She got to her feet and crossed the hall to the major’s closed office door. Drawing a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked. There was no reply, and having knocked again, she cautiously turned the handle and eased the door open. The room was flooded with sunlight through windows that also looked out onto the square. Major Thielen was sitting at his desk, and he looked up angrily at being disturbed. When he saw who it was he rose to his feet, his expression still dark. “Yes, Reverend Mother, what is it? Why are you here?”
“Good morning, Major,” said Mother Marie-Pierre with a calm she was far from feeling. “I came to find out what is happening in the square.”
The major flicked his eyes towards the window and then returned them to her face. “That is our business,” he replied stiffly. “I hardly see how it can concern you.”
“I came through the square on my way to visit the sick in the village,” Mother Marie-Pierre said equably, “and I saw these people standing there, surrounded by soldiers who were pointing guns at them. They are clearly under arrest for some reason, and I wondered what they were supposed to have done.”
“As I said,” returned the major, “I scarcely think it concerns you. Kindly do not interfere in what you don’t understand.”
“But I am asking, so that I do understand,” said the nun. “I know these people. Why are they standing here for hours on end with an armed guard?”
“They are awaiting transport,” replied the major. “Now if you don’t mind…”
“Transport? Transport to where? Where are they going, Major?”
“To work in Germany,” he answered. “They are going to work in the factories to help the war effort. Now if that is all, Reverend Mother, I’ll bid you good day.” He sat down abruptly and picking up a sheaf of papers from his desk, began to read.
“To work in the factories?” Mother Marie-Pierre did not accept her dismissal. “Major Thielen, there are children of only five years old out there. What use will they be in your factories?”
“Their parents will work for the benefit of the Fatherland,” a smooth voice spoke from behind her, “and surely you would not wish to split up a family, Reverend Mother? Of course the children go too.”
Mother Marie-Pierre spun round to find herself face-to-face with Colonel Hoch. He had come into the room silently behind her, and now he stood within inches of her, the supercilious lift of his eyebrows and the curl of his lip both designed to show his contempt for her.
“And now if you have quite finished wasting the major’s time,” Hoch went on, “he and I have some business to finish.”
He moved a little, but not out of her way, so that she had to brush past him to reach the door. When she did so, Mother Marie-Pierre turned back and said in a soft voice, “May I speak with them, those out there?”
“No, you may not,” Hoch said, and turned his back on her.
Shaking with fear and anger, Mother Marie-Pierre paused in the hallway before leaving the town hall. As she collected her thoughts and decided what, if anything, she could do, she heard the colonel speak to the major again, his voice harsh and authoritarian.
“There is still another family, the Auclons, to be rounded up,” he said, “but the trucks will be here within the hour. If your men haven’t found them by then they’ll have to go with the next lot.”
Mother Marie-Pierre did not understand all he said, but her schoolgirl German gave her the gist of his remarks and made her blood run cold. The Auclons were another Jewish family who had lived in St Croix ever since she could remember. Joseph Auclon was a barber, and his wife, Janine, helped out occasionally at The Manor where she had been in service before she married. Their two boys, Jacques and Julien, were identical twins and only about three years old.
She wondered where the Auclons were. Had they got wind of the round-up and gone into hiding? Why had these families been chosen to go to Germany? Was it because they were Jews? Probably, she conceded. Jews would be chosen first for forced labour. But what about the children? Why take the children as well as the able-bodied adults? What use would they be in a labour camp? What use would their mother be with them to look after?
Mother Marie-Pierre walked out into the sunshine again and looked across at the waiting prisoners, for that is what they were, trying to see who else had been taken. Most were young men who had returned from the war, but there were several older men there too, and three women. The women stood together, staring round them with large frightened eyes. When they saw Mother Marie-Pierre watching them, one of them ran towards her, her arms outstretched as if in supplication. At once the guard nearest to her fired into the ground at her feet, causing her to reel backwards with a shriek of fear, and to retreat sobbing into the arms of one of her friends. The gunfire brought the colonel and the major running out of the town hall, and when he saw that Mother Marie-Pierre was still standing just outside, the colonel snarled. “Nun, unless you want to go and work for the Reich as well, I suggest you go back to your convent where you belong.”
Realising she could do no more here, Mother Marie-Pierre turned away and walked quietly out of the square and up the adjoining lane past the church towards the curé’s house.
The wooden shutters of Father Michel’s house were closed, as if the house were deserted. Undeterred, Mother Marie-Pierre strode up to the front door and raised the big brass knocker, but before she could let it fall, the door swung open and Mademoiselle Picarde peered out. The curé’s housekeeper was a tiny, wizened woman with eyes like a snake’s, harsh and unflickering, but now those eyes showed fear as they glanced anxiously over the nun’s shoulder.
“Reverend Mother,” she hissed, “what do you want?”
Mother Marie-Pierre was somewhat surprised at this reception. “I’ve come to see Father Michel.”
A voice from inside the house called out. “Who is it, Rose?”
“You’d better come in,” the housekeeper said ungraciously, and standing aside, allowed Mother Marie-Pierre to enter the house.
