“Who of your family remains at home?” This last question slipped out without considering Père’s recent news. His face blanched, and he focused on his pedaling. So did Kate, but not without berating herself—how could she have forgotten? After a long upward stretch, his labored breathing concerned her.
“Shall we switch places for a while? I’ve biked often since I came here, and ...”
He sent her the next thing to a scowl. “First Domingo, now you. Always thinking me old and decrepit. Thank you, but no.”
They lapsed into silence. For some reason, Mother Hélène’s comments about Klaus Barbie ran through Kate’s mind. In a world of harsh oppressors, he still managed to make a name for himself—sometime, she’d ask Père if he knew anything about him.
They traveled several kilometers with only a few small animals racing across the trail, mouths full of grass or weeds. Sporadic birdsongs wafted, and once, the undeniable odor of skunk. Otherwise, the Causse received its afternoon rays in mellow quiet.
Then, an unnatural sound resonated in the air. The second time she heard it, Kate touched Père’s sleeve. With a great deal of wobbling and jiggling, he brought the ungainly cart to a halt.
“Good, it’s time for a water break.”
But she put her finger to her lips. Distant yet distinct, the sound continued, like a transmitter’s clack, but more regular. From east or west?
Just when she decided west, Père pointed northeast, where rugged landscape created a gorgeous backdrop. A narrow, winding road divided the terrain below them, but otherwise, trees in full leaf surrounded meadows spread like dark green carpets.
At any other time, such beauty would have relaxed her, but the clacking made Kate calculate the potential for Nazi soldiers to turn up, as they had in the Ibarra’s barn. The memory evoked sadness, but also pride in Mrs. Ibarra’s calm behavior.
“It’s a printing press, a proof printing press.” Père Gaspard turned with a grin. “I’d bet my soutane on it.”
“You must be really sure.”
“Word has it an FTP Lieutenant established a press northeast of Terrou, closer to Latronquiere. I wager that’s what we hear, and prophesy we’ll come across vestiges of its production soon enough.”
Kate returned his self-satisfied smirk. “Who am I to argue with a prophet?”
Chapter Twenty
How many weeks had she wasted laid up in this hospital? With an attentive nurse at her elbow, Kathryn swished down the antiseptic corridor in the fuzzy carpet slippers Gabby had brought yesterday. Her daughter had made the drive alone, with Mara and her older children in school. The surprise on Gabby’s face when Kathryn had walked in the room had been plenty to handle.
“You don’t like my new look?”
“Oh Mom—you must be in a lot of pain.”
“Not really, at least not compared to earlier.” Gingerly, Kathryn ran her fingertips along the indentations where the doctor removed the wires a few days ago. “These scars define my jaw, don’t you think?”
Gabby bit her lip and dropped her head, but not fast enough to hide her tears.
“Come here and give me a hug.”
After their embrace, Gabby pulled up a chair. “The first time I saw you, I was afraid to touch you. The third time we drove over, I began to believe you might make it. But you seem all right now—I mean ...”
“Oh, I’m still me, don’t you worry, honey. Still a stickler for ... I can’t believe I’ve missed planting my garden this year.”
“Oh, we took care of that—even added a new kind of squash. Mara’s a pro at weeding, and little Henri pulls out as many carrots as weeds.”
“I’m missing them something awful. I wish...”
“You’re healing—concentrate on that. It’s all you can do right now, and the nurse says you’ll be able to come home soon.”
“She does? Did she define soon?”
“No, but she also told me the doctors say it’s a miracle you survived that fall. Should’ve broken your neck, not to mention your back. I have to ask, but I wonder about it all the time. Do you remember what happened?”
Kathryn shook her head. “Not much. Well, sometimes I think I do, but then ...”
Gabby’s tone turned even more serious. “Darlene swears she saw a stranger in the church. A man. Did you see him?”
“Yes, but only after I fell. I remember his clothing and his smell. That’s about all.”
“Did he come close to you?”
