The Sisters of St. Croix

by Diney Costeloe

  Although her heart was pounding, Mother Marie-Pierre managed to keep her voice steady. “Why thank you, sir. We’d be most grateful.” She touched Terry on the arm and edged him towards the bench. “Come, Sister, let’s take the weight off our feet while we can.” As she had spoken in French, Terry had no idea what she had said, but hearing the word he had been waiting for, he nodded, and following her example sat down on the bench beside her.

  The German major seemed disposed to make conversation, and asked where they were going. Mother Marie-Pierre produced the story she had rehearsed; that they were going to the mother house in Paris, as Sister Marie-Joseph had been asked to help with the nursing there. The German turned politely to Sister Marie-Joseph, but found that she had her head bowed, her rosary beads in her fingers, and was murmuring prayers under her breath. Embarrassed, the major looked away, peering along the platform to see if there was any sign of the train coming. Even as he looked there was a puff of smoke in the distance, and the crowd on the platform surged forward. Mother Marie-Pierre placed a warning hand on her companion’s arm, waiting for the major to move away. She had no wish to share a compartment with him all the way to Amiens.

  She need not have worried. The major had felt a fool when he found one of the nuns was actually saying her prayers, in public, on a station. He did not want to share a compartment either. Far too embarrassing if she started to pray again.

  The two nuns clambered up into the train, but, as they had held back for a moment or two, there were no seats, and they had to stand in the corridor. Wedged between a large woman with a basket and fat man in a shiny suit, they rocked with the train as it trundled slowly out of the station. The journey was slow, but uneventful. There were no spot checks, for which Mother Marie-Pierre gave thanks, as at such close quarters it was likely that even the most short-sighted inspector would notice that there was little similarity between the picture on the second nun’s papers and the person it purported to represent. It was with great relief that they climbed down from the train when it finally reached Amiens. Here too the station was busy, as the train disgorged its passengers to add to the crowd waiting not so patiently to board the train.

  “Keep close to me,” murmured Mother Marie-Pierre as she edged her way through the crush towards the exit. Terry nodded, and shuffled along behind her, trying to keep his boots hidden below his habit. There was a long queue at the gate, where two German officers were checking documents. Mother Marie-Pierre paused, allowing several people to pass in front of her. Terry waited at her side. The people in front filtered through the checkpoint and the two nuns moved forward. As they reached the gate and Mother Marie-Pierre presented the two sets of papers, Terry stood demurely behind her, eyes lowered, hands in sleeves.

  “I thought you were on your way to Paris, Sister,” said a loud voice behind them. Mother Marie-Pierre turned round to find the German major at her elbow.

  “We are, Major, but I have an errand to run for Reverend Mother in Amiens on the way.” Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts were racing. Her excuse sounded lame even to herself, but something at the back of her mind warned her to say as little as possible.

  “Oh, you have a convent here in Amiens?” asked the major.

  “No, but we have links with some of the parishes here.” Mother Marie-Pierre summoned a smile to her lips and turned back to the soldier scrutinising their papers. He was now holding them out impatiently to the two nuns, who were clearly known to the major and thus hardly a threat to security. Reverend Mother took the papers with a quiet “Thank you”, and pushing them into the pocket of her habit gave the major another, more spontaneous, smile, then turned to Terry. “Come along, ma soeur.”

  Masseur! Again, Terry heard the word he’d been waiting for and nodded dutifully, before tripping along behind her as she strode out into the street.

  Knowing how conspicuous they would be even on the crowded streets in the centre of the town, Mother Marie-Pierre turned into a side street as soon as she could, so that the German major, who had come out of the station behind them, should not follow their progress.

  Twenty minutes later they were standing outside the Church of the Holy Cross. The street was quiet and no one paid any attention to the two nuns as they pushed open the door to the empty church. The faded light of the winter’s day hardly penetrated the ornate windows, and in the gloom the red sanctuary light glowed before the altar. In the Lady Chapel several votive candles flickered in the draught from the door, but there was no sign of anyone else in the church.

  Mother Marie-Pierre led the way into a pew at the back and knelt in silence for a moment or two. Terry did the same. She sat back. “You did very well, Terry,” she said softly. “Especially when the German came up to us on the platform. Pretending to say the rosary was a clever move.”

  Terry laughed. “I wasn’t pretending, Mother, I was praying like hell!”

  Mother Marie-Pierre couldn’t repress a smile at his forthright answer. “I should continue to do so,” she said. “You wait here. Stay on your knees with your head bowed and then even if someone comes in, they won’t bother you. I’m going to find Father Bernard. We’re in his hands now. If he won’t help, I don’t know where we go from here.”

  “You’ll go to Paris and fetch your Sister Danielle,” Terry replied promptly. “And I’ll disappear into the woodwork.”

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can. All right?”

  Terry nodded and remained on his knees as she left the church and crossed the road to the priest’s house.

  Madame Papritz opened the door as before, and immediately recognising her visitor led her straight through to Father Bernard, who was working in his study.

  “Mother Marie-Pierre!” he exclaimed as she was ushered in. “What a lovely surprise!”

  Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Thank you, Father. I hope you’ll think so when you’ve heard why I’m here.”

  The priest’s smile faded. “I see, well you’d better tell me.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre knew that having come here she had to trust Father Bernard implicitly. He could do one of three things, he could inform the German authorities about them, he could remain silent, but send them away, or he could offer his help in some way. Mother Marie-Pierre had gambled on the last, but if her trust were misplaced, then she and Terry were in trouble.

  “It’s like this, Father,” she began, and told him the whole story, from Sister Marie-Marc’s discovery of Terry Ham hiding in the shed to their arrival in Amiens.

  He listened without interruption until she had finished. “And this young man is waiting in my church now?”

  Mother Marie-Pierre replied that he was.

  “Then I think you’d better go and fetch him straight away.”

  When Terry was safely installed before the tiny coal fire in Father Bernard’s study, his host looked at him with interest before turning to Mother Marie-Pierre. He spoke with a smile. “I see how you got away with it… this time. You were lucky he is not a big man. Still, I think the first thing should be to turn him back into a man again… he won’t bear close scrutiny, you know.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre gave Terry a quick translation and the young man looked very relieved. “He’s right,” he said with fervour. “I can’t wait to get out of this hat thing.”

  Father Bernard took Terry upstairs, returning moments later without him. “I’ve given him some of Father Gilbert’s clothes.”

  “Won’t Madame Papritz wonder…?” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but Father Bernard shook his head. “Madame Papritz sees everything and says nothing. She is the perfect priest’s housekeeper. I trust her completely.”

  “What are we going to do with Terry now, Father?” Mother Marie-Pierre at last asked the all-important question.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Father Bernard said calmly. “He’ll be all right. I have connections. Better you know no more than that. Is the little Jewish girl safe?”

  “Yes, she is.” Mother Marie-Pierre smiled at him. �
�You weren’t fooled then either, were you?”

  “No,” he agreed, “but I had ample opportunity to study her. Anyone meeting her in the street might well have accepted her as what she seemed.”

  “It was because of her that I came to you,” Mother Marie-Pierre said. “I had nowhere else to turn.”

  The door opened and Terry came in. He was wearing the collar and cassock of a Catholic priest. “It’s a relief to get out of that hood,” he said. “But I’m still wearing a bloody frock!”

  15

  The light above Adelaide’s head changed from red to green.

  “Go!” bellowed the voice over the roar of the aircraft, and Adelaide, closing her eyes, went through the hole in the fuselage and into the night air, free-falling for a second before her parachute opened above her head with a reassuring crack. She was aware of other parachutes opening above her in fast succession as her suitcase and other containers followed her out of the plane, then she had no time to think of anything else as the ground rushed up to meet her. The instructions that had been drummed into her during her brief training at Ringway came to her aid and she rolled as she hit the ground, trying not to absorb the impact with her legs. For a moment she lay winded, and then she was struggling to her feet, pulling at the release of the parachute harness.

  A young man ran over to her and spoke in French. “You OK?”

  “Yes, give me a hand with this.”

  Together they bundled up the parachute and dragged it to the edge of the field. “We’ll hide it here,” the man said, and began stuffing the unwieldy silk bundle in a hollow under some bushes.”

  Adelaide grabbed his arm. “No, we were told to bury them.”

  “Not now. It’ll be dealt with. Now we have to gather everything up and get clear before the Germans realise there’s been a drop. Come on… move.”

  The reception party who had signalled to the plane were already busy at work. Shadows moved in the darkness as they collected the packages and containers that had dropped from the aircraft as it made its pass over the dropping zone, before roaring away into the sky. As it disappeared, the moon rode out from behind a cloud and the field was bathed in clear, pale light.

  “Hurry.” A tall man who seemed to be directing operations spoke to Adelaide. “All OK? No injuries?”

  “Fine. You Marcel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Antoinette,” she returned briefly, and looked round for her suitcase.

  The reception party had gathered up the equipment and were loading it into a farm cart, working quickly in the shifting moonlight. Adelaide spotted her own small case and picked it up.

  “Right, get going,” Marcel said to his men as the last container went onto the cart. “Tomorrow, at six.”

  The cart began to move away and Marcel turned back to Adelaide. “Welcome to France,” he said. “Follow me.”

  He set a tough pace, leading her across fields and through a wood before skirting a village that lay silent and still in the moonlight. Adelaide had no trouble in keeping up, though her suitcase was a nuisance. Marcel did not offer to carry it for her and for that she was glad. She wanted to prove herself and she wanted no favours.

  Though, she thought, as she manoeuvred it over a stone wall, perhaps I should have let it go on the wagon.

  In the distance a dog barked, and Marcel put out a warning hand to halt her. There was no other sound and at last he moved on, keeping to the shelter of the hedgerows as far as possible, straining his ears before hurrying her across an open road and down behind a stone wall on the far side. There was a dirt track along the edge of another open field and then they were through a gate and approaching the dark bulk of a farmhouse, surrounded by outbuildings.

