At dusk, they entered Souillac. Beyond the houses, they slipped past the ancient Abbatiale-Sainte-Marie to barter for boats to cross the Dordogne. Domingo stuck his oar into the water and Petra gave a low whistle.
“The water runs so quiet here. Maybe the war has stopped.”
“Then you and I merely imagined those tanks, mon ami?”
“Oui, the fruit of our grand imaginations.”
In darkness, they hauled the boats ashore, their hulls crunching against the pebbles of the bank. Then, like ghosts slipping from shadow to shadow, the men scaled the riverside and found a path paralleling the Dordogne. At every curve and ravine, Domingo listened, hoping to hear crickets chirping and small animals in the woods instead of tanks humming.
They faced an enemy in impenetrable armor. Fresh from their winter refitting near Toulouse, these vehicles never grew weary. But Domingo reminded himself of the M16’s, pistols, and most importantly, bazookas.
“Aim those big B’s at the back of the tank, its only weak point. The turret can still turn and blast you, so aim, fire, and run. The three best shots here, find high ground to provide sniper cover.”
Orders filtered through his mind in no particular sequence. In the glow of twilight, the team serpentined their way along the bank toward their prey. Just before dawn, word reached Petra and Domingo. “We’re within three kilometers of the bridge.” Four of the men in their group hurried forward to assess the situation up ahead.
In a few minutes, more orders came. “Those carrying explosives, gather here.”
Petra led the way, and Domingo shifted his pack to the earth for a little rest before the onslaught.
~
Was it twilight or just before dawn? So many words—messages from somewhere—swirled in Kathryn’s head. She’d just stopped working— but what had she been doing, anyway? Voices carried as she descended a long stairway. As if the speakers became excited and then remembered to hush their tones, words undulated in and out.
She shouldn’t be listening, that much she knew. But after a night of hearing other voices ... why on earth was she isolated so far away from everyone in this enormous building? After long hours, her shoulders ached, and she paused to rub the back of her neck.
“Kidnap the Pope? Well, I would put nothing past Hitler. Where did you hear ... couriers straight from the Vatican ... take courage from our brother in Assisi ... have no doubt he’ll continue hiding the Chosen ... pockets of courage spring up in this desolation ... keep hearing of feats I would never have dreamed...”
Following the stairs led her to a long foyer ending in a room with a black and white floor. That smell—not coffee, but something close. A rich dark aroma wakened Kathryn’s senses, and still the chatting flowed. Where were those talkers?
“I look back at my big hopes ... Sometimes I wonder what tangible good our exertions have accomplished, Père?”
“...cannot see the end yet ... still make a difference ...Remember, after Peter fished all night in vain, the Master came and swamped the boat with fish ... never understood Peter’s reaction until now—he ought to have been overjoyed. But it wasn’t about fish at all. No, at some point, finally, we see the poverty of our anxious efforts and cry, “I’m too sinful—get away from me!”
Such a peculiar conversation, but intriguing.
“... but our Lord remains ... knows our dire need, our fumbling, and still blesses our actions ... partly the war, partly our aging—the more we see of Him, the more we can face who we truly are, shadows and all.”
“Ah, yes. Create in me a clean heart...”
Footsteps began out in the foyer and grew closer. “Another day has come, the sun has risen once again ... let us see what great deeds He can accomplish through us, Père.”
Shadows, robes, and human scents developed into the warmth of people present in the room. “Ah, and here’s our girl, Père. How did your night go?”
Père ...father. The gush of spoken French enticed Kathryn. If only she could open her eyes, she might remember who stood over her back then. But that place whooshed away when a cool hand touched hers.
“How was her night?”
“Far less restless—she slept much better. The pain meds seem to be working.”
“Good. Cut them in half and we’ll see how she manages today. Maybe we ought to bring in a radio and turn on some music to stimulate her. We can’t let her sleep forever.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sudden shuffling and muffled voices emanated from the dark foliage along the trailhead. Petra touched Domingo’s elbow. The volunteers who went to scope out the area around the bridge could not have returned so soon. A few moments later, unfamiliar men conversed with Domingo and Petra’s leader.
“It’s a heist. The biggest on the continent, possibly the largest ever, and right under Nazi noses. We’ve got part of the take, and have run as far as we can. Would you exchange your two best runners for us?”
“You’re being chased?”
“At first we were, but our other comrades detoured our pursuers.”
“A heist ... then you must be Résistance Fer?”
A muffled guffaw. “Those Bosche ought to know better than to trust railroad men.”
Petra stirred. “Domingo, did you hear that?”
Domingo shifted his beret to peer at the strangers, whose shoulders sagged under weighty packs positioned on their backs.
“Railroad workers combined with the regular circuit to accomplish this one. We’ve stolen enough gold to...”
“Shhh.” His partner chimed in. “This delivery has to be made in St. Julien de Lampon, about ten more kilometers, but with the weight, we’ve run ourselves out. The pick-up agent will wait until six o’clock tonight. Could you spare your two best runners? Whatever your mission, we’ll rest a bit and join you.”
“Any experience blowing bridges or disabling tanks?”
“Yes, as long as you have bazookas.”
