by Michael Smth
Weibel gave an order and the terrorized children were hustled into the floodlights, to the small truck the SS men had brought. He waited a moment to relish his victory then bellowed another order. The hobbled soldier poked Mother’s back with his pistol and prodded her, too, into the flood of light, to Weibel’s staff car.
Prize Fight in Lefebvre
As Mother Catherine was being taken to the staff car, she thought, If I’m nearby, I’ll be able to protect the children. The hope buoyed her spirit. She was smiling when Bauer blindfolded her and pushed her into the back seat.
“You smile? Bauer sneered. “Why?”
“Because I intend to see that those children are not harmed,” Mother replied.
Bauer was quiet. The silence left space for Mother to recall Father Celion’s observation, Ah, Mother Catherine. Such magnificent delusion—this belief of yours that by the very power of your will you can turn sour to sweet. Delusion because it isn’t always true, but magnificent because from it springs such spiritual energy and hope.
Finally Bauer spoke. “Forget those childrens. They come to the end. Worry on yourself.”
In the blindfold’s blackness, Mother felt her spring going suddenly dry.
The next morning, Mother awoke to a clock’s tock, tock, tock echoing from above. It had been a fitful night on a filthy mattress in a small, windowless room. Bauer’s words, Forget those childrens, haunted her. As did Eva’s face, dark with despair, looking down from the window. Then disappearing, as she was pulled by the other girls into the darkness of the dormitory. Mother couldn’t shake a murky sense of betrayal in their exchanged look. Surely Eva felt betrayed that she had given up the children without a fight. If she got another chance to make a stand—to set things right—Mother vowed she wouldn’t fail Eva again.
A light came on and Mother blinked at the sudden brightness pouring from the bare bulb, which hung by a spindly, black cord from the water-mottled plaster of the ceiling. Along the back wall were stacked chairs—folded, theater-style units of four seats. They were made of oak turned dark by the grime of many decades’ use. There was nothing with her in the room but the mattress, the theater chairs, and the bare bulb.
Mother knelt and prayed. “Lord, grant me hope, grant me strength. Today I’ll need both.”
She had just begun Matins when loud blows rattled the door. Pounding—a fist used as a hammer. The lock clicked. Mother continued with her prayers.
The door exploded open. Hulking just outside the doorway was the huge SS soldier Mother had seen the night before. He looked the type for pounding. She gazed at his head, the size and shape of a bucket, and its most revealing elements, the eyes. Small, dark eyes set well back in the skull, each obscured, protected, by a looming, massive crag of an eyebrow.
Despite his size, the giant didn’t frighten Mother. It was the childlike way he cocked his head as he peered into the room. I can handle a little boy.
“Kommen Sie mit, bitte.” The soldier, whose name was Steckmann, put all the emphasis on the kommen and none of it on bitte.
Though Mother knew no German, it was clear what was being demanded. But she saw no reason to admit she understood. “Excuse me, could you say it in French, please?”
Steckmann understood no French. All he knew was that the nun wasn’t moving. He reached a paw in and clutched Mother’s arm at the elbow. Growling, he jerked her off her knees with a powerful yank, like a stevedore snatching stowage from a ship’s hold.
Mother stood in the doorway, massaging her shoulder and glaring in disbelief at the goon.
Steckmann pointed a fat finger down the hallway, a dimly-lit chute with paint peeling from cracked plaster walls and water-warped floorboards. Grabbing her elbow, he pushed her ahead.
As she was hurried down the long corridor, Mother was shaking. She had never been treated so brutally. Had never even seen such brutality. Her thoughts surged beyond fear for the children and herself to fear for civilization. Could the civilized British defeat these demons without becoming demonic themselves?
They came to a staircase done in the Art Nouveau style with florid, curvilinear ironwork steps and banisters. With its resemblance to the portals into Parisian Métropolitain stations, the stairs swept Mother back to happy, carefree times. Times when she skipped with her mother and sisters through the elegant, arched entry of the Père Lachaise station and descended its stairway to begin a day’s adventures: shopping, picnicking, promenading. Dreamy, soft memories of dreamy, soft times—before a shot in Sarajevo ignited the inferno of the Great War. And now there was the Occupation, with its ghoulish spawn, hunger and thuggery, stalking the countryside. For her, the difference between the worlds of 1942 Lefebvre and 1912 Paris was perfectly reflected in the contrast of the seedy corridor behind and the grand staircase ahead.