“Yes, but I can’t remember what he said.”
“He actually spoke to you?”
“I’m pretty sure he did, after I fell. But I was in such a state. Doc Randall had told me not to move a muscle, and I didn’t want to upset Darlene more than she already was.”
“For a long time, she couldn’t talk about it without crying.”
“The best of friends—she’s definitely a true heart.”
A nurse brought lunch. “Look at this, dearie. You’ve finally graduated to toast with your broth. I bet you’ll never drink from a straw again once you leave here.”
Abby helped cut the toast into small pieces that Kathryn dipped before she ate. Still, chewing challenged her.
“Seems so strange for you to fall like that, Mom. You’ve always been so agile, and heights have never bothered you.”
“I know—that troubles me, too. From now on, I might have to ask you to help me wash the high windows.”
“Yeah.” Gabby dabbed crumbs from her chin. “But by the time Dad and Ander come home, you’ll be all...” She searched for suitable words, so Kathryn finished for her.
“Beautiful again.”
After Gabby left, Kathryn carefully walked into the bathroom and stood before the mirror. All in all, the surgeon did pretty well sewing up her face. Sure, a few scars zigzagged here and there, but considering she’d come through the war with nary a mark to show for it, how could she complain? A dizzy spell threatened her, so she struggled back to bed. At least now, sleep came when she wanted it to.
~
Petra halted ahead of Domingo on the path and cocked his head to listen.
“They said to stick to the river, but we’re not about to run into that rifle fire up ahead. What if we angle toward that steeple barely showing through the trees? There’s bound to be a road leading from that village to Saint Julien.”
“I believe that’s Saint-Mondane, and you’re right. There has to be a back way.”
Panting over his open canteen, Petra slanted his head. “Those shots ... perhaps someone alerted the Gestapo about us, but two other wanderers crossed their path. Would you call that fortune or misfortune?”
“You wish someone else to die in our place?”
“Not really. We have earned a long rest, carting this heavy burden so far.” Petra’s face cracked into a smile, and Domingo’s tension released a bit.
“No rest for us. We still have an hour, maybe two, ahead.” He tamped down his anxious thoughts. Of course they would get the gold there in time.
But an agitating niggle taunted his nerves, like a fish working at tempting bait. Ever since he’d led Katarin to Albi, his missions kept changing in the middle.
That night when he and Petra first left Gabaudet, the same thing happened, so he ought not be surprised at the sudden appearance of the gold and its exhausted carriers, just when he had begun to look forward to shouldering a bazooka or taking down the guards.
Petra wiped his mouth, shoved his canteen into his jacket, and shot off toward the steeple. Domingo pulled his mind back from their original bridge-blowing mission to the task at hand.
Before he and Petra left, he’d handed half of his weapons to the strangers. Now, he felt almost naked with only one knife rubbing against his ankle. A wry thought made him grin as he raced up an incline along a gurgling stream. From there, they wound around a twisted cliff side above the Dordogne.
What if Père Gaspard prayed he would be spared more killing before the war ended? Quite likely, since he’d
entered into Domingo’s misery so fully after Sancha’s death. He wouldn’t be surprised if Père’s prayers had a hand in diverting his missions, but he would never know for sure.
In spite of his soaked shirt, a shiver traced Domingo’s spine. Sometimes the ancient faith of his fathers seemed just that, ancient. Their trust in the Almighty had flowered in different times, long ago and far away. And yet, they’d faced calamities and dire adversity.
But they remained steadfast in the Basque ways, especially their faith. What would life mean without that steady foundation? A vast emptiness enveloped Domingo at the thought.
Lately, something else troubled him. Last night, a wayfarer spread word of partisans torturing some captured Nazis. The victims weren’t even fighting men, but office workers who had never laid a hand on a French citizen.
He’d heard of the Gestapo pulling out fingers and toenails, burning agents with smoking cigarettes, and the like. But this ... Even as he loped behind Petra, he tried in vain to blot out the reported scene, yet couldn’t stop imagining being stripped naked, digging his own grave, and being thrown into it before succumbing to a gunshot.