  Marcel led the way confidently through the farmyard to the back door. It opened and they slipped inside. Once the door was closed again a light was switched on and Adelaide found herself in a warm, stone-flagged kitchen. Marcel waved to a chair at the big kitchen table.

  “Sit down,” he said, and, as Adelaide sank gratefully into the chair, he put his head round the inner door. “Maman!”

  An elderly woman appeared from the depths of the house, and greeting Adelaide with a smile she poured coffee into mugs from a pot on the range. Adelaide took hers gratefully, warming her hands round the mug. It had been freezing cold in the plane despite having a blanket wrapped round her. She had been dressed for her landing in France, all her clothes made by French tailors in London, cut in the French style, and despite the flying suit on top, they did not keep out the cold at the high altitudes of the plane’s flight.

  Maman then asked Adelaide if she were hungry. By now it was the early hours of the morning and Adelaide shook her head. “No thank you, Madame,” she said. “The coffee is all I need.”

  “Anything from Rousseau?” Marcel asked the old woman.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. No movement.” She smiled at Adelaide, said goodnight and left the room.

  “Now we can talk,” Marcel said. “And you can tell me what orders you bring from London.”

  “London wants to set up an escape route for airmen who are shot down over Germany,” Adelaide replied. “They know what your group is doing, of course, through Bertrand”—she used the code-name of the wireless operator who had been sent in some weeks earlier to make contact with the resistance—”and they were very interested in one of your reports. They’ve sent me to follow it up.”

  “The convent,” Marcel said.

  Adelaide nodded. “Yes. I have to find out exactly what is going on.”

  Marcel scowled. “I can’t see why they had to send someone over from England just for that. We could have infiltrated the convent ourselves.”

  “They sent me because I already have a contact inside the convent,” Adelaide said tersely. “They sent me from England so that if something went wrong your entire network would not be jeopardised.” She smiled at him. “They sent me to help,” she added more gently. “My grandmother is French, I have come to help France.”

  There was a silence between them for a moment, and then Marcel spoke. “And your cover story?”

  “I am Adèle Durant and I have come to help my uncle Gerard Launay on his farm. My parents are dead. He is elderly and he and his wife can no longer manage on their own… since their son was killed during the German invasion.” She looked at him questioningly. “London believes you to have made this arrangement already. My papers support it.”

  Marcel nodded. “I just wanted to be sure we both had the same cover for you,” he said. “Tonight you stay here, and in a few days, when I have made the proper arrangements, I will take you to the station in Albert. From there your uncle will come and collect you from the train and take you home to the farm.” Marcel got to his feet. “Now I suggest you go to bed. You should be safe enough here. My people have cleared the dropping zone, and it seems that the drop went undetected, by the local Boche, anyway. We have someone keeping watch so we should have warning if there is any sign of them. In the morning I will start the arrangements for you to join your uncle. Bertrand will let London know that you are safe and send any other messages that you may have for them.”

  The old woman led Adelaide upstairs to a room over the kitchen, furnished with a large bed and little else. Left alone, Adelaide got ready for bed, and then snuggled under the feather comforter. Although she was dog-tired, her nerves were strung taut as piano wire and sleep eluded her. As she lay in the darkness, her mind churning, she thought back over the last few days.

  She had at last finished her special training and then been sent to a small flat in London for what she had thought would be her final briefing. In the past eight months she had had a thorough training in a great many skills that would have been inconceivable for a woman in the earlier days of the war. Relentless physical training had ensured that Adelaide was now superbly fit. In Scotland she had learned how to live off the land, and survive in open countryside in all winds and weathers. She learned signals and codes
, she learnt how to use explosives, trained in unarmed combat, became familiar with a variety of weapons. She had learned to kill silently, to fade into the background. She had learned to listen, she had trained her memory and her rudimentary German had improved so that she could at least follow a conversation. She had spoken French most of the time, immersed herself in the language, so that her instinctive response would be to cry out in French, to answer in French, to challenge in French.

  There had been times when she had almost given up, when it had all seemed too much and she couldn’t cope with the ruthlessness needed, the perpetual fear, the concentration of living a lie. Then she thought of Andrew, and her resolution hardened with bitter determination and she applied herself again. Andrew, her beloved cousin, more brother than cousin, was dead. Grand’mère had written to tell her, and Adelaide had been numb with the pain of it. Every fibre of her being cried out against it. Andrew? Why Andrew? There were no details of his death, the family had simply been told he’d been killed in action. Adelaide herself did not actually know any more than they did, but having guessed that he was involved in some sort of clandestine work, she also guessed that he had been dropped into occupied territory somewhere, probably in France as his French was as fluent as her own, and he had not returned. He had risked himself in the war behind the lines and Adelaide knew that she must do the same.

  So, her training went on. She had spent two days at Ringway near Manchester, learning to parachute, something that had filled her with almost more dread than the thought of living on her wits in occupied France. How could she fling herself out of an aeroplane? The very thought of it brought her close to blind panic. Cora, who had been with her for much of the training, seemed to have no problem with the jump, and it was she who gave Adelaide the strength to go through with it. Almost paralysed with terror, Adelaide had done it, and now she was ready… or as ready as she’d ever be.