The pair went down a corkscrew flight of elegant stairs to a hallway much different from its one-up counterpart. The floor was carpeted with a thick, blood-red oriental runner and the walls were covered up to shoulder height with green and white stripe paper. Above the paper and a wooden wainscot, the walls and ceiling were a rich cream color. Photographs of Himmler and other Nazis hung on the right. On the left, a gallery of collaborating Belgians. At the head of the hallway, high on the wall as if overseeing everything, was a portrait of Adolf Hitler.
The soldier halted Mother at the last door on the right and knocked. Neat lettering read, RSHA, the initials of the political security branch of the SS. A shudder shot through the nun.
“Herein,” a voice from inside barked.
Steckmann turned the handle, and the door swung open. He pushed Mother into the room and eased the door closed behind them.
Before Mother was a wide table with four men seated facing her, their backs to a large window overlooking Lefebvre’s town square. The view confirmed she was in the city hall. Mother recognized Weibel, the one in command the night before. In the daylight she could see his eyes, pale and blue as mountaintop snow. He wore the tailored, silver-trimmed, black uniform of the SS and sat in the center with his hands folded on the tabletop and his riding-boots crossed underneath. In front of him was a large nameplate, fashioned from golden oak. In the center was carved, in fraktur lettering, Weibel, M, OStF. On the left of the name was the leering Todenkopf insignia and on the right the SS slogan, Ehre ist Treue (Honor is Loyalty).
To Weibel’s right sat a man whose face was familiar to Mother, but one she couldn’t quite place. He wore a double-breasted blue flannel suit with a white shirt and bright tie. On his arm was a swastika armband. To Weibel’s left was another soldier. And at the end of the table, behind a typewriter, was the fourth, a young soldier.
Weibel was first to speak. Squinting contemptuously at Mother, he spat his sentences in steel-cold German then turned to the soldier on his left and nodded. That soldier, Feldwebel Haansch, whose fieldgray uniform looked functional next to Weibel’s costume, spoke in French, “Sister Catherine, as a courtesy, I shall translate. The offense of harboring fugitives is a most serious crime, one punishable by death. That you should be derelict in your obligations to the fine young ladies of St. Sébastien disgusts Obersturmführer Weibel. He chides, ‘Shame on you for your dishonor.’”
During the entire translation, Mother fixed her gaze on Weibel. On his cold eyes. Snake’s eyes, she thought. Then, no, a dead man’s eyes. When the translation of Weibel’s indictment was done, Mother stood silently for a moment. She hoped her sleeves hid the shaking in her hands. She hoped she wouldn’t burst into tears. Then it struck her—accusations of “shame” and “dishonor” coming from those lips? Mother felt the poison of his words turn her fear into the armor and mail of resolve. “Monsieur Weibel, how dare you speak of shame and dishonor?” She felt herself growing large. “Yes, I do feel obligation. Obligation to my true authority, Jesus Christ. It is He who commands me to care for, to protect, His children here.” Her hands clenched to fists. “All His children. To protect them from the minions of ignorance and darkness that
threaten them so. I most fail ‘the fine young ladies of St. Sébastien’ when I abandon those in need of my help. So—”
Haansch pounded the table. “Enough of your tired sermon.” He turned to Weibel and presented a watered-down translation of Mother’s response.
Even the diluted version pitched Weibel into a rage. He spat on the floor. “Do you imagine you are lecturing schoolboys, woman? Perhaps you fail to grasp the gravity of your situation. Did I not make it clear that yours is a capital crime? Do you think nun’s robes put you beyond my grip?” His wide eyes and pulsing temples made the translation which followed superfluous.
