Whenever hungry partisans approached for food, Bernardo’s eyes gleamed with their stories, and the comers never seemed to tire of his ministrations. Gallons of porridge, cauldrons of stew—always something for the hungry.
Today, Bernardo disappeared in the early August dawn to hunt partridges and rabbits. Always, starving men appeared with empty stomachs, and he received his payment in stories.
“The Moyenne-Correze, undeterred by the atrocities at Tulle, have risen again and are on the prowl.”
“The Allies have taken St. Lo—have you heard? They’ve broken out from Normandy’s hedgerow country and will soon reach Paris. They’ve taken Livorno, Italy, too. Won’t be long before they attack the last German position in the north.”
Between her messages and Bernardo’s consistent stream of announcements, Kate felt well informed on the Allies’ progress.
“When the Germans withdrew from Southern Italy in the face of our advancing forces, they took a million dollars in Italian gold, and looted more millions from Belgium, Austria, Hungary, and the Netherlands, to force everyone to use Reich marks for currency.
“Now we have re-taken much of that gold. Those bars marked with RB for Reich bank represent the gold rings, teeth, crystal and silver of the Chosen who were taken captive. Some justice, eh? We arm ourselves with the money the Bosche stole from God’s people.”
With no way of discerning truth from falsehood, Kate continued her work and spent the rest of her time assisting Bernardo. One day, a woman she’d befriended followed her husband to the fight. They had developed a routine of searching for herbs in the afternoons, and Kate missed her companionship
A few days later, on a hot afternoon as she looked up from scrubbing a pile of plates, Kate almost fell off her wooden stool. A cheery voice prompted her. “So, they’ve turned you on the dirty dishes?”
She rushed into long arms extending from a filthy soutane. Fiery auburn hair scratched her cheek. “Oh, Père, I’m so glad to see you. You’re looking as bedraggled as ever.”
“Why, thank you. I make that my business, Madame.” He addressed Bernardo.
“Monsieur, would you mind if I took this girl away for a short while?”
The surly cook grunted and resumed stirring his massive pot. Actually far less grumpy than he let on, a week ago he even shared a little about his family with Kate.
Père grabbed her hand and pulled her past her den. She couldn’t wait to ply him with questions.
“Now I can find out what’s true and what’s not. Did Rommel’s car really get strafed?”
“Yes. We mustn’t rejoice when someone suffers, but I admit that I did when I heard that. I only wish one of the attempts on Hitler’s life had given us even more cause for rejoicing.”
“Whispers about Operation Dragoon range the camp, and word of the Allies landing on the south coast. Have you heard anything about that, or what’s going on near Paris?”
“Umm ...” Père veered down a shady path. “What’s happened around here since I’ve been gone? Have you seen anything of Madame Lamoutte or little Viviane’s grandfather?”
He must know something unrepeatable as yet.
“No, hopefully that poor woman found some peace. But one other survivor stayed here for a few days, a child someone found out in a field.”
Père shook his head as they entered a shaded area with ample fallen logs. He sank on one of them, as weary as he was dirty.
“Have you been back to Lot?”
He gave no clear reply. “At least the S.S. left, but ... Oh, my. I doubt we’ll ever fully recover.”
The murmur from a small waterfall backed idle midsummer bird chirps and animal sounds, and also insulated their conversation from eavesdroppers. Kate itched to ask about Domingo, but Père surely knew how she longed for news. Silence stretched between them, but he leaned back against a tree and offered nothing.
Finally, she launched a safe inquiry. “Have you written any outstanding sermons in the past few weeks?”
“I have been remiss in my priestly duties, I’m afraid, enough to lose my position. It’s a good thing my people demonstrate the soul of patience—of course, so many have gone into hiding, we probably couldn’t fill one pew if we did meet.”
He munched on a squeaky weed. “But that does bring to mind something I promised to tell you a long time ago.”
“About the tymphanum?”
“How did you know?”
