So focused on her training and secretly nursing her own losses, Kate had missed the annual proclamation of Christ’s names last Christmas. She regretted that now. Prince of Peace—that sounded so ironic in these present circumstances. Mighty God—some would find the concept laughable now, too, for where was divine protection for all the innocent people of the world when they needed it?
Yet the suffering captured in the tymphanum juxtaposed otherworldly power with life’s most impossible situation—death. If death claimed even God’s Son, what hope remained? But the crucifixion signified a great, eternal power beyond any present distress.
And Père believed that humans could claim that strength. Claim forgiveness. Kate hugged herself. She needed it—that was certain. But how could she forgive herself? That would mean putting the past to rest, but the memories resurfaced to taunt her just when she most needed to sleep.
By the time Père hurried out with a brown-robed brother, hope harnessed Kate’s imagination. In spite of her rashness and selfish actions, maybe Aunt Alvina could forgive her. Maybe she did long ago, and immersed in heaven’s mercy, cheered her on now without holding a grudge.
And when the time came for Domingo to hear the frightful news about Gabirel and his mother, perhaps this same mercy would somehow surround him. He mentioned his grandfather’s presence being so real to him, even though years had passed since his death. Maybe now, Maman also hovered near him in his distress.
So much we cannot know—so much mystery unleashed by the war. Kate studied the lorry, another vehicle seemingly unfit for the road, yet usable. She longed to be useful to Domingo, too, if only to shoulder a portion of his grief. Even thinking of that produced a torrent of heaviness that tightened her throat.
Père unlatched the cart’s compartment and someone else hefted and unloaded her transmitter. She followed them along the side of the church and through a different door, away from the one used by the stretcher-bearers.
Then Père fell back with her. “They offer us temporary shelter here, but we must climb to the camp tomorrow. You see, this place welcomes both Résistance and Nazi wounded. You can be sure of secure transmitting only until morning.”
“With Germans in the church?”
“Stranger things have happened—safety right under their noses. From what I can see, only the severely injured end up here. Even if they had the strength to find you out, they would have no way to contact their units.”
As usual, Père was right. Besides, what choice did she have but to trust? He’d never led her into danger yet. A fresh quietness filled Kate as she followed a robed man through a maze down some steep stairs and into a locked basement.
All of a sudden, arrangements for a single night sufficed. She settled into a dank, cramped space far from where Père tended to the wounded. Far from the Nazis.
~
Those silly shoes nagged at Kathryn, along with the tweed. The fabric had a few yellow specks mottled into brown, black, and white, not something you’d normally see around here. It was almost as if someone dressed for thirty years ago magically found his way into her world.
She slipped her dress over her head, anticipating Darlene’s arrival. In a couple of hours, she’d finally get home. Nothing ever sounded so wonderful. Small joys enticed her—she visualized walking through the simple bungalow, touching her countertop, the cherry wood doorframes, her yellow gingham curtains.
The newspaper Darlene brought her last week lay folded open to Mara’s name in the rodeo listings. Barrel racing, at her age? Well, Mara certainly lacked nothing in the risk-taking department. Hadn’t she balanced on the garage roof last fall? Part monkey, everyone said. Just like Gabby.
And just like you, Agent Merce. Remember parachuting out of that Lysander? You embraced the flowing air, the night sky, and yes—the danger.
Kathryn shook away the memory. Some things you did just once, not even understanding your choice. If you survived, you blocked the memory of those decisions out of your mind. If you could, that is. She picked up the newspaper—such a joy to be able to read without dizziness overwhelming her. The rodeo was still three weeks away—she couldn’t wait to cheer for Mara and capture the experience with her camera.
One of her regular nurses came in. “You’re all checked out, Kathryn, so you can go to the exit down the hall to the left. That’s probably closer to Darlene’s car.” She picked up the suitcase, set it down again, and enfolded Kathryn in an unexpected solid hug.
“You even know her name.”