Père must be aware of these actions, yet he continued to do everything in his power for la Résistance. Did Katarin know about such things? She entered his mind naturally, not that she ever left for long. Kathryn Isaacs. Her name held a musical lilt, foreign and invigorating. The Basque version rang stronger to him—Katarin—but also softer to the ear.
The thought of her ought to keep him positive, for the presence of agents from England here in this isolated territory, and now so many Americans, too, signified hope. But for Domingo, that hope warred with fear for her safety. At Gestapo headquarters in Lyon, he’d heard, that mad butcher, Klaus Barbie, tortured women and men alike.
What if the vans detected Katarin’s transmissions and she were captured? Unbearable helplessness washed over Domingo at the idea, for what could he do to rescue her? About as much as he could to find and help his own family.
A projecting tree root returned him to the moment. He stumbled forward and barely caught himself before crashing into Petra. The packet of gold, besides being heavy, prevented any air from reaching his back, and the straps rubbed through his shirt.
Petra made a sharp right turn down a path skirting Saint-Mondane. Normal middle-of-the-day noises carried from the village, and cooking smells stirred rumblings in Domingo’s stomach. They had last eaten early this morning, when one of their team fried a vast amount of fish he caught during the night.
“By natural means?” The fisherman kept silent at Petra’s question. Obviously, he’d employed a grenade, Domingo and Petra agreed. So unfair to the fish, but coupled with hard bread, they tasted wonderful.
Now, hunger roared through him like fire, but there would be no stopping, not until they made their delivery. Domingo rehearsed the instructions. Find the library. Go around the back and wait for a lorry with a female driver.
Katarin—there she was again—dealt with similar instructions all the time. That day when she received a message lacking the exact word proving the sender’s authenticity, she figured it out right away. Had that man been Gestapo? What if she had fallen for his ruse?
He felt privileged that she’d told him about her wild past two years. From Amerika to London, losing her pilot husband, becoming an agent, training, dropping into France in December, climbing to Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, transferring to Clermont-Ferrand, and then to the parachute drop where they met again.
The list stretched on, and she endured all these changes in a strange country. How could he complain about his own reversals?
Determined to rein in his wayward thoughts, Domingo shifted his pack and scurried after Petra. An hour later, with another steeple in sight, his shoulders cried for relief, and his stomach ground inside him. Petra stopped at the village outskirts, where a plaque proclaimed they’d reached their destination at last.
“The library should be at the center of town, don’t you think?”
A nod was all Domingo could manage. He wiped away sweat that threatened his eyes.
“Do you want to stay here with the gold or check on the lorry?”
“Stay. Bring food.”
Petra’s wide grin showed a gap where he lost a tooth since he and Domingo last traveled together. “I’ll see what I can do.”
They paced from the path a good distance, found a rock that stuck out like a nose, and stashed their packs under it. Domingo sank beside them to keep watch.
Petra shook his shoulders loose. “Do I look like a hapless traveler passing through town for not much reason at all?”
“I would say so, except for your drenched back.”
Someone raised a second-floor window in the nearest house, so they ducked farther back into the foliage. Maybe they were being watched.
“Get going. I’m ready to pounce on any food that comes near, rats included.”
“Don’t speak too quickly. They say they grow larger than cats in Marseilles.”
Petra left, and Domingo positioned himself on the earth, using the packs to rub his sore shoulders. His gut caroused again, so he took out his canteen, but seconds later, a violent cramp in his leg muscle jolted him upright.
About the same time, a lorry turned down the road. He squinted as the driver maneuvered a curve. A woman, he was almost sure, though a beret hid her hair. In a village this small, he would wager that lorry was the gold’s destination. He pressed his palm against the painful area in his calf.
Up to this point, he had no desire to see the treasure he and Petra carried, but now, with an afternoon breeze stirring the treetops and time to pass, the urge struck him. What did gold bars look like, anyway?
