He opened his eyes fully to a steaming tin mug perched on a tree stump. Not far beyond the cup, creating a dark, textured backdrop, sat Père Gaspard. Domingo shook his head. He must be dreaming.
But indeed, Père leaned against a tent pole, asleep. His legs sprawled out under his soutane, the bottoms of his espadrilles worn thin. It must be afternoon, for that singular mottled effect created by a late-day sun colored the tent canvas and created a scarlet halo of Père’s impossibly snarled hair.
Soundlessly, Domingo sat up and stretched his arms. But when he reached for the cup, Père’s blue-sky eyes surveyed him with an impossible-to-read expression. As Domingo sipped the hot elixir, a flood of recent memories nearly strangled him.
The bombardier. The black box. The burial, and then that long, hard climb through slippery mud. He and the others toted everything recognizable that was left at the site. No question, they must hide as much as possible from the enemy, even though the Bosche might never range this high.
Partisans lost their footholds and slid into each other on the path, cursing the rain and the mud. But that had been hours ago. Now, Domingo stretched briefly, having relished the luxury of sleep, and waking on his own.
“What?”
Père’s artless inquiry roused untamed emotion, but Domingo gathered his wits. The hot chicory opened his sinuses, and a deep breath cleared his mind. Could that really be Père Gaspard? At last, he trusted his voice to respond.
“Père.”
“Oui. What is it?”
Some minutes passed. This most recent incident, like all the rest, lingered unspeakable. Why rehearse it? Yet the look in Père’s eyes invited Domingo to speak, and drew out the pain like a compress on a sprain.
“We ... I met an American. He died for us, Père, a bombardier. He never had a chance. Do you remember that invention you told me about, that gauges the winds and balances an airplane? He wanted it destroyed, so I...” He gulped.
A hint of emotion passed over Père’s face, and suddenly Domingo remembered the truffle hunter who told him that the SS tanks hit Terrou. He must ask after Père’s family.
“What do you hear of Terrou?”
Père rubbed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and gave his head a slight shake.
“Later, my son. You have slept long and hard. You must be ravenous. I’ll get you something to eat. Drink your coffee while I fetch you some food. Then we’ll take a walk.”
~
After hours at the radio, Kate fell asleep. But a vivid memory blasted her back into consciousness. It was months ago, when she’d acclimated to her courier duties and begun to feel at home in the Clermont-Ferrand circuit.
The city’s towering black steeples had beckoned her when she’d returned from an assignment. She pedaled her bicycle along the tree-lined road until all of a sudden, the two outstanding landmarks appeared. Only that brief figment, but why should she recall those dark steeples right now? True, they comprised a landmark extraordinaire, but had always seemed more sinister than comforting.
With no idea what time of day it was, she stepped outside her cave and found the sun risen and well on its way across the sky. Better take a walk to clear her head. She wandered to the refugee area, hoping to see Père Gaspard. These days, he flitted in and out of camp like a nervous bird—who knew how many people sought him?
Ah, there he sat at the far edge of the camp, speaking with someone. Of course, wasn’t he always? The man sat with his back to her. Kate looked again, and the thickness of the listener’s neck stopped her in her tracks.
Domingo’s name slipped from her lips, part-question, part cry. Across the distance, Père Gaspard spotted her, then re-focused on Domingo. Though she longed to rush through the makeshift tents, Kate backed away and hurried to her den.
At the entrance, she stilled her wild heartbeat. Père knew what he was about, and he knew Domingo. The almost imperceptible movement of his head instructed her to pray. This was no time to consider her desires.
Père was telling Domingo about Madame Ibarra and Gabirel. That alone mattered. The rest, she must leave to fate.
At the thought that she might not see Domingo, she clutched her throat, but in the hushed coolness of the cave, Kate held out her hands. With a groan, she let go her tenacious longings.
In that act, a fresh, profound sense of serenity arose, as though her whole future had been pressing in on her, the future she could not know. She’d held on to it as if she maintained control, as if things yet to come would yield to her wishes even before they occurred.
