A Purpose True

by Gail Kittleson

  “Dormez bien, mon enfant.” The same words she spoke over sweet little Linden before she left le Chambon sur Lignon. Sleep well, my child.

  Aware only vaguely of the night sounds outside, Kate attuned the ear of her heart. And gradually, like a candle flame growing, the answer arrived, though she couldn’t have explained how.

  “My father, le Renard. It was my father.”

  Maybe he tiptoed in before he and her mother, still working for an espionage unit after the war, caught their flight. Perhaps a tear trickled down his cheek.

  All speculation, to be sure, but this small flicker of memory reignited her sense of wellbeing. With the hot mug warming her hands, she opened herself to this other warmth. Memories are like roses in December... where had she heard that saying?

  “My father loved me. This tells me, and so did Monsieur le Blanc.” What if she could find someone else who worked at the front with her parents? And what if she discovered where and why they had to take that post-war trip? Nothing was impossible.

  “Some things I cannot know, but this, I can hold dear. This is my rose in December.”

  The transmitter stole her attention until she returned the cup to the kitchen, recognizable by a single low fire. Wreathed in smoke, several partisans murmured there, and one of them nodded in her direction. His low-slung beret reminded her of the faint image of her father in Monsieur le Blanc’s photograph.

  How could she have known there was nothing to fear from Monsieur, or how meeting him in London would change her life? But his gift of her mother’s graduation portrait and the faded image of her father led to so much more than she could ever have imagined.

  Monsieur exposed an enticing remnant of truth, and as she awaited her baby’s birth, her courage had grown. The truth shall set you free … Exactly what Addie had experienced in her struggle with Harold.

  For her, freedom led to embracing a new love. The cool night air caught Kate's question. “But what does freedom mean for me?”

  Clouds blocked the moon, creating a misty darkness that shrouded the grounds. Along tents scattered upwind from the petrol’s intense odor, she smelled fresh-dug potatoes, still encased in their own dirt, and recalled her first trip with Père in the ramshackle lorry to distribute vegetables to his parishioners.

  Albert, Jean-Claude’s son, hefted burlap bags of turnips and carrots into peasants’ hands. By now, had those families who received the food fled the Schutzstaffel, too? That word signifying Hitler’s notorious elite special services set Kate’s teeth on edge, but her circuit of the camp revived her, giving her the energy she needed to face her three remaining transmissions.

  Later, Père Gaspard poked his head in and beckoned her out to a fallen log. The camp seemed almost more awake by night than it was by day, with the sounds of partisans darting here and there through the trees. In hushed tones, Kate asked how Domingo could bear such great loss.

  “We have medicins homeopathique here in France. Do you understand?”

  “Homeopathic doctors who concoct herbal remedies?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated—they inject a tiny amount of the ailment into the solution. For an allergy to oak buds, they express part of the remedy from those very buds.”

  “Like an inoculation.”

  Père studied the shapes of some fast-moving clouds, dark against the moon. “Yes. I believe a similar principle works in our deep sorrows. Domingo has already lost his father and brother, as well as his betrothed. Those sufferings have expanded his capacity to bear this new grief.”

  After he left, Kate stared up at the sky. According to Père’s logic, her childhood losses made losing Aunt Alvina and Alexandre easier, as if the first sorrow performed an initial cutting.

  But when her baby died, she sank so very low. Thank goodness, Addie had already come to London. She had a way of making life more bearable, and now Mr. Tenney would have her beside him. That image brought a smile—and returned Kate to thoughts of Domingo. If only goodness traveled a swifter path.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Soaked through and shivering in the darkness, Domingo shuffled through a verdant thicket of saplings into a cave carved in a cliff. The worst he could do was disturb some fellow traveler holed up here for a few hours.

  Springy branches brushed against his face and hands. He might have wished for a fuller moon or a cloudless night, but both would raise his chances of capture. Again, he wished Petra stalked these hills with him. Although his insistence that Domingo take this journey had been irritating, his powers of observation provided security. But anyone claiming this haven surely would have heard him by now and made their presence known.

