He twisted toward Kathryn. “At long last, we have secured our evidence. Our nation owes you a debt of gratitude.”
The sight of that former Nazi, calmly awaiting the blonde, curly-haired sprite after her school day, had yet to leave Kathryn. But the scene Benjamin had described to her, of this very man pulling Maurice by his ankles down flights of granite stairs until he bled from the ears juxtaposed with this one.
How could this monster live here in safety, well fed, dressed in a fine suit and enjoying his family? After what he’d stolen from so many during the war, how could he put it all behind him and live out his life here in these beautiful mountains? What enabled him to slip into a fog of forgetfulness about such dire events? Could he sleep at night?
At least she had absolutely no doubt he was the one. How could she ever forget his image from that day when she’d sought to deliver a message to Eugene?
Benjamin’s shadow partner waited for her response, but Kathryn was in no mood. She only wanted to get back to Idaho, whatever it took. A little girl waited for her too, a bright, bubbly treasure with her own grandfather’s inky eyes—intelligent eyes, measuring the world around her, but also kind and always ready to help.
Benjamin’s ragged sigh left her unfazed. She’d done her duty and owed him nothing. Now the responsibility fell to him to keep his promise.
As if he read her mind, he mumbled. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you back in time. I swear it. You’ll be the worse for wear, true, but delivered to your family.”
His eyes looked gray all around—perhaps he nursed an ailment unknown to Kathryn. Perhaps he suffered from more than his eternal determination to find the Nazis who disappeared after the war.
The thought of suffering brought Addie to mind. Kathryn simply couldn’t get used to the idea that her illness might take her before her time. That letter she sent from London at Christmastime had painted such a positive picture—Charles and their two adult children were getting along fine.
But in her next letter, Addie described her visit to a doctor. Kathryn had to read the careful handwriting over and over in order to take in the meaning. Tumor...possible surgery ... questionable outcome ... loss of motor skills ...
What did it all mean? Might Addie become paralyzed?
Benjamin rubbed his left temple, and something about his posture touched Kathryn. Did he have a family of his own? Driven as he was for justice, it might be better if he traversed this world alone. They parked in a large lot, left the car, and he hustled her to the airplane.
Only as she settled into the uncomfortable seat did she realize how sore she was. Her shoulders, her neck, her back. But at least the long return trip had begun. She swallowed a pain pill without water and realized the gift of this moment—she could once again sleep.
~
At the cook's tent, Kate listened to word about increased V1 attacks in London. “In Grove Road, Hackney, they killed six last week, and then on Sunday they struck the Hungerford Rail Bridge and Guards Chapel, St. James—Wellington Barracks. The service had just started, the church was packed with guardsmen and their families, and more than a hundred and thirty were killed.
“We once laughed at Hitler’s ‘secret weapon’—thought it was a joke. After all, what else could he do to us that he hadn’t already tried? But as I took off two days ago, we flew near the church. Total destruction—they were still searching the rubble for bodies.”
She’d come hoping for a bowl of stew, but the news dissolved Kate’s appetite. Addie and Charles said their vows farther north in the city, but still—London was London, and these new attacks meant even more suffering.
Back in her cave, she checked for messages, but Domingo’s face rose before her, along with others. They came to her so often in memory, their portraits might have hung along the walls of this refuge. Mrs. Tenney in her air warden garb, Madame at the Presbytery in Le-Chambon, Maurice and Eugene, that woman she called Auntie outside Clermont-Ferrand, the pastor who’d hidden her overnight, Monsieur le Blanc, Gabirel, Madame Ibarra ...
Her very existence depended on each of these people for certain periods of time, yet they entered and exited her life so quickly. With no way of knowing their fates, she could only hold them up to the Almighty.
An hour or two later, a courier brought messages of more drop locations, so Kate lit the oil lantern and continued her work. Remembering Mother Helene’s warning, she gave the transmitter a rest, even though the Gestapo had failed to penetrate to this isolated camp.