The blue-suited civilian rose and smiled graciously. “My dear Mother Catherine,” he said in calm French. With that smile and his first few words, she recognized him as Leon Le Deux, the turncoat she had seen on the dais welcoming the Nazis just after the invasion, over two years earlier. Le Deux thrust out his hands, palms up, in a messianic pose. “People make mistakes. We’re human, after all. Even nuns. In fact, I’ll even concede there may be room for differing opinions about what is right. Let me translate for the lieutenant.” He turned to Weibel and presented a German translation, the turned back and raised his index finger. “Now, while error is human, one must be accountable. Is that not the basis of religion?” He put both hands on the table and leaned toward Mother. “Listen, I want to help you. A show of your good faith is all I need to argue on your behalf. I’ll get to that, but first there is one thing I just have to say. You speak of loyalty to Christ. Yet you harbor Jew vermin? Weren’t they the ones who rejected Him? Had Him put to death?” Le Deux looked genuinely perplexed. “How can you dishonor Him whom you vowed to serve by supporting His enemies? His assassins?” He smiled, as if his vanity was whispering, nice work.
Le Deux’s questions evaporated the last trace of Mother’s fear. She felt fire in her heart and lightning in her tongue. “You dare speak of loyalty? You who dishonor your birth land by serving her enemies, her occupiers? The children I sheltered had nothing to do with Christ’s crucifixion. They are guilty only of being children—hunted, terrorized children.”
The Germans sat watching like spectators at a prize fight, even though only Haansch knew just what was being said.
By this point Le Deux’s smile was gone. “They are Jew children. Read your Bible. Read about them calling for Christ’s blood.”
“You read the Bible, Monsieur. Read the Sermon on the Mount. Read the Greatest Commandment. Christ Himself was a Jew.”
Le Deux shook his head. “I came here to save you, woman, but your arrogance puts you beyond my help. So go ahead and play the martyr. I wash my hands of you.” He slammed his notebook closed. “Just one last thing.” He pointed his finger at her. “Your kind had its day, but that’s past.” Le Deux stalked out, snorting, “The future belongs to us.”
Mother’s gaze swung calmly to Weibel.
The SS officer dashed his signature on a document and recited a statement. Most of it could have been the previous week’s weather, for all the emotion he put into it. But the last sentence was different. He glared at Mother and spoke sternly. Hearing what Weibel said, Haansch looked distressed. He nervously replied with what sounded like a question. Weibel turned to him, angry. He raised one finger, an admonition, and slowly repeated the last sentence. His eyes snapped back to Mother. His glower was a silent order: Go ahead and tell her.
When Haansch still balked, another glare from Weibel unfroze him. Like a slap across the face. Blinking, Haansch turned to Mother and swallowed. “Sister Catherine, Obersturmführer Weibel, in his capacity as an officer of the martial authority, finds you guilty of abetting fugitives—“ He peered at his clasped hands shaking on the table. “—and sentences you to be hanged. Such sentence to be carried out today at noon in the Lefebvre town square. As a lesson on the consequences of crime, the citizenry will be assembled to witness the execution.”
For a moment, Mother Catherine’s shoulders sagged, her gaze drooped to the floor. She looked broken. Then she thought of Eva, pictured the courage on her face when her singing rallied the spirits of the other girls on the dark trek to Lefebvre the day of the Nazi welcoming ceremony. Mother’s back straightened and her face turned up. “In front of the people of Lefebvre, is it?” Her eyes sparkled. “That is good. Please thank my judge for graciously offering to publicly display his true monstrousness and that of the rest of you Boche occupiers. No one could’ve shown that better.”
Weibel slammed his clenched fists on the table and shouted two commands.
Haansch ran out to order the mayor to assemble the townspeople in the square by noon, while Steckmann spun Mother around and shoved her from the room. He marched her up to her cell to wait out the morning.
After the others had gone, Le Deux scurried back into the office where Weibel lounged, his boots on the table, reading a newspaper. The officer was leaning so far back in a swivel chair that his elongated body was almost horizontal. He barely looked up at Le Deux.
Out of breath, Le Deux spoke in German, “Obersturmführer Weibel, we may have miscalculated the cost of making an example of the nun. The townspeople will be angry. There might be trouble, either today or in the future.”
Weibel looked irritated at the interruption. He scoffed, “Do I give a shit what a flock of Belgian sheep think? Let them have their fucking anger. It will quickly turn to terror and docility when they see their nun dancing at the end of my rope.”
“Perhaps the stick will work as you say. But mightn’t a carrot be better? What if I break the nun’s spirit in front of them all and leave us smelling of kindness and character?”