The leader advanced toward Domingo and Petra. “You two normally work as couriers, correct?”
Petra nodded.
“You have rested, oui?”
“Oui.”
“Your mission has changed. We need you to make St. Julien de Lampon by nightfall.” He scratched his ear. “With an extra heavy load.”
Petra turned to Domingo, who nodded despite his qualms. Now they would be delivering stolen goods?
But Petra already stretched his legs. “We’ll do it.”
“All right. Work out the rest with these fellows.”
One stranger wanted to give details, like Giriotte, who lived on story. But his comrade stopped him short.
“Eduardo, there’s no time.” He dropped his pack and circled his shoulder muscles.
“Stay close to the river. Under no circumstances, surrender the delivery to the Germans. Drown the packs rather than hand them over. And you,” he pointed to Petra. “Better take this pack, it’s one bar lighter.”
“So, we have no room to fail.” Petra’s eyes shone as he shouldered the pack the partisan indicated.
“Fail? Ah non, monsieur, you must not fail.”
Petra grunted. “In St. Julien, what then?”
“In the afternoon, a woman will park a lorry behind the bibliotheque and carry in a stack of books. At closing time, six o’clock, you are to lift the lorry’s back canvas and hand over the packs to someone inside.”
“Simple, eh?” Petra saluted and turned toward Domingo. “Ready?”
Domingo adjusted his strap, but there would be no comfort on this journey. He wiggled his shoulders to adjust to the weight. “Ready.”
Two minutes later, they left the bridge-blowing crew, and in spite of his freight, Domingo’s feet felt light. He lifted his face to a southern breeze, grateful for this random turn of events. Once again, he and Petra ran, unimpeded and alone, surrounded by the lush Dordogne River Valley. They’d shared this silent intensity before, in the Pyrenees—one with the land, one with the mission.
Di
d Katarin sense this when he led her from the Massif Central encampment to Lot after Monsieur le Blanc died? Had his urgency to get home overtaken her, too? At the time, he never even wondered.
The soft drum of Petra’s espadrilles guided him forward. To their right, the Dordogne swelled as it ran its banks, mist rising into thick midmorning air, and Domingo’s thoughts reverted to Katarin again—but for the war, he never would have met so many foreigners in his lifetime.
Above, stippled light filtered through countless layers of leaves, and on either side of the path, small animals rustled through the brush as though this war were a fantasy. Domingo turned a singular truth over and over in his mind—Katarin possessed no people, no home on this earth.
~
Another ramshackle lorry, as dilapidated as the first, ploughed through a mass of branches nearly obscuring the entire road. The engine groaned and fierce vibrations shook the stuffy cab where Kate sat, clenching the door handle. The peculiar bicycle mechanism housed in the back of the vehicle seemed far more desirable.
The Spanish driver was in no mood to talk, just like Père, who closed his eyes. After a particularly violent lurch, she turned toward the inscrutable fellow who forced the steering wheel to cooperate.
“Where were you born?”
Either he didn’t understand or didn’t want to. But she persisted with her broken Spanish.
A distinctive black eyebrow moved up a bit. “Beyond Foix.”
So he came from the Ariege, closer to Spain than to Lot, farther into the Pyrenees.
“How did you come here?”
“To fight.” His tone included a silent reprimand.
Counting herself lucky to receive an answer, she gave up trying to make conversation. A minute later, the lorry heaved over an unruly bump and more than the normal amount of dust sprayed in.
Père Gaspard coughed, but kept his eyes shut. He was garnering strength—she almost felt the process.
With a series of rattles, the vehicle swerved to avoid a big rock and bounced Kate to the ceiling. Whump! Soon after, the driver downshifted and coasted to a halt.
“The rest of your journey begins here.” He opened his door and climbed down. By the time Kate and Père Gaspard reached the back, he had already maneuvered their cart onto the path and turned the bicycle over to the priest.
“I go now.” His salute produced a matching one from Père.
“Merci.” Père Gaspard dusted off his robe as the Spaniard maneuvered the lorry—turning it around on this path would have challenged the best of drivers, but somehow, after a few jolting reverses, the vehicle gained the road and disappeared in a cloud of petrol fumes.
“Quite the ride, eh? Still, I would rather do all that climbing in the lorry than afoot.” His voice regained its usual tenor. “Now our real challenge begins.”
Kate mounted her bicycle as he manhandled the cart, his hair orange as a jack-o-lantern against the pure blue sky. “Lovely day for a ride. Shall we?”
Thanks to Mother Hélène’s map, she figured out their location and approximately where they headed, more than she could say of the other trips she had taken during the past six months. Besides, she knew her companion and trusted him, unlike the many guides who delivered her from point to point before. What more could she ask?
It took a while to coordinate their pedaling. Getting used to the cart’s wide sway took longer, but once she did, the views captured Kate’s attention.
“We’re slicing the Department in two, like the big yellow grapefruits my brothers and I used to receive around Christmas time. Did such delights make their way to Iowa?”
“Sometimes Aunt Alvina included an orange and an apple in my Christmas stocking, because she remembered receiving them as a child. But after the holidays, she always produced a full box of red Delicious apples from the fruit cellar, which we stretched as long as we could.