All foolishness—how well she knew. But in this moment, she stopped wrestling and knelt at her makeshift bed. Before her closed eyes, a sky full of stars appeared. They shone as real as though she looked up into the great bowl of the heavens.
Their glitter, so strong and close, called up tears and drew her lifetime out before her as if each twinkle signified an experience. At the same time, she understood that each experience rested in the hands of a loving God, the victorious champion sculpted on Saint Pierre’s tymphanum.
No meek and mild Deity, this, and far more than the capricious fate that mere humans conjured. No, far more than that, because through each sorrow, a twinkle in this vast heaven evidenced the Almighty’s presence. The pain of losing her parents, her aunt, Alexandre, their baby, the wrench of leaving Addie behind in London, and then Monsieur le Blanc’s passing paraded before her mind’s eye.
But somehow, here in this dank, solitary space, compassion encompassed all these memories. Such a great loving concern enfolded her, at one with the guidance that brought her here, and with the call back to London that allowed her to witness Addie’s wedding.
Her whisper floated out. “I am never alone. No matter what happens, I never will be. And though I’ve felt so lost, You have always been with me. You brought me to Aunt Alvina and Addie. You gave me Alexandre and brought Monsieur le Blanc to me, and with him, my father.”
Her words circled in the cavern like friendly fireflies in an Iowa cornfield. As Père Gaspard had said, even in the midst of his own weighty losses, all was well. That truth filled Kate afresh. She knew it in her soul, and spoke the sentiment aloud.
“All is well.”
She gave herself to her work. Some time later, she peered outdoors again. Late afternoon closed in on the camp. Morning had always been her favorite part of the day, but she lingered at the opening to allow evening shadows to lengthen over her.
Oh, how lovely the growing dusk seemed right now— a time to pause the day’s occupation. Morning, afternoon, dusk, evening, and night. Come what may, this constant rhythm endured.
Still no sign of Domingo, but quiet acceptance cloaked Kate. Grief required time and space, and his needs mattered more than anything else. “Please, even in the midst of the dreadful pain that lies ahead, give him peace.”
~
“My son, we have received word about your family. First through a courier on the Causse de Gramat, and then again early this morning.”
Domingo’s ears rang, not unlike the bonging in the belfry at Tulle when he hung on the rope to warn the village. He and Père might be meeting on a deserted island instead of within earshot of the refugee camp.
Maybe Père chose this place because he surmised Domingo’s legs could take him nowhere else. Whatever his reasons, Domingo surmised the truth before they sat on a fallen log. Then tears coursed Père’s lean face.
“I harangued the courier, though he had no reason to lie to us.” A pang crossed Domingo’s chest. So Katarin knows, too.
Père read his thoughts. “She heard the first report, but not this second witness. She bears you in her heart, Domingo—your mother and Gabirel, as well. When I heard today’s confirmation, I waited to tell her so she could hear the news from you.”
Domingo’s heart throbbed against his rib cage.
“No partisan rides the train to Montauban, meets a peasant boy named Gabirel grieving his mother’s recent death, an
d flees to this particular camp to tell the story unless God deigns it.
He told the tale with a mournful heart.”
“Tell me what he said.”
“Your mother stayed brave to the end, when she suffered a heart attack being transferred between train cars. She passed in an instant, Gabirel told him. Your brother was right there with her when she passed.”
“If only I had been home when those vermin came ... why would they bother with an old woman?” Domingo bowed his head and Père embraced him. When Domingo could speak again, a single question surfaced.
“Maman knew no pain?”
“Perhaps at first, but only for a short period.”
“I want to meet this fellow who spoke with Gabirel.”
“He left hours ago, bound for parts north.” Père leaned his elbow on his knee and peered into Domingo’s eyes. “Your mother did not suffer long, but surely poor Gabirel still does. And suffering means hope.”
