“Do you think this priest might have connections in Lyon? With the Gestapo headquartered there, any contacts we have can make a big difference.”
“He’s never mentioned any.”
“Well then, we’ll move forward with our plan.”
For a moment, the odds rattled Kate. How could she possibly locate Père again? Who knew where he went after seeing her off? He might have changed his plan to climb to the encampment. But she could check with Mother Hélène, and in Domingo’s village.
During the debriefing, she’d referred to Domingo only as a guide. True, but he meant so much more to her—every time she mentioned him to the officer, Domingo’s dark eyes arose before her and her pulse quickened.
This time, the plane had settled onto a field in a gentle rain. A guide met her and breathed her code name, shouldered her radio, and moved on without a word.
Nimble like Domingo, he seemed barely to need water, stopping only once just before dawn. He left her for a few minutes, and Kate tried to orient herself as light streaked the horizon. Not far away, an iron plow poised mid-field, surrounded by drenched earth. The guide remarked about it when he returned.
“The SS probably turned the oxen into stew.”
“Where are you taking me, and how much farther is it?”
The young partisan studied her. “I assumed you knew. We’re headed toward Saint Pierre’s, where your partner tends the wounded. On a normal day, we’d be there by midmorning, but with this rain, who knows?”
Another two hours found them drenched, but within range. When the rain stopped, the sun came out and turned the air sultry. Kate’s pantlegs were more mud than not. Père Gaspard’s soutane would gain ten pounds on this trek—she could almost hear his off-tune whistling.
We’re promised land people. What exactly had he meant? Once, when she visited Harold’s church with Addie, a hymn extolled the virtues of that land of milk and honey, fruits growing on trees that never withered, no more sickness, sorrow, or death. Above all, the Almighty reigned there. All the verses rhymed in a cheerful tune, as though the journey must be a joy.
Trudging ankle deep along what seemed a God-forsaken path, that rosy picture clashed with reality. It was hard to imagine this guide leading her straight to Père Gaspard—too easy. But Père would make a good Canaan—could a person be a promised land?
Slow progress gave her plenty of time to consider promised-land people. What were they like, anyway? Maybe Père meant good traveling companions, set on the goal, positive most of the time, and ready for whatever came along.
Suddenly, her guide halted with his hand upraised. “Wait.” He checked ahead and gestured for her to follow.
What greeted Kate next shocked her almost as much as seeing Addie standing at her Baker Street door. Under a chestnut tree stood Père Gaspard. She closed her eyes and looked again. Unmistakable in his soutane, two-toned from the mud, he angled his head and waved before hurrying her way.
“So—you have returned, mon amie américaine, and in one piece.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
In spite of thick foliage overhanging portions of the path, June sun beat down on Kate as she followed Père. En route to the Ségala camp high above Saint-Céré, the familiar swish of his soutane, even in this caking mud, created a comforting rhythm.
From the moment he met her and her guide on the path, the same love surrounded her that she sensed at Charles and Addie’s wedding. How could she doubt that heaven watched out for her now? To witness their vows and be sent back here would have been enough. But Kate acknowledged her incessant need for proof, and proof traipsed the path a few feet ahead of her once again, in the form of this gangly priest.
Somehow, Père Gaspard had already been informed of her mission, so she hadn’t even needed to explain. And he’d already been busy making plans.
“I’ll travel with you as far as the encampment. There, we’ll find a guide for the rest of your journey—I’ll do anything I can to foil the Gestapo.”
Kate almost felt guilty that everything seemed so simple, but what awaited her in Lyon would surely make up for this easy start. Word had it that interrogations there often led to death—she sent up a plea for Maurice.
“Take care, it’s a little slippery after last night’s storm.” A few minutes later, Père half-turned his head. “I suspect my ancestors used this trail on their pilgrimages.” At a level place in the trail, his incredibly blue eyes gleamed at her with purpose and mischief, like a cat’s.
