip may resemble ten times that. But the effort will be worthwhile, for the Abbey of St Pierre at Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne will provide superlative protection. I doubt even Hitler himself would trespass on an Abbey so rich in relics.”
“What do you mean?”
Mother explained. “The Abbey owns a medieval golden Virgin and child. And two arm reliquaries, if legend serves us well.”
“Reliquaries?”
“The arms of kings or other important people. German blood may have flowed through those monarchs, so even the Nazis would hesitate to disturb their forebears’ eternal rest. I know Mother Juliette there, who has worked with the Correze partisans from the beginning—probably has her own code name by now.
“I know no one else as formidable as Mother Juliette. If anyone could convince a storm trooper the Abbey boasts a German king’s arm, she could.”
Père added, “Unfortunately the time has come for you to don your sister’s garb.”
Kate obeyed, and when she returned, Mother Hélène raised her eyebrows. “I’ll have someone fetch your radio.”
“Thank you. Do you have a map? I’d like to know the route, in case we get separated.”
Mother Hélène reached into a desk drawer. “Here—before the war, I gave this to our novices. Even cloistered folk ought to know their environs.”
Kate spread the map on the desk and viewed the Departments of Lot and Correze, the western section of Aveyron, and the easternmost slice of Dordogne. She pinpointed the spot near Capdenac where she and Domingo crossed en route to his home.
Père Gaspard joined her. “The initial influx of tanks and troops has filtered north.” His finger traced a route through Souillac, Gignac, and Brive-la-Gaillarde into the center of Correze.
“I have heard reports of their doings in Tulle.” He locked eyes with Mother Hélène. “Mercifully, they moved north, but new units may still arrive. You did the right thing, Mother, to send the little ones away.”
“Both conscience and fear counseled me. My mentors taught that faith and fear cannot co-exist, but I have to disagree.” She went out, and Père bent over the map.
“We’ll follow the rail lines, shorn of their power, up through the center of Lot.” He traced his forefinger over a plateau from north to south. “They say the Causse de Gramat has some sort of road paralleling the railway. From there, we can view the whole area.
“Sorry I can’t offer you a tour of the Alzou and Ouysse Valleys, with their quaint medieval structures, nor the cliff village of Rocamadour, a unique pilgrimage site for centuries.”
“Let’s make a date after the war.” Kate’s comment eased the severe lines between his eyes.
“I’ll go out and get the radio settled.”
Kate tucked the map into her habit’s hidden pocket as Mother Hélène returned with a pair of espadrilles. “I doubt your shoes will last the climb.”
“Why, thank you—such a thoughtful gift.”
Mother Hélène also held out the tiny transmitter. “You have more use for this than we do.”
“You would send this with me?”
“Of course. It was never ours to begin with.”
“Mother Hélène, do you know anything about Terrou?”
“Père Gaspard found his village as reported—razed, burned out.”
“Did he find his family?”
“No trace of them, but that could mean anything.” Mother Hélène pressed her lips together. “In some ways, it would be easier to know, but with everyone scattered...” She patted Kate’s shoulder. “Perhaps on your journey you will act as his confessor.”
“Me?”
“You two have a bond. In these times, we must all uphold one another.”
Domingo’s face flitted through Kate’s mind. Mother Hélène described exactly what he did for her when Monsieur le Blanc died.
“Crossing the Causse after tending the dying and grieving here will seem light work to Père. Let’s pack some supplies for your journey.”
When they returned with provisions, Père Gaspard had lugged the radio into a hollowed-out hiding place beneath the seat of a cart attached by wooden joints to a bicycle. At first glance, the apparatus looked flimsy, a creation only the foolhardy would trust.
Père caught Kate’s eyes. “Behold, a unique form of transportation designed just for us.” His arm circled the contraption as if he presented her with a royal coach.
