With Each New Dawn, page 22
“She says this mini-blitz is the same old thing as back in ’40 and ’41, and she’s worn out with running to the station. Some of our neighbors still hurry down there, and a couple of them sleep there as a matter of course. Another one installed an Anderson shelter right in her house, but—”
“Yes. Well, then. I shall try not to worry. I speak of a different sort of danger, though, since Mr. Firth and I join other Londoners in sending aid for displaced children. Word often passes by devious means, and spies traverse the city. Der Führer seems unsatisfied to leave any place on earth safe for innocent youth, and is willing to reach far and wide to punish those who offer aid.”
A dark-haired woman wandered onto the grassy expanse, and Charles lifted his elbow from the back of the bench to shade their faces. “Would you be willing to deliver messages from time to time when I am away, most often between Mr. Firth and myself?”
“More than willing. Ever since I met Esther in New York, I’ve wanted to get involved somehow.”
Charles nodded. “Your story set me to thinking, and when Bertie approached me, it seemed too coincidental not to have been part of some plan.”
“That’s how I felt when I met Esther. Do you believe God was in it?”
A deep blush rose under his tan. “Quite.”
Addie took note—he kept his generosity close, and his beliefs, too. How like him to show his faith through risky action.
“Mr. Firth may ask you to contact Esther and others who might be of assistance. Although things have gotten so out of hand that—”
A handful of children skipped onto the green, and the woman casually took a seat a few yards away. Out of hand—? Addie’s spine tingled at this inference. Maybe she could make a difference, on a much smaller scale than Kate, and in the safety of London.
“No use dwelling on the dreadful facts filtering in from Poland and parts of France, not to mention Germany. One can scarcely believe the dire situation. Still, we can have an impact.”
Charles sought her eyes. “Unfortunately, we are limited to supplying finances and never have the satisfaction of knowing who is helped, but individual conscience can make a difference, even in the face of such advanced evil.”
“Knowing there’s actually something we can do gives me hope.”
“Deliveries usually takes place on Sundays. Someone will bring you an envelope, and your drop-off point, unless you receive other directions, will be Mr. Firth’s office. He waits there between twelve and one for our code, four knocks on the alley door.”
The sun caught the blue of his eyes. “You understand, I would never involve you except for this other—”
“I feel privileged to have some small part.”
His tone turned husky. “There’s no one on earth I would trust more.”
Emotion swarmed Addie, but she couldn’t resist teasing Charles. “By the way, do you go to the Tube station every time an alarm sounds?”
Red overtook his face and he gave her a shamefaced grin. “Um—may I say that amounts to an unfair question, with my duties?” Then he chuckled. “Mum is right, as usual. You are a smart girl.”
Chapter Twenty-three
R
eciting Scripture passages and the catechism from her confirmation classes sustained Kate throughout the morning. Monsieur’s condition seemed to stabilize—at least not to decline.
“I believe that I cannot by my own understanding or effort believe ... but the Holy Spirit has called me through the Gospel, enlightened me with his gifts—”
During their confirmation studies, she and Addie bounced that tenet back and forth a hundred times. Finally, Aunt Alvina clarified the concept of grace. “Every human being depends on the Creator for life, breath, and inner strength. If we accept the Almighty’s omniscient wisdom and allow for His leading, a whole world of opportunities opens. Do you see?”
Later, in her room, Kate had contemplated, and now she revisited the explanation in light of watching over someone who might well be dying. As a young adult, she had felt full of her own inventive strength, but now she’d lost Alexandre and their baby. She could do nothing to prevent either death, and this situation underscored that grueling lesson.
Her stomach churned as she hoped for the faint shuffle of espadrilles on coarse stone, for even in this bramble patch, any passerby might spot them, and all would be lost. Her training had introduced her to the typical Basque shoe, but seeing Domingo in action gave her new appreciation for espadrilles. In contrast, the Milice sought the showiest uniform to flaunt their fake authority.
If one of them appeared, how could she veil her distaste? These former French army gendarmes enabled the Nazis to live off the hard work of French citizens. While French children went hungry, these collaborators made sure Nazi officers feasted on the best pork, Roquefort cheese aged in nearby caves, and fine wine. Of course, the gendarmes received their reward.
Just in case, Kate hid Monsieur’s case behind a boulder. Burying it in this hardscrabble soil would provide a challenge to pass the time, but her guide should see it first.
Their patient’s temperature rose with the sun, so Kate swabbed his forehead and neck with a wet scrap of fabric. He refused water, or more precisely, showed no reaction.
Midmorning, the scratchy sound of boots alerted her. Then, like Monsieur le Blanc’s soothing heartbeat, came the shwoosh, shwoosh, shwoosh of espadrilles.
When her guide’s dark beret topped the rise, rimmed by his black curly hair, Kate breathed again. Two men bearing a stretcher accompanied him.
His glance communicated confidence—he must have found a safe place for their patient. The men prepared Monsieur for travel and the guide turned to Kate for information.
“He has a fever and gives no response.”
The men lifted Monsieur, whose skin shone rosy-blue in the morning sun, and Kate whispered in his ear. “I will be there soon.” He gave no sign he heard, and a sense of helplessness invaded her as she turned to Domingo.
“I found tracks over there—a Milicien’s boots.”
“Show me.”
She stumbled on a root, and Domingo stopped her fall. “Your hunger is great.” He pulled some crusty bread from his pack and held out his canteen. “The men must move slowly with him. Take your time. Point me to the prints.”
“That way, about twenty paces. And behind that rock, I hid his briefcase.”