“My best friend Addie, from a poorer home, eyed them with longing when she visited. But grapefruit ... no, I think my first taste came much later.”
“Your Aunt liked Addie? Did she share your hoard with her?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, Addie probably saved her, in a manner of speaking. She lived alone before I came. Having Addie over to visit gave her some time to herself.
“Nothing of ours was off limits for Addie. I think when she first came to play with me, she must have felt we lived in a palace. Nothing like the chateaus here, of course. We lived in a three-story square wooden house with an open oak staircase, though, and I had my own room.”
“And the first time you went to her house?”
Far below, meadows alternated with fallow fields and forested spaces. Kate feasted her eyes on flocks of sheep shorn of their winter wool, their eyes masked by dark circles.
“We played there only a few times, mostly in winter, to build snow forts. Addie’s father ... well, he wasn’t the most welcoming person. But after my parents died, my nurse transported me by train across the country. I knew no one, not even my aunt, but on the very first day of school, Addie won my heart. I must have seemed like an abandoned bird, so she took me in. Having a new friend meant so much to me.
“Would you describe her house for me? I doubt I’ll ever get to your country.” For some reason, Père kept her talking, and Addie made a delightful topic.
“They lived in a little wooden shack teetering on its foundations. Americans call men like her father good-for-nothing. He drank away their living. Addie recently discovered he gambled, too. She never forgot her mother’s despair at him losing their sole milk cow, but as a child, she didn’t understand.
“When her neighbor Jane helped Addie can corn for winter, she described her father betting his paychecks on the old-time Chicago races. A puzzle piece from Addie’s childhood slipped into place. Hearing how Jane’s father bet their entire farm one night and lost his bet, Addie realized that must have been how her father lost their cow.”
“Things come into focus as we grow strong enough to accept them. Do you believe her father gambled away the cow?”
“Yes, but you’re right. Addie couldn’t have embraced the truth earlier. She always stood up for her father.”
“Ah ... little girls defend their Papas at all cost. Such a need in their hearts for a man they can respect.”
“And that’s why I felt such a loss before Monsieur told me...”
“When you first told me about your uncle, what was his name? Monsieur...”
“Le Blanc.”
“Ah, yes. Your story took me right into that situation. Finding him changed your life greatly.”
“Or him finding me.”
“Better yet, God directing your paths to cross. At that point, you must have become ready able to process what Monsieur shared.”
“Yet the encounter still carries an unreal feeling.”
“Sometimes that which is most real seems less so. We get so used to judging reality by physical means, we often fail to recognize eternal certainties.”
“I still don’t understand why he had to die before I could get to know him better. He could have shown me my father’s birthplace after the war.”
“But perhaps one day you will still visit there.”
“How would I locate it?”
“Did you ever think you would discover all you now know about your father, or meet his brother?”
Clattering over an unruly patch, Kate reduced her pedaling to compensate for the cart’s jerking. Far to the west, dark forests covered the land. To the northeast, rocky terrain melded into wooded heights. The sun rose to its zenith, but the air remained comfortable.
“So, did you ever think you would come face-to-face your uncle?”
“No—his identity shocked me.”
“But earlier, he found you on a London street?”
“True.”
“And then your paths crossed again in a most unlikely circumstance, is that true?”
“Oui.”
“You have experienced the mystery of God s
atisfying your deepest desires. So I must ask you again: why should finding your father’s childhood home seem impossible?”
Père had a point. She could never have arranged her first meetings with Monsieur le Blanc in London, nor again on the train to Albi. That time, she hadn’t even recognized him, and the odds of him lying on the path when she and Domingo fled the Milice and Gestapo were astronomical. Domingo might have chosen another way, and so might Monsieur.
Addie’s Harold would call each case God’s will. But questions still troubled Kate. Surely her longing to see her father’s birth site and the church where he married her mother amounted to selfish desires compared with people’s real needs.
The war had made everyone needy—many for everyday sustenance. Perhaps she ought to be satisfied with what she knew, already far more than she ever expected.
She considered asking Père’s opinion, but realized that in all their wanderings, she had asked him nothing of his childhood. Maybe it was time.
On a relatively smooth area, she began. “Tell me more about your family. How many children were there?”
“Twelve. Nine boys, three girls.”
Kate whistled. “You were the oldest?”
“Not at all. The seventh.”
“How did you decide to become a priest?”
“My mother always proclaimed my temperament perfect for this vocation. I accepted her wisdom, as did two of my older brothers. We considered such a calling an honor—something above the ordinary.”
“Do you still?”
“Not a fair question during war.” He raised his heavy eyebrows and grinned. “From time to time, I do.”
“Three of you became priests?”
“Yes, and two sisters entered the convent. My mother once worried that she would never enjoy a grandchild, but our one sister has given her eight. Of course, with six of us marrying, she ended up with plenty—more than thirty at last count.”
“Do you ever see your brothers and sisters who serve in the church?”
“No. One has died, and the order called two of them to work in Italy.”
“In Rome?”
“Um ... yes, one lives in Rome.”
A Purpose True Page 17