More than once, Domingo had heard Père say this. To live means to suffer. Therefore, in suffering, we find hope. And when we die, we rest in the hands of our merciful God, with all of our hopes fulfilled at last.
“But if I had been there, at least I could have fought them. How can I...?” Domingo’s cry faded into a groan. “Now, what will they do with Gabirel? How will he survive?”
“No amount of regret alters the past and no amount of anxiety has power to change the future. We can only manage the present—believe me, these recent weeks have shown me how poorly I do that. But still the Almighty deals patiently with me.”
So like Père, conveying eternal truths, yet as practical as potatoes.
“What would you like to do?”
Domingo shrugged. Follow the rail line to Germany? Sheer folly, though the race itself might heal him. No, he must fight, and after the war, return home to wait. Perhaps one day when the rails had been repaired, the train would roar into Figeac from the east, bearing his little brother.
If not, he could seek Gabirel Martino Ibarra, his last living family member, in Germany. But in the meantime, he would fight like a wild bull. Strangely, that desire tamed his pain.
“Walk with me some more.”
They wove through people, sleeping, eating, crying and laughing—alive. Then Père chose a trail past water gliding over tumbled rocks. They sat, silent in the sound.
Finally, Père asked again. “What will you do, Domingo?”
“Fight.”
“And what else lies in your heart?”
Today had shown Domingo that his heart told him the truth. Even Petra’s insights and superhuman perception on the trail lacked Domingo’s own instinctive wisdom concerning Maman. From now on, he would rely on that intuition, yet what his heart contained at this moment, he surely must keep hidden. To speak of Katarin would be presumption.
Instead, he asked a question, as Petra taught him. “What do you think?”
Père shrugged. “What I think means nothing.” Meaning passed between them, yet Domingo still hesitated.
“Where is...”
“She’s here, transmitting. She carries you and your family—holds you up for mercy. Whom do you carry, Domingo?”
Hoarse as dry bones, Domingo murmured “Katarin” under the water’s babble. But Père read the name on his lips as if he’d shouted it for all the world to hear. This priest, who’d baptized and confirmed him, knew him through and through.
“Ah. So it is, love in the midst of hatred.” Père stared out over the water. A long minute passed, then another. In this quietness, what might he be thinking?
Better yet, what would he be praying? Their many talks ran through Domingo’s mind. Ever since the news came of Papa and Ander’s deaths, Père Gaspard had been his rock. Especially after Sancha’s death, Père’s perspective sustained him.
Finally, Père repeated himself. “What will you do?”
“It would not be fair to her to ... I’ll find Petra and join the fight now. Besides, London may call her back at any moment.”
“Actually, they already did. But yes, they could again—and so?”
“This would add one more puzzle for her.”
“Do you claim to know our Creator’s mind?”
Domingo gulped. “But if I die...”
“What then?”
“She’s already lost her husband.”
“You presume God cannot care for her?”
“But what if...”
“She does not return your love? Every man takes such a risk, as you did with Sancha. Do you regret obeying your heart with her?”
“No.” The answer came strong, like the sizzle of fish frying over a campfire.
“And do you feel any less for Kate than you did for Sancha?”
This time Père’s question seemed nonsensical. How could one measure such things?
“If you die, our American friend will know you loved her, and love makes all things bearable. Her husband’s death led her here, after all. But a lifetime of not knowing you cared for her would amount to torture.”
In silence, Père rose. They walked until they approached a woman hunched over an iron skillet.
“You will stay the night?”
“Oui. Where do you sleep?”
“Over there.” Père pointed to a tarp. “Always room for one more.”
“Where...?”
“In a bunker behind the cook’s tent. I can take you there.” Neither of them spoke her name, but Domingo pictured Katarin like that woman cooking by her campfire, only Katarin huddled over her transmitter.
Père turned toward the refugees, while Domingo took a roundabout route into the forest. Two truths transfixed him: his life had changed forever, yet his inner perception prepared him for hearing about Maman. He began to grieve her back in Lot, when he tasted that apple in her kitchen.