The priest appeared from a door further down the narrow corridor that ran the length of the house. “Ah, Reverend Mother,” he said a little nervously when he saw who his visitor was. “Good morning to you.”
“Good morning, Father,” she replied. “I need your help.”
“You do?” The priest looked worried and gestured her to follow him back into the room from which he had emerged. Mother Marie-Pierre had never called on the priest before, and, following him into the room, found herself in his study. The room was lit with candles, the windows darkened by their shutters.
Mother Marie-Pierre came directly to the point. “The Germans are taking some of the local people away,” she said. “They’ve got them gathered in the square and are only waiting for transport to collect them.”
Father Michel nodded. “So I heard,” he said. “Rose went to buy bread this morning and told me. I suppose they will take any of our young men that they need,” he added resignedly.
“But it’s whole families, Father,” Mother Marie-Pierre said softly, “not just able-bodied adults, there are children there as well. Little Margot Lenoir is only five. Why are they taking her? She’s no use to them.”
The curé shrugged. “That I can’t say, Mother.”
“It’s because they’re Jews,” stated Mother Marie-Pierre flatly.
“You could be right,” Father Michel replied uneasily. “But if it is, there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? I mean, if they chose the Jews to work in their factories, that may save some of our own boys from having to go.”
Mother Marie-Pierre stared at him for a moment. “Some of our own boys? Father, these people are as French as you are. They’ve lived in this country, this village, all their lives.”
“Even so, if the Germans have decided to move them, then there is nothing we can do about it,” replied the priest. “And surely it’s better for the Lenoir family, and others like them, to stay together, don’t you think?”
“Others like th
em?” Reverend Mother’s eyes skewered him. “Which others?”
His eyes slid away before her gaze. “Well, I don’t know…” he began to bluster. “I mean there are others aren’t there? The Auclons for instance.” He raised his eyes to her again, adding slyly, “After all you’ve Jewish children in the convent, haven’t you?”
Dismay registered on Mother Marie-Pierre’s face before she could control her features and he continued. “I shouldn’t want to draw attention to myself if I were sheltering Jews from the Germans. Far better to let them take those they’ve found already and hope they don’t find yours.”
Mother Marie-Pierre tilted her head in the candlelight the better to see him. She spoke quietly. “Thank you for your advice, Father. I knew you’d be able to help me.” Swiftly she pulled wide the door, which had been standing ajar, and Mademoiselle Rose Picarde almost fell into the room.
“I just came to see if I could get you or the reverend mother anything, Father,” she said virtuously, steadying herself with one hand on the door frame.
Mother Marie-Pierre answered before the priest was able to, with chilly politeness. “No thank you, Mademoiselle, I am not staying. I have things to do. I’ll bid you both good morning.”
Opening the front door, Mother Marie-Pierre stepped out into the fresh summer air, the relief of being out of the house an almost physical thing.
9
Mother Marie-Pierre turned her steps back towards the convent. As she was emerging from the lane into the square, she heard the rumble of engines and saw two lorries come to a halt outside the town hall. Instinctively, she stepped back into the shelter of the café wall, and was glad she had, for Hoch and Thielen both came out from the German headquarters onto the square. At an order from the colonel, the guards herded the waiting families towards the canvas-covered trucks. As the tailgates were let down, Mother Marie-Pierre could see that the lorries were already crammed with people.
Surely, she thought, there isn’t room for anyone else in there.
Even as she watched four young men and a woman sprang from one of the lorries, sprinting away from the truck in search of escape, of a place to hide. Each ran in a different direction, zigzagging as they ran, making for the illusory safety of the alleyways that gave onto the square. Immediately chaos broke loose as both the guards riding on the lorries and those covering the people in the square opened fire on the fugitives. One man was killed outright as a bullet powered into his back, flinging him into the air before he crumpled like a ragdoll to the ground in a pool of blood. Those still in the trucks began to shout as gunfire rattled round the square, the soldiers shooting, indiscriminately, in the directions that the fugitives had taken. Those gathered to be loaded onto the lorries screamed and shrieked with fear, flinging themselves flat on the ground as bullets ripped through the air about their heads.
There was a bellow of rage from Colonel Hoch, and shouting a mixture of orders— “After them! Shoot to kill! Guard the rest!” —the officer disappeared down one of the alleyways, his pistol in his hand.
There was confusion among the soldiers. Some followed the colonel, rushing from the square in hot pursuit, their rifles at the ready; others turned their guns on the prisoners in the lorries, to deter any other would-be escapees. Major Thielen hurried back into the town hall, shouting orders to someone inside. The group who had been waiting in the square were still flat on the ground, while a German private barked orders at them, waving his rifle threateningly. There was a rattle of gunfire from further away and another scream.