  He set down his pack, fashioned a nest in a bed of dry needles, and as he was about to lower himself to the earth, heard something stir. Then a single question reached him from the darkness. “Partisan?”

  Domingo’s heart played pelota with his rib cage. The peculiar twang of this voice belonged to a Frenchman, probably a city-dweller. In spite of the cave’s relative warmth, a chill fingered Domingo’s back as the stranger spoke again.

  “You wear espadrilles, so you’re not SS, and neither am I. Why do you travel alone?”

  Domingo found his voice. “I might ask you the same.”

  “Reconnaissance. My team couldn’t afford to send anyone along. You?”

  Heat raced up Domingo’s neck—his quest seemed selfish, despite what Petra said. He opted not to reply and prayed this stranger would soon fall asleep.

  “I’ll be gone in a couple of hours, but I’ve been thinking about my grandfather. He was one of the Hautefaye men who tortured an aristocrat, Alain de Moneys, during the Franco-Prussian War. The foolish fellow shouted, ‘Vive le République!’ at a local fair.”

  Torture—just what Domingo needed to hear. Gradually, the outlines of the small space came into focus, and he scolded himself. Petra would have sensed this stranger’s presence.

  “Oui, Moneys’s cousin, a Republican, came to visit, but fled when the mob, loyal to Napoleon, attacked. But the drunken crowd misinterpreted Moneys’ declaration, and later, he was proven a patriot.”

  Surely Domingo’s sigh reached the storyteller—why repeat these old stories? But the stranger seemed intent on completing his tale.

  “A priest attempted in vain to reason with them. The mayor realized things had gotten out of hand, and, not much of a leader, said something like, ‘Go ahead, eat him!’

  “So they tortured Moneys for two hours with cudgels and pitchforks, destroyed one of his eyes and nailed horseshoes to his feet before burning him. Some say they sat around the fire, seasoning their tartines with his dripping fat.”

  Domingo gave a silent moan. Why, like Giriotte, did this fellow feel compelled to voice his every thought? Why rehearse these old tales? He tried to shut out the discordant image of burning flesh, but the aristocrat’s fate had entered his soul.

  “My grandfather retold this account to his dying day, and it came to me a short while before you came. Perhaps it has meaning for you.”

  Domingo feigned sleep, but the man continued. “You have great weariness of heart, to which I am no stranger. News arrived today of yet another commune ransacked by the SS, and I almost screamed at the messenger, ‘Go away—enough!’

  “But I heard him out. These stories must surface, or wreak mayhem inside us. And my grandfather’s account, though gruesome, instructs me. Though misled about Moneys, the men of Hautefaye acted on their passion. The Huns have shown their furor, so now we act on our passion, as well.”

  He paused, and Domingo gave a sigh of relief. But then his fallen comrade Giriotte seemed to stand before him whispering, “Have patience.”

  “You have heard the fame of our Maquis that first formed in the north of Limousin?”

  Of course—how could Domingo have failed to hear their exploits? They presaged the growth of the Correze group and even the partisans of Lot.

  “Edmond Michelet performed the first Résistance act in ’40
when he distributed tracts urging us to fight, regardless of France’s capitulation and Petain’s ascendance. One of those tracts appeared in our mailbox, close to Brive-la-Gaillarde. My father scrutinized the message and formed a meeting of six or seven locals that night.

  “After they left, he told my grandfather’s story, and said, ‘We will make some mistakes, as they did, but better to be found in passionate error than to stand by in fear.’ That sentiment sustains me, and tonight, perhaps this story strengthens you, as well.”

  Burying his head in the crook of his arm, Domingo welcomed the silence. He put every energy into focusing on hopeful thoughts—and they centered on Katarin. That remarkable American girl—even when her feet hurt her terribly on the trail, she had maintained silence.

  ~

  To Domingo's surprise, a renegade shaft of sunshine wakened him. Birds twittered as if the war had ended. In a pile of last autumn’s leaves, the indentation of the stranger still showed—he must have tiptoed out. Between there and Domingo’s pack lay a hand sewn fabric bag tied with twine string.