He shook out his calf and paced until the discomfort subsided. Then he eased onto the pine needle carpet again. As he leaned into the tree and found the leather latches on his pack, a criminal sensation enveloped him.
But why shouldn’t he at least view the contents? He glanced around, but saw nothing and heard only birdsong and animal chatter. A lazy June afternoon with no one in sight, yet Gestapo agents might emerge at any minute. If they did, what recourse would he have?
His knife still awaited use. And he forgot to leave something else with his bridge-blowing friends—the grenades. They rubbed against his ribs from the inside pocket of his vest. More perspiration broke out on his forehead. Without even realizing it, he’d trekked all this way with explosives a centimeter from his heart.
That discovery settled his quandary—if caught, he’d blow the Gestapo up, and himself, too, rather than be taken alive. He touched his pack. How many lives would this cache save?
Again, the urge to see the gold overwhelmed him. He lifted a latch, checked his environs again, and lifted the other. Only a slim, shiny surface showed, but his fingers told him more. Smooth and cool. Heavy, he already knew. But how heavy? He picked up the top bar and guessed—about twelve kilos, maybe a bit more.
Compared to the hay bales he hefted since his youth, or a swine fattened for market, or a pregnant ewe that slipped into a crevice, each bar weighed nothing. But all totaled, how many pigs or ewes or bales had he carried along the Dordogne in these three gold bars?
The bushes moved, and he slapped the latches shut. Instinct sent his fingers to his inner jacket pocket. Grasp the grenade, position your fingers to pull…
But Petra’s grimy hand, crawling with a forest of black hair, passed through the branches like a white flag.
“The lorry just parked.”
“Brown, with an olive canvas?”
“You saw it go by?”
“Just after you left. How far away is the library?”
“Not so far.”
“But we eat first?”
Petra tossed him a crusty loaf of bread and set another packet on the ground. Then he pulled a long smoked sausage from his knapsack. Another, and several more.
“Only the best for my partner.”
“Where did you...?”
Domingo bit into a sausage. “Whatever they call us is all right with me. He gave it to you without argument?”
Petra sat down cross-legged. “Try to imagine this scene: the local barber out in the street, shaving the heads of collaborator women while other men hit them. In that sea of flesh and hair and blood, all eyes naturally turned from me to the main attraction. Maybe some of those women really have slept with the enemy, but I wonder.
“Anyway, no one even noticed my requisition.” He shook his head and sat down. “’La coiffure de ‘44’, they call it.” He stuffed half of a sausage into his mouth, ending the conversation.
Thinking of those women, Domingo’s wild appetite waned. He’d heard partisans call such women collabos horizontals, for giving comfort to the enemy. The idea disgusted him, but so did visualizing them dragged naked into public squares and shaved.
What if his sister used her own body to bargain for Maman and Gabirel’s lives? People might misunderstand her action, but what justice would lie in condemning her? Find the mercy in every situation ... straight from Père’s mouth. The trouble was, no one took time for mercy these days.
“Petra, did your Aitaita tell you the devil lives in those deep caverns we passed yesterday?”
“Of course. They formed when he dug his heel in and tempted Saint Martin near Padirac.”
“Do you think it is so?”
Petra wiped grease from his mouth. “No, that’s only a legend, a child’s tale. I’d say the devil dwells up here among us. He came with the Huns when they invaded. He lives in grenades and cannons and tanks.”
~
Behind a mass of clouds arranged across the sky like clumps of clotted cream, the sun stayed hidden. At fresh bad news from a stranger, Père Gaspard’s shoulders shrank even more. Next to him, the traveler pursed his lips at Kate’s question: “What do you mean, the Gestapo took them away?”
She grabbed Père’s sleeve to pull him closer, as if closeness might protect them from the details. The bedraggled fellow had overtaken them a few kilometers from their destination. Now, he worked his upper lip with his teeth. A young man, but his thinness and pallor gave the aura of one far older.
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