From her place behind the café wall, Mother Marie-Pierre saw that several of those who had dived for cover had actually rolled underneath one of the lorries, seeking shelter from the spitting bullets. Madame Lenoir was one, her body shielding Margot, her youngest child. For a moment their eyes met, desperate appeal in Madame Lenoir’s, compassion in the nun’s. She held out her arms and the woman under the lorry murmured something to her daughter and then pushed her out from the shelter of the lorry, across the two metres of open space and into Mother Marie-Pierre’s open arms. The nun gathered the child to her and stepped back into the shelter of the lane down which she had come. Even as she drew the little girl back behind the wall, obscuring her from the sight of the guard, the soldier saw the mother underneath the truck and roared an order at her, prodding her with the barrel of his rifle. Madame Lenoir crawled out from the other side of the lorry, her back firmly to Mother Marie-Pierre and Margot in the lane, and rejoined the rest of her family who were now on their feet again and being herded once more towards the waiting transports. She kept her eyes steadfastly away from the direction her daughter and Mother Marie-Pierre had taken, fighting with every fibre of her being the compulsion to turn for one final glimpse of her baby.
The reverend mother gathered the small girl into her arms and doubled back behind the café. She could hear the soldiers still shouting to each other as they searched for the escaping prisoners. There was another burst of gunfire close enough to make her shake, and she clutched the child to her ever more tightly.
“In here, Sister,” hissed a voice, and a door in the wall beside her opened just wide enough to admit her. She squeezed through and the door was immediately closed and bolted behind her. An old woman grabbed her hand and pulled them both in through the back entrance of the café.
“Down here!” she instructed, and Mother Marie-Pierre saw that there was a trapdoor open in the stone floor of the kitchen, from which a flight of steps led down. Margot, terrified into silence until now, began to wail.
“Ssh, ma petite,” soothed the old lady. “You’re safe now. Down you go, Sister, till they’ve gone.” She smiled up encouragingly. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t see it was you. Best keep both of you out of sight until they’ve driven off, at least.”
Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and with Margot still in her arms sat on the edge of the hole in the floor, feeling for the steps with her feet. The trapdoor was closed over her head, and they were left in the gloom of a cellar only lit by the grey light that filtered through a narrow window set high up in the wall.
Margot was still crying. “I want Maman,” she wailed. “Where’s Maman? I want her.”
“I know you do, chérie,” soothed Mother Marie-Pierre, sitting down on a box with the child on her knee and getting out a handkerchief to mop her tears. “But Maman can’t come just now. She wants you to stay with me for a little while. Then I’ll take you to see Marthe. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She sat rocking the little girl in her arms until she gradually calmed down, and with her thumb set comfortably in her mouth, began to doze. Mother Marie-Pierre longed to go to the tiny window to see if she could see or hear anything from outside, but she didn’t want to disturb the now sleeping child. Better to wait, she decided, until her hostess and saviour came to give her the all-clear, and then, somehow, she’d have to get Margot back to the relative safety of the convent.
It was well over an hour later that she heard the scrape of the trapdoor above her and light flooded into the subterranean room.
“You can come up now, Mother,” said the old woman.
Gently Mother Marie-Pierre lifted the sleeping child up to the waiting arms above and then followed her out into the kitchen.
“Madame Juliette,” she said softly, “that was a very brave thing to do.”
The old woman peered at her and then smiled. “Ah, Mother,” she said, “there is little enough that we can do in these sad times. What can the Boche want with little children, hein?”
“I don’t know, Madame.” Mother Marie-Pierre looked across at the old lady, a woman she had met all those years ago when she had first come to the convent to nurse the wounded in the last war. “What finally happened out there?” She nodded her head towards the square.
“The lorries have gone,” Madame Juliette said flatly. “They loaded in those waiting in the square and drove away.”
“And those that ran?”
“One they killed, two they brought
back, both wounded and bleeding and two…” she shrugged eloquently. “I suppose they are still searching for them.”
“And the child?” Mother Marie-Pierre looked at Margot now nestled against Madame Juliette’s ample bosom. “Did they realise that she’d gone?”
Madame Juliette shrugged again. “Who can tell?” she said. “Probably not. There was such a fracas when those tried to escape. I was watching from upstairs and I don’t think they counted the prisoners into the truck. The rest of the family were just pushed onto one of the lorries and then the back was secured. The last one they caught was shot in the leg and bleeding badly. They just tossed him in on top of the others.” She sighed. “I think he will die.”
Mother Marie-Pierre crossed herself and murmured. “May the Lord take his soul.”
“Amen to that,” said the old lady. Then she suddenly pulled herself together. “Now, we have to decide what to do with you and Margot.”
“Well, I can come and go about the village as I always do, so I’m in no danger,” began Mother Marie-Pierre.
“Until someone remembers that you are English,” interrupted Madame Juliette. It was the first indication she had given that she remembered that the nun in front of her was one of the English girls who had frequented her café to eat pain d’épice when they had first arrived from England in 1915. “You must not trust anyone, Mother. There are too many round here who would sell their own grandmothers if they thought it would be to their advantage.”
“Surely not, Madame,” began Mother Marie-Pierre.
“Believe me, Mother. I remember where you came from… so will others. Be very careful.”
“So, what do you suggest?” asked the nun.
“For the moment you should be safe enough, that major probably doesn’t pose much of a threat. He’s just a soldier.” Madame Juliette spoke dismissively. “No, the dangerous one is that Colonel Hoch. Try not to draw his attention. He is an evil man.”
The Sisters of St. Croix Page 12