  What would Petra do right now? Domingo half-chuckled. His empty stomach rumbled as he held the bag in his palm. He hadn’t touched anything of this soft texture since those dreaded Nazi tanks attacked the Resistance farm at Gaubadet. That name choked him—yes, that night he gave Sancha’s scarf to a bewildered woman holding her wounded child. Hopefully, the girl still lived.

  Worn drawstrings released without effort, revealing a small loaf of barley bread and a quarter-round of cheese. The meal heartened him. Had the stranger dropped the bag in error? Perhaps not, since he was one to share.

  Sunlight dappled the cave. When had he slept this many hours in a row? Domingo eased down to a nearby creek, where cool water brought him to full consciousness. When he looked up, full sun blazed overhead.

  “I should have asked him for directions.” But even so, the man’s boot prints still showed in moist earth, to guide Domingo to the camp. Maybe Petra had been right about this journey, for Providence provided both sustenance and a clear path, in spite of the stranger’s grim tale now lurking in Domingo’s memory.

  ~

  When Kate asked the cook, hard at work over a mound of potatoes and onions, if he’d seen Père Gaspard, he gave her a frown and a brisk headshake, so she wandered toward the tents. She had yet to rouse a friendly word from him, but determined to prevail.

  Even when she offered to help cut vegetables the other day, his surly glance bade her keep her distance. But who knew what he had suffered? Père had no idea if his family lived or died—maybe the cook dealt with a similar situation.

  She continued up the slope—Père had to be here somewhere. Beyond the cook’s tent a few ragged partisans flopped on the ground to recover from their latest missions, and a wary rat scurried from the brush.

  From the north, a low buzz of human murmurings drifted like an incoming tide. Over the ridge, people blended together, young and old.

  So many displaced, brought together by terror, peopling temporary shelters that circled a meadow. Kate skirted the gaggle of peasants, townsfolk, and children. By now, the camp in Lot surely contained the same profusion of refugees.

  Years ago, Aunt Alvina said no two voices on earth sound exactly alike. “No one has your particular tone, Kathryn, or your precise fingerprints. In all the world, you were created unique.”

  But in this teeming mass, individuals blurred into one enormous cry for help. All distinctions faded, and clearly, that cry thrummed through Père Gaspard’s very soul.

  Before turning back, she scanned the camp one more time and finally spotted him. On the far side of the expanse, he stood listening to an individual addressing a small crowd. One young man held his stomach and ran off into the woods. Kate steeled herself and drew within hearing distance.

  “In Tulle, they hanged around a hundred men right in the streets, from balconies and lampposts. They used a weapons factory as a torture chamber, beat people with blackjacks and poured acid on their wounds. The Milice sent dozens of men off for deportation.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “My uncle, my grandfather’s brother, sent me to tell whomever I found. Much of the information comes from a priest who bears witness.”

  “What is his name?” Père Gaspard’s question rose above the crowd.

  The lad shrugged. “I’m not sure...” Someone brought him water, so he drank and wiped his mouth with his dirty shirtsleeve.

  “You say they used the school?”

  “The girls’ school, yes, and the one at Souillac, too.”

  “The children...”

  “I heard nothing about them, but they sent many men away.”

  Père Gaspard dropped his head into his hands. Others peppered the young messenger with questions.

  “I know someone who lives near Oradour. Did the tanks trouble people outside the village?”

  “And our own gendarmes do not rise up against them even now?”

  “These German swine cannot be human, surely not. They have been possessed.”

  Tiptoeing forward, Kate touched Père’s shoulder. He twisted, and the stunned look in his eyes sickened her. “Will you come away?” she asked.

  “Away?”

  “For a walk. A person can bear only so much.”

  “One of the priests in Tulle was my classmate.” He stood with his shoulders slumped.

  “Tell me about him.” She led him away toward the foliage.

  “I should not jump to conclusions, perhaps it was someone else. But this friend—oh his fervor! None of us could keep up with him.”