“I figured you’d eventually remember.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m still chewing on that concept ... I may never finish, not in this life. It’s something about the juxtaposition of seeming defeat and victory. The Cross and the Crown right there together. Do you see?”
“I think so.” Kate shed her new espadrilles, a gift from Bernardo, to give her feet some air while Père rested. His bony wrists, scratched and raw, extended from his over-sized sleeves. “You traveled a long distance?”
“Not so far. Have your transmissions slowed down?”
“The activity has been monumental, but I feel it building toward some grand finale.”
“Umm ... just between us, the Résistance under Colonel Rol plans an uprising in Paris. Charles de Gaulle is pleading with General Eisenhower to send aid. If that happens, there’s bound to be a bloody battle with Dietrich von Choltitz, the military governor in charge of the city.”
And Domingo, what of Domingo? Miss G had been so right about Kate’s weakest point. Waiting was the worst, and she always had to wait—for word, for assignments, for confirmation.
At long last, Père released her. “Domingo and I parted when he left for the Limousin, but we met again.”
Kate leaned toward him. Come on, Père. Why are you taking so long? And then the sun filtered through the foliage, lighted his face and exposed the glints in his eyes.
“I could never have imagined him so exhausted. But he’s with a good man, an older fellow named Petra. They take care of each other, and when Domingo and I found a moment alone, he gave me a message for you. ‘Tell Kate to stay strong. Assure her that I will find her.’”
~
That voice repeating his name ... From the depths of slumber, the low, understated tone called Domingo back. Puffs of air hit his face as though someone aimed words at him.
“Listen to me, my brother. It’s August fifteenth. We’ve liberated Brive-la-Gaillarde, the first French city to be freed. Soon Paris will be released, and then all the rest. Wake up, Domingo. This is our time, when everything we’ve worked for comes to pass.”
Far down in his being, something stirred, stifling Domingo’s desire to rest forever. When he opened his eyes, a rascally face hovered over him, eyes alight with expectation, body rank with trail odors.
“Can’t believe you took all this time off—never knew you to be lazy.”
“Pe ... Petra?”
“Who else? I’ve been out there without my partner. That’s no good. But we’ve come a long way, and freed...”
“Brive...”
“Brive-la-Gaillarde, yes. We’ve got the Huns on the run, heading for a last-ditch fight with the Allies on the Maginau Line. The fighting has all but ended here, so it's safe for you to get out of bed, my friend.”
Petra flashed a grin and Domingo shifted his weight, but a bolt of pain coursed through his thigh. In a daze, he saw a woman hold up her hand.
“Oh, no. You can’t run out on us just because you’re finally conscious. You must build up your endurance.” She crossed her arms and looked from Domingo to Petra. “Maybe now, one of you will tell us whose leg we saved.”
Petra made a gallant bow. “Merci, Madame. Meet La Foudre, the soul of La Résistance. Long may he live.”
~
“We ate our fill and brought some home.” A partisan dumped his pack at Kate’s feet, and she could hardly fathom her good fortune. Apples and small pears—she couldn’t do apple pie the justice Addie could, but set her mind to making a cobbler after devouring a dripping pear.
The aftertaste satisfied her longing, so she found a bowl and a knife. The camp, almost deserted except for a few men like these who just passed through, still held women and children living in tents. They could use a treat like this.
Excited for the opportunity to brighten their stark lives, she washed the fruit. Little by little, she’d gotten to know some of these women, so now they greeted her on her morning and evening strolls. Everyone used only first names here, probably false, but knowing her neighbors helped Kate’s state of mind.
Her new comradeship with Bernardo also filled some of the void whenever she switched off the transmitter. Gradually, her transmissions waned until only a few messages arrived during the last three days. What would she do when London no longer needed her here?
Would they still ask her to travel to Lyon at that point? If Domingo hadn’t come before then, how could she leave without knowing his fate? So exhausted... Père’s description belied the energetic Domingo she knew.