Gabirel’s destiny remained a vast question mark, but an inner sense, fibrous and lithe, strengthened Domingo for the wait. Waiting on the war. Maybe Giriotte or another partisan-turned-comrade had used that phrase. A shaggy willow offered its shade, and Domingo sank against it as afternoon waned. Around him, mice or other small animals foraged before seeking shelter for the night.
He must let Maman go now, here in this place, with no service in their small church and no burial place to visit. This was war’s way, harsh and swift. And he must pray for Gabirel. He must believe he would survive. Gabirel would feel his prayers, surely. He must live, for how could Domingo carry on the Ibarra name alone?
His chest hurt when he thought of Maman, a hurt that might never release. But in offering her up, the pressure at the back of his neck lessened.
And then came this other thing, what bound him to Katarin, an American who would return to her homeland when this was all over. Domingo circled the camp. He could leave now and allow Providence to write the future. But Père thought otherwise, and Aitaita’s voice instructed him, too.
If you love someone, do not rush to proclaim your feelings. Wait until all seems right.
With Sancha, that had been possible, yet now, nothing seemed right. Certainty had become a dream, the present a nightmare, and the future a jumble of pending battles. Right had collapsed into a meaningless syllable. Yet Père pointed him to the present.
By the time they met again, Domingo knew he could not leave without seeing Katarin. He would tell her about Maman, that was all. But when he rounded the tents and saw Père walking to meet him, he knew he would say more, for Père’s eyes reflected courage and conviction.
“You are ready?”
“Oui.”
Père’s long stride led around the cook’s tent, where they armed themselves with hot chicory. Then Père led the way. An odd calmness attended Domingo as dusk deepened into twilight.
“There.” He followed Père’s gesture, took the extra steaming cup from him, and walked on alone.
Chapter Thirty
Kathryn had done what she promised, and stood stunned at the enormity of her act. Vaguely aware of the
sun’s warmth on her shoulders and a minor afternoon breeze against her legs, she allowed the past and future to slip away. All that mattered was this moment.
It turned out, after all, that the man they wanted her to identify was not Barbie—they’d located him elsewhere. But high in this Andes village, seemingly at the end of the known earth, they’d cornered one of the henchmen who had facilitated his brutality.
A streak of bitterness rode Kathryn’s throat—nice of them to conceal that fact until the very last instant. But now she finally knew how Maurice had met his death—at the hands of this scar-faced servant of the Reich.
On a sunny street a few minutes before school let out, an older man approached the entrance. Stooped now, it was easy to see that he’d been a giant in his day.
Benjamin hissed at Kathryn, “Go back to the day you saw Barbie. We assume you also observed his guard?”
“Yes.”
“At close range?”
“Close enough to remember. He aimed a gun our way.” The moment outside Clermont-Ferrand with its dark steeples returned as if it recurred right now. “He had a jagged scar on the right side of his face.”
Benjamin’s foot jitterbugged against the car’s floorboard. He sounded breathless. “Look carefully at that man waiting over there. Is that who you saw that day?”
Before Kathryn could answer, a teacher opened the school door and children flowed out. One little girl ran toward the man they watched, and he scooped her up in his arms.
As he did, he turned toward the car, revealing the exact scar Kathryn recalled. At the same time, Benjamin’s cohort bent to his camera sight. Snap. Snap.
Such a crisp sound on this windless day—what if the exiled German had heard? Kathryn bit her lip. But the grandfather set the girl down and ambled from the schoolyard toward a steep descent. The innocent child clutched his hand and chattered.
The cameraman put away his apparatus and took the driver’s seat. When Benjamin poked him in the shoulder, he turned the key and gunned the engine. They sped down a street.
“So, that’s finished. We’ve got him.” The cameraman careened around city corners as he addressed Benjamin. “The locals deny it, but he’s not the only one they harbor here.”
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