When she emerged from her shelter, a pale moon shone over temporary refugee tents, lending a placid air to this corner of the world. But the Gestapo might even now be shutting off electricity to every town in the region, one by one, so it would be easy to detect where a transmitter still worked.
True, they were unable to detect battery transmissions, but why not stay on the safe side? Leave it to the Germans to have invented yet an even more versatile device. She pulled out the miniature receiving set, also run by batteries, and tuned in to the BBC, flooded with personal messages and war music.
Tonight, they featured Vera Lynn’s There’ll be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover. “We bring you that timely gift from American lyricists Walter Kent and Nat Burton. Oh, how this tune uplifted our spirits during those early years when we fought alone!
“Back then, ugly manmade birds with horrendous bombs flew over Dover. As most Brits knew, bluebirds, native to the United States, would likely never fly over those white cliffs. But still, the image brought hope to every British heart. That hope remains steadfast as new birds descend, complete with a complementary buzzing sound.”
A postlude followed the song. “As to what I said earlier, mates. Knowing the ingenuity of our Allies across the Atlantic, who am I to say bluebirds will never fly here? This war has brought a multitude of innovations, so why not bluebirds over those white cliffs?”
Heaviness descended on Kate. Back in the winter of ‘42, when she first arrived in Great Britain, she’d witnessed the aftermath of the Blitz, and then far more destruction by the Luftwaffe. The announcer intended to cheer his listeners, noting that all the ingenuity of the United States, England, Canada, Australia, Poland, and so many other countries amassed in one great effort on the beaches north of here.
Surely the Allies would win—how could they not, when so much had been sacrificed? But Domingo’s sorrow weighed on Kate.
For the hundredth time, she sent up a prayer for him. Miss G, eyes blazing, came to mind then. During training, she broached the subject of romance more than once with the female agents.
“Your mission comes before all else. If you do become entangled, be discreet, and then put the relationship out of your head. Concentrate on your work. Lives depend on you.”
Put it out of your head. At the time, Kate assumed that would be the easiest part of her task, since grief for Alexandre and their baby still consumed her. Now, time had brought healing, but she certainly hadn’t meant for her heart to become linked to Domingo.
After she ate a little supper, she walked her plate back to the kitchen. Mellow eveningtide quieted her spirit, and back in her cavern, she lighted her lantern and tackled her work again. But Domingo’s image persisted—his heart must be broken.
“Help him, and help me concentrate.”
The camp quieted until only a low murmur, like the hum of insects, wafted from the refugee area, along with the smell of humanity massed together. At the same time, Kate caught of whiff of herself. The effects of that wonderful bath out in the countryside had faded completely. If Domingo did come, she’d have another good reason to keep her distance.
And if he didn’t ... well, she’d learned a lot about herself. She was no heroine like Madame Dreyfus, and no Nancy Wake. At best, she’d come here in good faith, but in her darkest moments, wondered if she only pretended to risk all for the Allied cause. If she allowed for utter truthfulness, her longing to discover her family roots, lost so long ago, might have equaled that selfles
s desire.
For a few seconds, she toyed with a cowardly possibility. She could leave the camp and vanish into the Auvergne. In so doing, she would drop from the history of the S.O.E. Eventually, the records would report her as missing in action. Maybe after the war, they would send someone to search for her, but most likely not. Hadn’t they warned new recruits that they would enjoy no protection under British law?
Even if they searched for her, they’d find no trace, because she’d have wended her way northeast, to the Great War front. With so many refugees on the move, how hard could that be? There, she’d visit Chaumont, where her parents began their life together. She’d track down their history and maybe even discover where her mother worked. Père believed this was possible, so why shouldn't she?
And then? Perhaps she’d live the rest of her life as the French woman she might have been, had her parents chosen to live here instead of in the States. But the next minute, she shook off these speculations. Why couldn’t she simply remain in the present and live into the outcome of her questions? Why must she forever analyze memories and clues?