Only prayer abated her constant questions, so she prayed more and more. Domingo and his partner entered her thoughts a thousand times a day, along with Père, who had left again.
“Calm down. Remember how you were sent back from London, and how Père found you right on the trail. Don’t forget that Domingo promised to come for you.”
A youth ran through the camp shouting, “They’ve liberated Paris, have you heard? Charles de Gaulle led a victory parade through the city yesterday, under L’Arc de Triomphe!”
By the time Kate removed a bubbling cobbler from Bernardo’s makeshift oven, the glorious news spread through camp. Such a perfect time to distribute this treat. She savored a small piece so hot and sweet she almost cried. With portions in a big basket lined with a towel, she set out to hand them to the women and children.
Bernardo returned from his hunting and set her to work on tonight’s stew. She prayed while she worked, so lost in her thoughts and longings that a partisan slipped up unseen. But his words brought her to attention.
“Light hair and dark eyes, came here with Père Gaspard.”
“Right over there.” Bernardo hailed Kate. “Someone wants to see you.”
She’d noted many dirty berets, but never one this worn-out. The muscled partisan pushed it back and stood before her. “You know Domingo Ibarra?”
Kate’s spoon clattered against the pot. Oh no, please. Don’t let him say...
“Mademoiselle, I am Petra, bringing word from Domingo. He... ran out of strength. He must see you.”
Kate could only gape, so Bernardo intervened in his gruff manner. “Well, do you want to see this Domingo or not?”
Tears streamed her cheeks and her throat clogged, so he continued. “Go with him.”
Petra spun into motion. “Is there a stretcher around here? I need another man to...”
Bernardo pointed out a lone partisan slumped under a tree, so Petra started toward him. Soon Kate followed the two of them down a path.
So many trails since she’d arrived here, so many kilometers. Following, always following. Now she fell into the routine. Ran out of strength ... Domingo? Impossible. What could this mean?
She soon saw. Eyes closed, Domingo sprawled on the earth with a man fanning his flushed face. Kate knelt beside him, whispered his name. Finally, Domingo’s eyes cracked open, but his grimace shouted his pain.
“You’re hurt ... we’ll get you home.”
He shook his head. “I ... am ...home.”
“What?”
“You ... are my ... home.” The men slid the stretcher under him and Domingo reached for Kate as he whispered, “America ... good land ... for sheep?”
Kate searched her geography lessons. “Why, yes, in Idaho.”
“Idaho...” He reached for her. “We can start over there?”
“We...yes. But what about Gabirel?”
Light tinged Domingo’s face even as he groaned. “We...will...find ... him.”
~
Striped canvas awnings stood watch over food tables, show calves mooed from individual barn stalls, and a cacophony of excited voices streamed in every direction. But one in particular struck Kathryn’s ears like a melody. Precious Mara, all rigged out in her cowgirl boots and riding gear, tore through the crowd.
“You’re back, Grandma—you came!” She slammed into Kathryn with a storm’s force.
“Of course I did, honey.” Kathryn caught her breath after the onslaught. Catching up with Mara, Gabby enveloped them both in her arms.
“Mom—oh, you’re home.” She wiped away sudden tears. “Darlene said you were in Denver, but ... Oh, this has been so frustrating—where did they take you?”
“It’s about time for Mara’s group, hon. We’ll have to save all this for later. Anyway, I’m finally home, and so glad to be.”
Linking arms with the two of them, Kathryn gave thanks for their sturdiness. After insane flights zigzagging northward, and so many takeoffs and landings, she craved solid ground and a long, long rest.
At the grandstand, Gabby paused before going with Mara. “One thing I know you’ll be happy to hear—a letter came from Charles Tenney. He said Addie came through her surgery and is on the mend.”
“Oh my...thank you for telling me.” Kathryn stumbled a little, and Gabby led her to the grandstand railing.
“You look so pale, Mom. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Sure. Go on now—this is Mara’s big moment, honey.” Kathryn sank into the nearest empty spot on the bleachers. A wave of homesickness for Domingo almost overwhelmed her—if only he would come home early, but she knew better. The men always kept the sheep in the high country for at least another few weeks.