“Of course I do. She must’ve visited you fifteen times—such a loyal friend. I’m going to miss you, Kathryn—wish you lived closer to Boise so we could have lunch together once in a while. I’m so proud of how hard you’ve worked to get better. You had quite the challenge, but your perseverance has paid off. You’re almost like new.”
“Well, you did a lot of work, too, Sarah.”
Sarah waved her hand in the air. “It’s my job—it’s what I do.”
“But you do it with style. Thanks for all the extra time you spent listening to my woes.”
Sarah stripped the bed. “You could never whine, dearie. You’re a trooper par excellence.” She carried out Kathryn’s breakfast tray and paused at the threshold. “I do hope you’ll stop in to say hello if you ever come down to Boise.”
Through the window, Kathryn spied an unfamiliar car pulling up, and for some reason, her heart skipped a beat. “Come on, old girl, only a few minutes, and you’ll be out of here.”
Seemed like forever since she’d left home to clean the church that day in May. She picked up her suitcase and paused a moment to look back. Funny—even a hospital room could start to feel like home.
Halfway down the hall, a strong odor suddenly caught her attention, so she twisted to see behind her. A man maintained his distance, but she still identified his distinct tobacco smell. Tweed pants, hazel eyes—a slight fellow with weathered skin. She shrank back against the wall.
He caught up with her, planted his feet and squared his shoulders. “We need you, Agent Merce.”
A shiver raged through Kathryn. She hadn’t heard her code name for thirty years, and thought she never would again. The intruder studied her as though weighing his words.
“We believe we’ve found one of the henchman of the Butcher of Lyon, but we need a witness. Did you ever see him?”
A virulent mix of emotions inundated Kathryn. She grabbed the nearest windowsill for support. The man’s hazel eyes never left her, and she felt sure he never deviated from his goal.
Her only hope was to close her eyes. For a moment, she considered lying, because the sensation at the pit of her stomach assured her that if she told the truth, her life would alter again. Hadn’t she experienced enough of that already?
~
As Petra guzzled water from his canteen, Domingo leaned against a tree, sipping a little at a time. After felling two Germans who stumbled into their path, they rested a while, each in their own world. A wisp of humor came to Domingo—Père Gaspard must have faltered in his prayers.
Blue sky with a slight hot wind—this was the kind of day for weeding a field or coaxing sheep into the shade. Domingo attempted to suppress the vivid image of the enemy he’d just sent from this world. But Petra, always focused, already contemplated their next move.
“What do you think?”
“The weight of that gold we carried hurt my brain. I’ve forgotten how to think.”
“Forgotten, eh? So, you no longer think about your family?”
Fire raged in Domingo’s chest. He jerked his head away.
“Of course your answer is no. Your brother and your Maman weigh on my mind, too. Since we passed Souillac, we’re nearer to the Correze camp. What if we seek information there? Perhaps word about Figeac has reached them.”
“Word about one old woman and a boy unrelated to anyone in the camp?”
“With so many people on the move, peculiar things happen, Domingo. How will we know unless we ask?�
��
Domingo kicked at a stone. This time, Petra’s instinct must have failed him. The news he craved about his family would come, perhaps, but in its time, and surely not so easily.
But Petra persevered. “Friend, listen to me. Finding your answers, in my opinion, has become as urgent as our assignment.”
“But we cannot leave our post. We signed on to this task.”
Petra’s eyes glimmered. “One of us could leave. I don’t recall swearing an oath that we would both stay here every minute. And with their final breaths, those soldiers we killed told me what I wanted to know.”
“They did?” Domingo recalled one set of hazel eyes, one blue, young men caught unawares and fearing for their lives. What could Petra have learned from their chaotic garble?
“The taller one said to the other, ‘Don’t let them know we’re trailing the rest of the unit.’ It seems we caught the last two of the bunch, so I can handle things here until you return.”