“Getting quiet around here, isn’t it? With our fighters going north, I’m betting the Limousin will be liberated by summer’s end. And then, freedom will move south to us.” Père’s fiery red curls slid into further disarray as he retrieved a soiled kerchief from his voluminous robe.
“You used to prophesy, but now you’ve stooped to betting?” Kate wiped off perspiration pooled at the nape of her neck and slapped at an insect.
“Why not? My guess is as good as anyone else’s.” Suddenly, Père stiffened. Their guide raised his hand at muted steps from the tangled brush.
Kate closed her eyes and waited until the schluss ... schluss of espadrilles decreased her tension. But these days, collaborator miliciens and even the Gestapo took to disguising themselves with Basque footwear.
With Père, she shrank deeper into the bushes and joined his silent prayer. Please shield us. But their requests produced the opposite results.
“Over there to the left ... that’s the priest.”
In seconds, several partisans surrounded them. One of them pulled Père aside and murmured to him in Occitan. Then he positioned himself before Kate, his dark eyes boring into hers. “You served with Maurice, oui?”
Père’s protective stance demanded an explanation, and finally, the stranger glanced his way. “We have need of this fair-haired girl.” He turned to Kate again. “Your ID, please.” He squinted at her card and read aloud. “But you once were Ibarra...”
At the sound of Domingo’s family name, Kate froze. Père murmured something, and whatever he said satisfied the stranger. “Père, you may come along if you like.”
Without asking, Kate knew why they wanted her. The distasteful truth encroached like a nasty itch. She wanted to scratch this reality away, but knew better than to try. These partisans needed her to confirm a traitor’s identity—who cared if she ever reached her proposed destination?
After she cooperated with these patriots, la Résistance would give the betrayer a double-barreled traitor’s farewell. Ambivalence rode Kate’s midsection—she hadn’t looked forward to going near the Gestapo headquarters, but of all her missions since she parachuted into France, this one might be even worse.
The leader studied her as if measuring her fortitude. “You must identify a turncoat for us.” He spat and waited.
He took her silence for compliance and ushered her past his comrades. They backed to the side and she fell in behind this new leader.
Nothing had changed here since her stay in London—detours rose on every hand. Choices still faced her, but each one depended on others made by friend and foe alike, including heartless Waffen S.S. commanders.
Who could be trusted for a night’s sleep or some food? Who collaborated with the Nazi-friendly Vichy government? Who remained loyal to La France? And who had betrayed the cause and must pay for that foolhardy choice? Nearly overcome with gratitude for Père’s steady footfall on the path behind her, Kate kept up the pace. Maybe he could help Eugene face an ignominious death.
That’s what Père was about, making a difference, and he did so in many ways. Since l’Invasion, Kate’s travels with him fused nightmare with inspiration.
Because of his perspective, beauty had surprised her everywhere. In the rocky heights surrounding their paths, in his interactions with everyone from lorry drivers to Mother Hélène, Père radiated uncommon serenity, opening her eyes to the landscape. At the same time, he’d made her laugh, and even surprised her with that checkerboard—another kind of be
auty.
The present view provided the perfect example. Limestone cliffs shouldered against an azure sky, wildflowers peppered meadows that invited Kate to lie down for an afternoon nap, and a sun-dappled stream flowed from the heights. Yet her destination held a new horror—she would be instrumental in Eugene’s demise.
Again, she gave thanks for Père Gaspard. His acknowledgement of human weakness in general, as well as his own in particular, won her heart. And today, that frailty would be on display in Eugene. Yet come what may, Père still trusted in an ultimate, though seemingly distant goodness.
“Remember how this war turns things around—what seems so far away may really lie quite close at hand. Through all their trials, the apostles claimed God with us—indeed, even in martyrdom. And we follow their example.”
A ground squirrel chattered up a tree. Even creatures sensed disturbance in the natural order of things. Midsummer ought to display fields planted, peasants at work, and carefully tended grapevines, but so many had fled the tanks, none remained to do the work.