Oh, this heat—what a change from the South American winter she’d just left, and that freezing airplane. She could sure use something to drink from one of those food stands, but queasiness told her to stay right where she dropped. Her head swirled with all the sudden changes, landing during the night in Denver, the crazy drive back to Idaho, and coming to a screeching halt just outside the fairgrounds only a short time ago.
Benjamin had opened her door for her and grabbed her suitcase from the trunk. “Thank you.” That was all he said, and Kathryn rummaged in her repertoire for something to give him—a gift of words.
“You succeeded. I’m glad for you.”
He swallowed. “We couldn’t have done it without you.” In the same brown tweed as always, he re-entered the car. Just before he pulled his door shut, he looked her in the eyes. “You don’t believe me, but I truly did not mean to send you flying out of that balcony. I...”
The racket from the rodeo grounds called to Kathryn, and she could think of nothing to say. Benjamin shrugged, closed his door and the driver drove away.
Just one more scene to analyze in the years to come. But for now, she must put that experience out of her mind. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. Every spring when Domingo left for the Sawtooth high country with the sheep, Kathryn steeled herself to be strong, to take care of everything until he came home without allowing her longing for him to hold sway over her.
The announcer called out a list of names starting with the youngest riders. Now, what set did Gabby say Mara would ride in? Kathryn thought the second, but dizziness threatened her again.
Can’t end up in the hospital again. Hang on until she rides ... just hang on. Then Gabby will take you home and you can rest. By the time Domingo comes home, you’ll be back to normal.
Sunlight blended with the shadow of a tall cowboy sitting behind her ... wasn’t that the story of her life? Light and darkness, easy and tough, all dappled together like a forest scene. But that word home—oh, how it enticed her. She could barely wait to enter her house, sit at the kitchen table, and lie on her own bed.
The bleachers vibrated with people finding seats, and that constant tremor melded with the weakness that coursed through Kathryn. Hold on—you made it back, you can’t fail Mara now.
And then, someone strong squeezed
in beside her, put a cool glass in her hand, and commanded, “Drink.”
She obeyed. Lemonade, just the ticket. The ice-cold tartness cleared Kathryn’s mind, and then the scent of wool on the hoof and a worn shirt claimed her. That someone leaned closer.
Domingo? Disbelief flooded her. No, it couldn’t be. He was always the last one to come down before winter. But there was no denying those eyes.
Tender and dark as onyx under his stained hat, they found hers. Then the roughness of his face brushed her skin, and her eyes burned against his chest.
“How did you...?”
“I learned long ago to listen to my heart. You taught me that, Katarin. My heart’s been saying something’s wrong down here, that you need me. So here I am.”
“But the flock...”
“Remember, we have a son—two of them. They’ve learned well—they urged me to leave and seemed pleased to shoulder the responsibility. Besides, Gabirel is up there with his flock, too. Remember?”
He held her even closer and wiped her tears away with his stumpy little finger. “Your face is awfully white. You’ve been sick.”
“Yes. Oh, I do need you so much right now—and somehow, you knew it.”
“Père Gaspard would have something to say about that—he called us les inconnus, but always maintained we were known by God. And guided by Him.”
Hearing Père’s name, Kathryn sighed and leaned even closer, if that were possible. So many agents returned to their lives alone after the war—what a gift to share these memories with Domingo.
“Look out there, Katarin. Little Mara’s riding into the arena, just like her mother did years ago. She flies along as if she were born to ride.”
He whispered low then, so only she could hear. “And like her grandmother, who fell right out of the sky, almost into my arms.”
About the Author
Words have always been comfort food for Gail Kittleson. After instructing expository writing and English as a Second Language, she began writing memoir. Now, intrigued by the World War II era, Gail creates women’s historical fiction from her northern Iowa home and also facilitates writing workshops/retreats.
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