  The stream’s melodic gurgle had a calming effect on them both. On him. But then, as they approached the tents again, a hunched old peasant accosted them. He grabbed Père’s sleeve and pulled him closer.

  “Aidez-moi! Père, only you can help...”

  The man’s forehead reflected midday sun. Hoarse from running, he scraped out his story. “My granddaughter Vivianne, you must help her, Père.”

  Père took the fellow’s scabby hands and looked into his eyes. “What would you have me do, friend?”

  “Not only my granddaughter. You see, there is a woman...”

  Père addressed Kate. “Ask the cook for bread and cheese at my request—you will come along?” Without waiting, he turned to the man. “We’ll meet you at the edge of camp in a few minutes.”

  “Of course.” Thankfully, she’d finished her work until the next courier appeared.

  The cook provided Kate with food for the journey. When she approached Père and the peasant, they sat on a fallen log, deep in conversation, but rose when they saw her.

  “Off we go then.” The cheer in Père’s voice aroused her curiosity.

  Green swathed every inch of the path, and wildflowers perked their heads along the way. The old peasant’s crooked legs lacked nothing in swiftness, and Père’s gait quickened to match his lead.

  Kate fell into their rhythm, becoming aware of her own sour odor on the wind. She would have to find a better way to wash than in the creek. What would the cook say if she asked him for a pot of boiling water?

  A protruding root caught her toe and launched her into Père Gaspard’s backside—it took a few moments to regain her equilibrium. Better pay closer attention. Past a wide rivulet, the route became even more difficult.

  Along a hedgerow designed to discourage predators, their small parade came to an opening. Their leader disappeared down an earthen bank, and Père dipped his head to enter.

  Like Alice in Wonderland vanishing into her rabbit hole, Kate followed. How long had it been since she thought of that book, the first Aunt Alvina read to her? The two of them spent many evenings before the fireplace, and Alice’s adventures accompanied Kate to her bedroom. The characters, so real and sometimes frightening, initiated several visits from Aunt Alvina before sleep came.

  In contrast, this dense mass of vines, brambles, chestnuts and blackberries provided a sense of safety. Surely, German
soldiers with their heavy boots and packs would find it impenetrable.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Are we veering toward Argentat?” Père panted his inquiry. “I’ve lost all sense of direction, though I was born not so far south of here.”

  A memory from the day her instructor pulled out a map of France came to Kate. He told the agents to memorize all twenty-one regions, focusing on the Auvergne, the Limousin, and the Midi-Pyrénées.

  “Picture the Department of Limousin and the Auvergne as a peasant’s straw hat. The Midi-Pyrénées, taken with the Auvergne, resembles the American state of Kentucky, but conjure your own image.”

  The instructor pointed to the Department of Lot and let his wooden pointer linger there. “The Gestapo has difficulty navigating such high country, but not the Maquis—a camp between the Lot the Cantal is impenetrable to the Nazis.

  Kate’s word picture had come to her in a flash. Taken together, the Auvergne and the Limousin resembled the straw hat Addie plopped on her garden scarecrow a couple of summers ago, and her crooked kitchen stovepipe modeled the elevated Midi-Pyrénées perfectly.

  Their guide chose a cow path to the right, crossed over a meadow and plunged almost straight up, following a vine-enclosed path.

  The wizened man attempted to encourage Kate and Père “This way takes less time.”

  “If we live through it.” Père muttered.

  Steps away, their guide plunged through a ravine, where a hidden stream soaked Kate’s espadrilles. The threesome formed a shadowy line through chestnut shadows, making progress across a pebbled expanse. Soon, a homestead appeared, and their leader paused at a small barn. A scrape answered his hesitant taps.

  Kate braced herself. Then someone struck a match and a dim lantern glow revealed a face. Little more than a girl, in normal times she would be in pigtails and a school uniform.

  But fear lined her darting eyes, and the old man rasped something to her. Then he added, “Père Gaspard, this is my granddaughter.”