Like the musky rise of late fog still lingering in river hollows, Père’s convictions persisted in spite of everything. That steadiness calmed and sustained Kate, though any second, the Gestapo might rain down on them.
Closer to the camp, she recalled weeks-old news of a double agent called la Corneille. She’d entertained questions then, of course. Had she ever crossed paths with him—or her? Now, her questions multiplied.
Could Eugene be la Corneille? Kate recalled the shock of hearing that her network’s wiry radio operator with his heavy shank of black hair had turned traitor. Could he also be the one who traveled all through the southern Departments, affecting many other networks as well?
To think he had betrayed Maurice, their organizer, and so many more, all the way back to London—such a thing seemed impossible. Every time she’d delivered a message, she’d come so close to touching his hand. She’d always considered herself a good judge of character, so how could she have failed to read the treachery in his eyes?
The partisans led them past a small hamlet set into the hillside and upward past a large two-story house. A central set of rooms rose above the second level, with a brown-roofed tower and two stories on the other side. Kate longed to stop and walk through the rooms. But chances were, the place had been absconded by the Milice.
A hundred feet higher, the leader grunted a password to a guard stationed in a low branch of a tree. Soon, the dreaded moment of truth would come—if only she could dissolve into the day’s heat.
Something else troubled her. Someone had sent these men to find her, but whom? And the leader knew Domingo’s family name—what could that mean?
He would never have told them—no, he would hold her secrets until his dying day. But even though her original agent name had been Dumont, these men had searched for her under her more recent identity. Of course, London had just sent her back with yet another persona.
In a sudden burst of sunshine through layered leaves, camp sounds reached their troupe. Dense foliage obscured the camp entrance, and farther into its depths, she imagined Domingo’s ebony eyes glinting at her. She could almost hear his voice on this breezeless air.
If she saw him again ... When she saw him again, it would be enough to hear him breathe her name.
Another guard stopped their progress and brought Kate back to this day, this distasteful reality. Would she have to watch the maquisards torture Eugene or raze his body with bullets? The firing squad, swift and sure, had become their favored execution style.
High in a chestnut, a crow protested this invasion of its territory with its hoarse cries. The huge black noisemaker reminded her that in this world of subterfuge, some surely lost their faith. But Domingo ... somewhere, maybe not so far away, he carried out missions that would pulse terror through her veins. Ah, here she was, thinking of him again.
I lift him up, I lift him up ... please protect him and grant us victory.
In heavy foliage, the leader again paused to give a password. A man gave directions, and Kate finally spotted the guard. They must have entered the camp, at last.
Around a curve, a partisan addressed Père. “Do you wish to visit the refugees?”
“Not yet. I’ll accompany this young lady for a while.” He made Kate a promise with his eyes—he would not leave her.
The partisan nodded and headed past a canvas tent smelling of bread baking, obviously the kitchen. Kate and Père trailed him down a gully, across a meadow, and finally into an obscure shelter.
“We have the prisoner roped in here. If you stand where I tell you, you can see him without being seen.” He led them ten paces before making a turn into a heavily shaded area. But as he predicted, a light shone farther on.
Perhaps six feet from an opening in a heavy curtain, they stopped. “Take a good, long look.”
Eugene—clearly, Eugene.
“You recognize him?”
“May I see him from the front?”
The partisan flitted like an insect through the opening, and two guards turned the prisoner. Doubly sure, Kate let out a long breath. Père touched her elbow.
The partisan returned, expectancy written on his features. “Is this the one they call Eugene, who transmitted for Maurice’s circuit?”
“Yes.”
“You are certain?” This time, Père posed the question.
“No doubt at all. I saw Eugene many times.”
Père’s sigh engulfed Kate, but the partisan gestured her back the way they had come. “Merci. You serve la France well.”