Domingo’s sigh met an increasing wind. “Merci, brother. Your idea makes sense, but for now, I have given up on finding answers.”
Petra’s scowl made clear that giving up” had no place in his vocabulary. His eyes flashed. But for Domingo, letting go of his expectations seemed logical, even desirable, under the circumstances. A grander scheme calling for self-sacrifice played out around them, and that meant putting his search on hold—it also distracted him from his growing sense of helplessness.
Once again, Petra surprised him. “I understand. But when we met a few days ago, you prayed for guidance. I still do ... for our missions, and for information about your family. In finding our way through this puzzling time, we must act on our wits, and the idea of going to the camp has haunted me since yesterday.”
A bird intent on its destination swooped low, and Domingo swallowed down his trepidation. From the riverbank, a frog croaked, probably aroused from slumber when they dragged the Germans into the brush. The distasteful recollection of the heavy thunk when his victim collapsed on the earth sent a shudder through Domingo. A well-muscled fellow, he might have put up quite a struggle, but with Petra’s help, one swift blow behind his ear sufficed.
The deed complete, Petra instructed, “Go watch the path while I hide them.” When Domingo returned, all sign of the bodies had vanished. They scraped twigs and branches over the area until only a placid country scene remained.
But now, a sinking sensation overcame Domingo. How could he doubt Petra’s instincts, when over and over, he had proven his trustworthiness? He knew he should keep his thoughts to himself, yet his argument sat ready, as clear as the sky overhead.
Petra’s insistence forced him to face a truth that he would rather not know. Not yet. He’d been considering how people vanished in this war, never to be seen or heard from again. In some ways, not knowing his family’s fate might be easier.
But faithful Petra squatted there, waiting. His deep slow breathing told Domingo his patience would prevail. Why wait? He might as well let loose.
“Something tells me they are gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
Domingo squeezed his eyes shut. What did he mean?
He toyed with the word that drenched him with fear. Mort. Dead. The concept came to him so often in recent days, it had ceased to startle him. He turned its brevity over in his mind, like its meaning. Surely, Maman had perished by now.
Maybe Gabirel still survived in some German work camp, but Domingo could not imagine the same for her. True, Katarin praised Maman’s courageous will in the face of that Gestapo visit, but what could she do now?
Gestapo swine in the Ibarra barn—a sick taste washed his throat as a gust assailed them. What had they come to? Yes, Maman rose to that challenge, but this ... being taken far from their home ... Though he struggled against it, an insistent inner nudge declared that her time on earth had ended. Did Petra agree? He hadn’t said, but only made clear his belief that knowing one way or the other would be better than this uncertainty.
Silence grew between him and Petra like a swarm of gnats. Petra worked his jaw and stared off into the woods. Sudden clouds gathered, accompanied by a sinister rumble in the heavens. They drew their tarps from their bags and Petra came so near Domingo smelled his trail scent and noted the intense light in his eyes.
“Will you stay here or go?” His set chin told Domingo all he needed to know. If he chose to stay, Petra would proceed to the Resistance camp himself and ask after Maman and Gabirel.
Arguing would do no good. Stay here or go to the Résistance Camp—his choice narrowed like the riverbed a few kilometers back. The billowing dark clouds provided an excuse, but what difference did bad weather make in the midst of tanks and murder and mayhem?
Petra, never fearful, relied on his innate sense that all would be well, even if one of them left. And though Domingo could not imagine it being true, his partner’s intuition about finding some information at the camp must be very strong. How could he fight against that?
“I’ll go. I like loping along the river.”
Petra’s shoulders dropped, and his easy humor returned. “Part wolf, eh?”
“No, haven’t you heard? They call me La Foudre.” Domingo’s chortle echoed hollow in his ears, but making a little joke eased his tension. “So you must be Le Tonnere.”
Lightning and thunder—as if to mock him, the summer wind turned cool, and a rainstorm slanted down from the southwest, followed by hail clattering like jackboots on cobblestone. Not the time Domingo would have chosen to huddle under a rubber tarp or begin a journey afoot. But as usual, this war offered little choice.