“Some of our more mechanical Maquisards developed this contrivance. It requires no fuel, is faster than walking, totes heavy loads, and rouses less suspicion because it makes far less noise than a motorized vehicle.” His underlying paleness belied the cheery look he gave her. “In appearance, it may leave something to be desired, but that’s true of me, as well.”
He jumped onto the seat. “You see, I pedal here and you ride beside me. If worse comes to worst, you can lunge for safety while my priesthood protects me.”
From behind them, a deep chuckle erupted. “Well, Père, I’ve seen a lot in my lifetime, but this might qualify as the most bizarre.” Mother Hélène tapped Kate’s elbow and then embraced her.
Sudden emotion engulfed Kate. “I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness.” She handed Mother Hélène an envelope. “Please give this to the courier who came yesterday, and tell him I’ll transmit my new location to London as soon as I can.”
“I shall not forget you, child. And be assured, you may count on our prayers.”
Chapter Eighteen
The burly commander's collar dripped with sweat in the afternoon sun. Domingo touched his own, just as wet, and listened to the man’s every word.
“Now that London has given us free rein, we can break into our ammunition stores. We have enough to arm at least five thousand men, with close to that number of partisans waiting in the forest.
“A Belo-Russian squad that found its way here tells of strapping explosives to dogs trained to run under tanks, but the Soviet diesel fuel confused the dogs. We have a better idea.”
Domingo noticed men in the crowd stiffen. Surely this commander must know these partisans tended sheep and loved their dogs. But he continued.
“The Russian army fit forty thousand dogs with a ten to twelve kilo mine each and removed the safety pin just before deployment. On the eastern front, the Germans were desperate, too, and shot them without hesitation. That at least helps us understand why the Nazis kill every dog they see here.”
“But you say you have better ideas?” Petra’s calm question staved off Domingo’s disgust.
“With bazookas and leisure to hit the weak place in the back of each tank without hundreds of infantry on hand, it would be easy. But armed troops accompany the tanks, so we must kill the guards, send a man underneath the tank to place the mine, pull the pin, and flee to safety. A complicated procedure best accomplished by night.” He scanned the group of men before him. “Obviously, this task requires a wiry frame, a fast runner, a cool head, and strokes of good fortune.” He looked Petra and Domingo over. “Does either of you qualify?”
“We’ve seen those iron beasts in motion—that qualifies us.”
“I see, but I hate to lose good men.” The leader rubbed his dense beard. “Tanks do have one disadvantage. They can’t make it through deep water, and to reach Normandy, these units must cross both the Dordogne and the Vezere Rivers, and if we hit the bridges first, we stop more tanks than if we physically disabled each one.
“The enemy has already brought tanks forward to guard those bridges. Still, with twenty thousand Panzer troops approaching from Toulouse, armed with the newest Mark IV Panther—the Reich’s largest single armored unit—we aim to stretch their four-day trip into fourteen.”
Petra ground his teeth. “Or forever.”
“Our forces have scattered, yet we must kill twenty guards while others place the mines. Are you ready?”
“Oui.” Domingo and Petra spoke as one.
“You can swim?”
At their nods, he gestured them closer and lowered his voice.
“You’ll be heading toward a bridge over the Dordogne. North of there, the citizens welcomed forty thousand Alsatians in ’39, so they’ll be mighty glad to see you. We assemble in a few hours, over there. Get some rest.”
In the luxury of having alert sentinels posted around them, Domingo and Petra made themselves comfortable under a tree and lost no time falling asleep.
The next thing Domingo knew, Petra’s gruff shake woke him. “Don’t want to miss the excitement, do we?”
For the first time in days, his eyes showed more white than red. Domingo scraped together his pack and followed toward a troop assembling around the man who spoke with them earlier.
“Men, when our armies surrendered to the foe, one leader, General De Gaulle, refused. From London almost four full years ago, on June twentieth, he called on us to regroup, reminding us that we could not capitulate.