But Père advanced toward Eugene. The partisan led her away, and when they approached the kitchen, he gestured toward some fresh bread loaves. “Perhaps you need to eat?”
When shots rang out, he showed no emotion, but told Kate to wait here. A few minutes later, Père approached. A heavy knot sat in Kate’s stomach, but the dullness in Père’s eyes told her nothing.
“He refused to speak with me—hopefully he found some peace.” He shook his head. “Ah, mon amie, the troubles of this war. I’m going to see how I can help the refugees—nearly a hundred on the other side of camp, they say. Headquarters sent some urgent messages, and that partisan will return shortly to take you to a radio. Do you think you can work?”
“Of course.”
“Be kind to yourself.” He hesitated. “So far, I have located no one here headed to Lyon. Everyone able to travel has left the camp in the other direction. This derails your assigned duty, but we’ll have to wait.”
“Randomness—I’m not surprised. Maybe the war will end before I can get there.”
Père touched her shoulder. “Maybe indeed. But for now, we both have work to do. I will find you later.”
A few minutes after he left, the partisan led Kate to a cave-like dugout. At the entrance, he handed her a lantern and some folded papers.
“You’ll find another lantern inside. You’re safe here.”
Kate hung the lantern and in a nearby stream, washed off the worst of the mud. Then she sank into a squeaky chair set before a substantial wooden table. That same serenity she’d experienced at the Ibarra homestead descended. She pulled out the messages and gave herself to London headquarters and the BBC.
~
Hours must have passed. The two lanterns flickered, dispelling the darkness, but at the cavern’s entrance, sunset reigned. In fresh evening air sweet with blossoms, Kate stretched her arms and cramped neck.
An image of her mother hunched over a Great War telephone switchboard tickled her thoughts.
“Mother...” The hallowed word drifted like cottonwood tufts or milkweed fluff. Oh, why hadn’t she asked Monsieur le Blanc more about her before he died?
“I so wish we could talk, Mother, if only for five minutes. I’d like to know what your life was like at the Front, and how you decided to come to France. When did you first meet Le Renard? Did he notice you first? How did you know he cared for you, and how long did you wait to marry? Did he woo
you with wildflowers, if any dared to flourish so near the battle?”
A chilly wind bade Kate pull her sweater closer. “How did you decide to move back to the States? Was it hard for my father to leave his country? Most of all, what call did you answer when you took that last flight?”
She walked a distance away. Did you cry when you said good-bye to me that time? Did you have any premonition that you’d never see me again? And what caused your plane to go down?
Back at the entrance, Madame Ibarra’s face undulated like a feather on the wind. How was it for Domingo, now that he had lost her? To think, he might not even know yet.
Surely, everything would be different for him. His mother’s voice and laughter, her gestures and the light in her eyes, her unique scent—hundreds of intimate memories must swirl inside him. After living together all these years, how could he possibly let her go?
Some time after Kate returned to her work, a whiff of hot chicory drifted in. Père Gaspard stood there holding a steaming cup. The brew, tangy yet sharp, beckoned her from her work for a few moments.
“How did you manage?”
“Always wondering about how, aren’t you? Simply enjoy this, and hand over any messages you have ready. I’ll find a courier.” His eyes gleamed against the darkness. “Do you know what I’ve been considering?”
“How could I ever guess?”
“Something about Saint Pierre’s tymphanum. I’ll be back later to check on you.”
A coarse wool blanket warmed Kate as she sank against the rock wall, its earthy scent enveloping her. Nothing like hot chicory and the chance to close her eyes, even for a short time before the BBC’s personal messages.
In the distance, she could hear the refugees at their everyday tasks—cooking supper, talking over campfires, preparing children for bed. That rhythm of humanity created a sudden shaft of desire.
Then out of the night rose an impression from the past. She swam in that nebulous state between sleep and wakefulness as someone braced a hand near her and warm breath touched her ear.
A Purpose True Page 24