For a moment, he pictured Aitaita, Papa, and Ander, gone on to war long before him. They did what they felt they must. That image strengthened him to muster the heart for this solitary jaunt.
Cramping calf muscles compelled him to rise, and Petra clasped his hand in a steely grip. “We will meet again soon. If you don’t return, I will follow you. Venez avec Dieu.”
A second later, a gale raged down around them, lashing rain interspersed with stinging needles of sleet. Petra’s steady gaze ignited Domingo’s confidence. Off into the tempest, and a few feet onto the trail, something about the miserable, freezing downpour exhilarated him. One more force of nature to confront, one more obstacle to overcome.
Icy rain slapped his face, but he merged with the storm and took on the wilderness.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Thank heavens that storm settled the dust, but we’ll have to watch for mudslides on sodden paths in the morning.” A dole-faced partisan addressed Père Gaspard in an anteroom at Saint Pierre’s.
“At least the weather will slow down the SS, too.”
“Maybe a little, but unfortunately, most of them aren’t traveling afoot. We’ll have to wait for the wind to dry things out. Be ready to leave about two.”
While Père made arrangements for their trek to the camp, Kate continued rolling bandages, an activity that transported her back to Mrs. Tenney’s church in London, where she learned the finer points of this task. Mrs. T and her friends made a game of their rolling.
But on her check for messages, a shocking one came through. Repatriate to London tonight. She checked again. No, there was no mistaking these orders. Nothing to do but tell Père Gaspard.
Peeking into the makeshift hospital where he sat beside a wounded man, Kate waited to catch his attention. On a cot behind him, a soldier’s black Waffen S.S. uniform stood out.
A peculiar mix of odors—blood, perspiration, strong wine, and chloroform—filled the room. Père stood up and passed to the next patient without looking her way. She might as well roll more bandages while she waited. But revulsion struggled with her sense of purpose—some of these rolls might be used for Nazis.
When Père Gaspard found her, he announced, “We’re bound for the Promised Land. Are you ready?”
“We’ll have to change our password.”
“What was it before?”
“Don’t
you remember?”
His bloodshot eyes went blank. Kate rolled her hand upward and arched her neck until she surveyed the delicate embossed ceiling.
“Ah, yes. Ascension. Now what?”
“Canaan.”
“Perfect—the promised land. We’re promised land people. Like the musketeers of old, all for one, one for all.”
Kate checked one more time for information from London. The dank, enclosed space reflected her mood. Go back to England? How could she? Not now, when she finally felt so purposeful. She gave herself a talking-to.
“You signed up for this, and orders are orders.” She calculated the coordinates in the next message, perhaps not so far from here. Not impossible—of course, not impossible. Orders could never be impossible.
After tapping out a positive reply, Kate shut down the transmitter and allowed herself a shudder. Promised land people ... the term took on fresh meaning. But England surely seemed far from the promised land of her dreams.
She ran her fingers over her radio’s smooth wood. Odd how one could become attached to a mechanism like this—this radio had brought her a sense of purposefulness. But once again, the time had come to thrust herself into the unknown.
Heavyhearted, she went to find Père again. “I have something to tell you. I’ve received orders to return to London.”
“When?”
“Tonight.” She showed him the directions. “Here’s where they’ll pick me up.”
“Why, I never imagined...” He studied the logistics. “You’re certain?”
“It’s not out of the ordinary—agents get called back all the time.”
“Hmmm ... So now we must find a guide who can take you to this plateau in time for the flight. If only Domingo were here. Let me see what I can do.”
He started off, but turned to ask a favor. “Check again, will you?”
If only ... no time to let her mind wander there. Hadn’t Miss G reminded her during her training to replace if only with next time? “The first wastes our time in the sea of regret. The second points us to second chances.”
A Purpose True Page 20