Listening to the BBC often brought release from her ponderings. Maybe something significant would ride the airwaves tonight.
Sometime after full dark, a shuffle sounded at the entrance. Ah, probably Père Gaspard, who had not come all day. Kate switched off the machine and stretched. The aroma of hot chicory invaded the cave as she turned toward the shadows.
But the step belonged to someone else—a wayfarer laced with the scent of decayed leaves, mud, and intensity. Then the breadth of Domingo’s shoulders, even in this dim light, startled Kate into recognition.
He hesitated before dragging a wooden crate near. He held out the cup to her and sat on the crate as if he’d entered like this often. Kate sank back into her chair and grasped the handle as the anguish written on Domingo’s face smote her. Unbidden, a strange sound rasped from her throat.
The angular planes of Domingo’s face dipped in hollows. His eyes were two bright glimmers in the lantern light. A shiver passed over Kate’s shoulders at the low tenor of his voice.
“So, you are here.”
Fullness swamped her throat. Silence pulsed between them until Domingo said, “I wanted to...”
But Kate spoke at the same time. “Père Gaspard told you about...?”
She waited, and Domingo answered her question. “Oui. And about Maman’s stalwart courage up to the end.”
The cup trembled in Kate’s hand.
“She died in Montauban, with Gabirel beside her. Père heard the news this morning from someone who met Gabirel after she passed.”
Kate’s hot chicory spilled, and she stared at the glistening splash of liquid on packed earth, a dark comma in the lantern light.
Domingo touched her shoulder, and his arm blurred the space between them. “I knew it before, in my heart, but hearing the details helps. Likely, crise cardiaque took Maman, and she passed quickly. No one could have done anything to save her.”
A heart attack, but brought on by the S.S. Kate closed her eyes as if to blot out the scene. When she opened them, something besides tears smoldered in Domingo’s eyes, something serene and strong, quiet yet fluid. She held onto that essence, even as she choked on her words.
“I am so sorry.”
“At least Maman died with Gabirel beside her.”
She covered her lips with her fingers, but her cry still came forth, and Domingo embraced her with such concern, Kate could scarcely bear it. She drew back. “Forgive me.”
“Why?”
“You comfort me in your loss.”
Domingo swept the shadows with his hand. “The loss belongs to both of us. But perhaps, in spite of everything, this will become my time for joy.” His eyes flamed in the undulating light. He let out a long breath and dropped his arms. “Katarin Isaacs.”
His tender tone froze her in place.
“Away from you these weeks, I ...”
The walls closed in. A suffocating sensation threatened to smother her.
“I have found that...” His intense gaze pierced her. “J’ai besoin de toi.”
“You ... you need me?”
He pressed his lips together. So close she felt his breath on her forehead, he grazed her jawline with his forefinger, igniting fire down her spine.
“I do not want to leave you, jamais... never. And though I must, you will stay in my heart.”
Kate’s cheeks burned. At the same time, goose bumps covered her arms. Thick worry lines razed Domingo’s brow, so she reached for him with a single word. “Domingo...”
He stroked her hair, reminding her of the incredible comfort she experienced when he broke into a lullaby after Monsieur le Blanc’s passing. She let him pull her close until her tears spilled over.
When she could speak again, she whispered, “You have my heart, Domingo Ibarra. Toujours.”
Always. His breath wisped her cheek and his lips brushed hers. The roar in Kate’s ears replaced all thought. So far from everything she had ever known, in the midst of such bitter reality, a new assurance of home laid claim on her.
Chapter Thirty-One
Drifting from a faraway place where Maman attended him, Domingo tried to open his eyes. The copper smell permeating this place, he knew all too well. Someone had been injured.
“Keep administering the morphine—same dosage every four hours. And change that bandage during this lull.”
“Yes, doctor.”