“We took heart that day, but now, the enemy encroaches even more, so we move through the Causse de Gramat toward the black Perigord. Through those shadowy forests, the enemy will soon approach the River Vezere. Another unit travels farther west, south of Bergerac.” He paused for a breath.
“We know this land. Perhaps you recall the old Perigord saying, ‘Stone for nasty people, your heart for your friends, iron for your enemies; if you are these three, you are a Perigordin.’
“We count on the people’s magnanimity, as did the large influx of Alsatian refugees. Those who speak Occitan ...” The leader bobbed his chin at Domingo and Petra. “... may have to translate. But once the peasants understand our purpose, no one will argue.”
Domingo lost patience with his verbosity, though he wasn’t the first local leader bent on glory. As the day’s heat mounted, an itch started between Domingo’s shoulder blades. No need for a history lesson every time his mouth opens.
“We follow the Dordogne two kilometers until it juts into a finger. The bridge ... how many of you know it already?”
Several hands shot up. “Good. At last report, the next wave of tanks approached Fraysinet-le-Gelat, so we shall stop them here.” He pointed a ragged fingernail at the spot on a frayed map.
“We cross the river in Lot, pass over into Dordogne, and surprise the guards from the north. Thanks to the latest drop, several bazookas accompany us—here’s to success.”
For a moment, a familiar face visited Domingo—Katarin's dark eyes, the smoothness of her skin... No time now for that, or to ponder Maman and Gabirel.
“Decide who will silence the guards and who will swim underwater to place the charges. The killings must be swift and soundless. We have the moon on our side, and remember, destroying even one end of the bridge will stop the panzers.”
Petra muttered under his breath, “Crossing a wide plateau in daylight, eh? Our angels will have to do double duty.”
They followed a rocky path meandering through limestone outcroppings. Here and there, a pasture full of black-eyed sheep grazed between fields that ought to be producing grain by now.
Around Saint-Céré, with the Bave glinting in the sun, and then on past Rocamadour, with houses straggled almost straight up the incline. An ancient stone church lazed placidly in the morning light as it had for centuries, its turrets and steeple roofs rusty red.
Its careful stonewor
k created a mottled mosaic of gold and dun, tan and brown. Patches of moss on the shaded north side made designs like those on the sheep pen back home, and beyond the church, the blue Alzou River crossed a green valley.
Aitaita spoke of the miracles that had occurred in this place—King Henry Plantagenet and Saint Louis IX’s healings. He’d climbed the two hundred steps on his knees, and believed Zacchaeus, whom the locals knew as Saint Amadour, was buried here after witnessing the deaths of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome.
Of all places to build a chapel, why pick cliff walls four hundred feet high? But after this one, Amadour’s followers built six more, one housing the mysterious Black Madonna. Clearly, they had no Nazis to consider in those days. But surely the Reich would not destroy these ancient buildings.
When they paused for water, Petra asked, “Do you believe the tales of those who came here for healing? Will you bring your grandchildren here one day, as our Aitaitas did with us?”
“Ask me when the war is over.”
Near Geoffre de Padirac, the entrances to vast caves and grottos took Domingo back to his own visits with Aitaita, who retold legends evoking the devil. “Yes, the evil one kicked his heel into the earth here. That kick supposedly created a massive hole, into which the devil challenged Saint Martin to jump, in order to save the souls of the peasants from hell. Saint Martin and his mule jumped into the hole to defeat the devil, who then vanished in the chasms below.”
Years ago, Aitaita showed Domingo the hoof print where Saint Martin’s mule landed, and told him that flames occasionally erupted from the chasm. These natural phenomena explained the legend.
Around this natural wonder lay houses made of stones fitted closely together. Men like Saint Amadour used what they found at hand—these stones—to express their faith and protect their families.
Soon Domingo and the men with him would destroy a bridge built by human hands, but he could think no further than that. Would he survive this war to father children or enjoy grandchildren? He shrugged, knowing Petra understood.
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