“Who cares what they think of us?” Weibel muttered. “I’m a soldier and want only their fear.” He crumpled the newspaper closed. “But I’ll allow that your wants may be different.” He scowled. “And as Herr Reeder’s district head, the call is technically yours.” Weibel squinted and moved his face toward Le Deux. “Just don’t fuck things up.” He eased away and reopened his newspaper. “The Jew children have been disposed of and I brought in the nun. So, I’ve done my job.” He sniffed. “The bitch’s disposition can be your matter.”
“Very well, my tack it’ll be. In the gallows’ shadow, with help from the townsfolk and a little surprise, I think I’ll make an offer our Mother Catherine can’t refuse. Believe me, it will be a more enduring victory than just eliminating a Jew-loving nun.”
The New Sébastien
It was just before noon when Mother, squinting out the sunshine, stepped into the square. Looming ahead was the gallows, hurriedly built that morning. It was a simple structure—two vertical poles and a crossbar. For stability, a pair of bracing lines ran to the top of each pole. A soldier stood on each side, holding a rifle across his chest. But it was the rope dangling from the crossbar that held Mother’s gaze. It ended in a noose and seemed excessively thick. Strong enough to hang an elephant, she thought.
Beyond the scaffold was the crowd of townsfolk. When Mother first emerged from the hall, hands tied behind her back, SS soldiers on her right and left, there was a flurry of gasps and signs of the cross. Then shocked silence set in.
Mother was marched to the ground under the gallows. Between a rickety chair and a wooden beer cask. Under the dangling noose. Despite the closeness of the crowd, she felt alone. Abandoned. Betrayed by events gone nightmarishly wrong.
Except for the sound of the gust on the gibbet, there was absolute quiet. Then the Mayor’s wife, in the front of the crowd, began to whimper, and that touched off ripples of sobs. Mother understood that the collective feebleness growing in the crowd played into the Germans’ hands. She struggled to counter it with a look of courage and serenity that quieted everything but the breeze and the pounding of her heart.
As if on cue, into the town square came an open Mercedes staff car followed by three troop transport trucks. Everyone in the crowd turned to look. Le Deux stood in the back of the car. He gave a wave of the hands, as if to say Hold everything, just as the car
screeched to a halt next to the crowd. The trucks stopped in a line next to the Mercedes.
Le Deux jumped from the car and bounded like an entertainer taking the stage to a spot just in front of Mother. With a smile and a theatrical ring in his voice, he addressed the crowd. “Thank goodness I’m not too late. I have spent this morning conferring with Herr Reeder, the Führer’s delegate. I can say he is a man with a good heart, as you shall shortly see. But first I have a surprise.”
Like a maître d’ summoning a waiter with the dessert cart, Le Deux raised his right hand and snapped his fingers. Immediately, a soldier hopped from each truck and, extending a hand, began helping the nuns and girls of St. Sébastien jump out. A gasp rose from the crowd. As the girls were lined up three deep just before her and in front of the rest of the citizenry, Mother stared grimly off to the side.
On the ride from St. Sébastien in the dark back of the truck, Françoise de Lescure had told herself that with Eva at her side she could stand whatever monstrosity Le Deux was planning. She was bolstered by what Eva told her. Have faith, Françie. I sent word to my uncle. He can intercede on Mother’s behalf. Even when Clarisse sneered, Yeah, Blondie? What’ll he do, buy the Boche off with a bottle of cognac and a few sausages? Françoise felt strong enough to glare at her and put an arm around Eva’s shoulder. But standing in the center of the front row, not ten feet from Mother Catherine, battered her certainty. She squeezed Eva’s hand.
Seeing Mother Catherine so close to the noose, thoughts of the children taken the night before, Jews just like her, flashed through Françoise’s mind. If this is how they deal with a harborer, how awful the fate of those harbored. Those children! And I wished them away. Anywhere, I said, just away. Well, I got my wish. And Mother pays, while I stand safe and silent.
Mother Catherine’s gaze was fixed to the side, avoiding the students arrayed before her. Le Deux positioned himself to measure her, Françoise thought, like a billiards player lining up his next shot. When Mother did turn a defiant face to the students, Françoise felt unworthy, knowing the nun would draw no strength from her beaten expression. And worse, when she looked to Eva for an infusion of courage, Françoise found none. For her friend’s eyes were trained on the road leading into the square, as if she were expecting, counting on, a savior to appear. When they tracked slowly back, they were narrow with despair. Françoise was on her own.