But before he could take in his surroundings, Domingo slipped back into the welcome shelter of his family. The utter comfort in Maman’s eyes assured him without a doubt that she experienced peace.
Aitaita appeared, jovial yet intent at the same time. As always, he had a word for his middle grandson. “Remember who you are, Domingo. Always keep in mind your heritage and what our name stands for.”
Meadow ... such a simple meaning, but oh the meadows he’d trod during the past few years! Beautiful, most of them, but some, full of welcoming committees for drops from London, also housed treachery. Meadows had seen too many men die, nameless to him but known to God—les inconnus.
A list of given names—cousins, mostly—filtered through Domingo’s mind. Igancio, Ramon, Mariano, Filiberto, all those who joined the great migration across the Atlantic Ocean along with Castor and Estebon. With each name came a story or several, a host of tales in all.
In his vision, Ander joined Aitaita, with an easy glimmer of mischief in his glance. Papa also visited Domingo in this quiet world, his voice deep and strong. “You must live, my son. You must carry on our name.”
But Domingo wanted only to bask in their familiarity. He eased into the warmth of that place, so serene and safe compared to this present world. Then, like a tardy shadow, that storyteller Giriotte appeared. A faint young woman hovered in the background, and finally, an American—a pilot.
Some time later, a searing pain in Domingo’s knee drew him back to vibrant voices. “He’s strong and young, he’ll make it. They brought him here so quickly that he lost little blood. I would hate to take that leg, but...”
“Let’s give it more time—no signs of gangrene or septicemia yet, and some penicillin is on the way, they tell me.”
“That miraculous cure did wonders for so many wounded in the landings. You’re certain the shipment is coming?”
“We’ll see. The local doctor has been known to pull strings before.
In and out, in and out, from that land to this, Domingo traveled. This one he failed to understand. Nothing made sense here, and no particular voice piqued his interest. Yet each communication told him these people were trying to save his leg.
Why then, did he long to join his loved ones in that other place? But they kept urging him back here, to an odor that smelled of something awful, worse than pigs, worse than onions. Gradually, he identified the focused scent of suffering.
A bit later, he woke again. All around him men groaned and cried out, though his eyes still refused
to open. And in the background, always the sounds of fighting, like thunder and trains rumbling in the night. But those trains never arrived at their destination.
These distractions returned him to the fighting again, with Petra leading the way, of course. But this time, Petra’s intuition failed them, for the Germans attacked from behind. Domingo heard them first, before Petra turned, understood the danger, and howled a battle cry. But he yelled too late to keep one of them from bludgeoning Domingo’s knee.
Next, a rifle aimed at his nose, but Petra screamed a wild, “No!” and took to the air. Then a heavy whack split bone, and Petra panted, “Are you all right?” In the next instant, Domingo’s world went dark.
~
Rumors ranged the camp like late July’s testy heat, and Kate heard them all, since the cook had finally softened to her offers of help. He even told her his name—Bernardo. Peeling potatoes and stirring porridge brought a certain satisfaction, but she missed Père. One day, he’d gathered his things to accompany the last partisans, leaving her some instructions.
“Keep your eyes and ears open. Pray that I can find Domingo. Remember the ultimate triumph, and that we’ll return for you.”
Ultimate triumph, a fitting motto, like the theme of Saint Perre’s tymphanum. Her location remained perfect for transmitting, and the messages showed no sign of lessening as drops from London continued. Neither did the rampant speculations in camp. Bernardo gleaned news from every partisan who passed through, and made spreading the word his personal task.
“Have you heard the Allies have badly wounded Field Marshal Rommel? Our boys strafed his car from the air.” The clatter of tin spoons against dishes mixed with more information as the eater took his meal standing.
“The German troops, mostly veterans from the Eastern Front, still call the area of Limousin “Little Russia,” because of so many attacks. We have done ourselves proud. They may have slaughtered our people at Oradour and at Tulle, but our liberation lies very near.”
A Purpose True Page 28