Domingo brought back the case and immersed himself in the contents. He seemed not to notice Monsieur vanish, but Kate knew he held the keys to her past. She wanted to go with him and urge him to stay alive
Domingo caught her eye. “He will have no use for this, and it will only hinder us. Shall I bury it?”
That seemed the wisest choice. She nodded and prepared to set out.
Half a kilomètre down the trail, Domingo veered north. The taut place between Kate’s shoulder blades loosened—he’d found a back way to their destination.
She stopped imagining a Milicien patrol demanding them to open their packs. Thankfully, the message and detonators she carried yesterday had reached Résistance hands, and she carried only the message for Maurice.
An hour passed before her guide dropped his pack to rest.
“How much farther?”
“A few more kilomètres, near a village. A man there said the Clermont-Ferrand organizer has gone into hiding.”
“How did he know—?”
“When I said we needed a doctor, he asked if I saw a young woman on the trail from Bren. I told him nothing, but they must be looking for you.”
“Did he mention the organizer’s name?”
“Maurice. He said even if you travel to Clermont-Ferrand, finding him will be impossible.” Domingo rubbed his temples. “I can take you to this man if you wish.”
“But what about Monsieur?” Kate’s throat filled at the thought of losing him.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take you there, but this other fellow—what do you want to do?”
Kate bit her lip. She should have known simplicity could not last forever.
•
Domingo angled down a steep ravine beside the River Tarn and Kate caught her breath. Not a murmur from her, even though she sincerely cared for that wounded agent they discovered.
He made an alteration to Aitaita’s warning about foreign women. “Take care, my son. Those women think differently than ours—they can be cold and cruel.”
But this agent was no kin to cruelty. Her eyes met his when she looked up, and her smile warmed him. “You must be part mountain goat.” She reached for her canteen. “Would you mind telling me your name and when you joined La Résistance française?”
Beginning with the Jewish child ravished by the Gestapo and culminating in Sancha’s needless death, a panorama of events flooded Domingo. How could he say when?
“For someone born in this country, it is not so simple.”
How could he explain the impossibility of knowing for sure who sided with whom? Some gendarmes provided partisans with foodstuffs, weapons, and information at the same time they carried out raids for the Milice. In an ever-increasing web of deceit, friend and foe inextricably mixed.
Weariness invaded Domingo like a sudden cyclone. He sank on a fallen log, and the agent joined him. Sunlight dappled her fair skin, and a slight breeze lessened the afternoon’s heat. He longed to crawl into the brush and close his eyes.
She read his hesitation. “You don’t have to answer my question.”
“How was it for you? Did you join one day and never look back?”
Some small rodent fished its way through their camp. Domingo rubbed a bruise on his wrist. Perhaps his question sounded ignorant to her, so he tried again.
“You were brave to come here, so far from home.”
Her voice softened. “Farther than you know.” Her shoulders rounded, and she dropped her chin into one hand, pealing alarm through Domingo.
“My curiosity has troubled you. Accept my apology.”
“Oh, no. It’s just that—I joined in England, but I come from the United States.”
As he had surmised from her bearing. Amerika, he knew better than England, since their Basque leader Aguila sent regular reports from there, and Domingo’s distant cousin worked as a sheepherder in the land called Idaho. Before he could think of a reply, the agent went on.
“My parents met in the Great War and died when I was young. My father was French, but I have only faint memories of him.”
Ah—to speak of this must bring her pain. Domingo latched onto the most comfortable part of her answer.
“Where was he born?”
She stared into the brush. “I don’t know.”
God’s chosen, dispersed from their homes and hunted like vermin, at least knew their origins. Domingo wanted to ask how the agent’s mother met her father, why she crossed the ocean, what she would do when—
Just then, she jumped at a raven’s loud cry. La corneille—Domingo’s chest hairs curled tighter. What if this Monsieur le Blanc was that despicable double agent?
Her next questions startled Domingo. “This man you met, the one who mentioned me, was he Basque? Do you think all Basque are trustworthy?”
“No, he wasn’t. And mostly, I think so.” A simple lie, for how could he be sure? Only one thing to do, keep moving. He shouldered his pack, and then remembered her first request.
“My name is Domingo.”
Down to a break in the trail, over a meadow peppered with spring flowers, past a pond, and through a hedgerow of low pine saplings, he halted and pointed.
“See that church spire? The organizer lives there.” She said nothing, so he moved on, but a sharp edge of worry badgered him. Something about this Frenchman provoked uneasiness he couldn’t temper. What was his connection with the men who carried Monsieur’s litter, and why had he been so eager to connect with this agent?
As the path turned to cobblestone, the agent jabbed Domingo’s shoulder.
“I have a bad feeling. This man could have known Maurice’s code name without being Résistance. He might be a collaborator.”
Domingo pulled her off the trail into pungent pine shadows. “I have a bad feeling too, but the stretcher bearers recognized him.”
Her forehead still bore worry lines. “That doesn’t mean we can trust him. What if I send him a false message—tell him I took ill?”
She plopped on the forest floor and took pen and paper from her pack. “His reaction to this note will show us the truth.”
Her pen moved easily against plain white paper. Domingo marveled that agents could trick one another with words at a moment’s notice. It was one thing to run the heights like a chamois, but to deal in those secret codes, quite another.
She held out a folded paper. “One word in this message is wrong. If he doesn’t recognize the error and asks you to bring me back, I’ll know we must flee. Tell him I need an immediate answer.”
Perspiration broke out on Domingo’s head, but he took the note. The agent touched his sleeve. “Be careful—he’ll have someone follow you.”
“Maybe we should meet somewhere else.” He glanced around. “Wait for me on the other side of town, beyond the spire. When you see the cross directly above you, hide in the trees.”
For a brief moment, he hesitated. If someone arrested him, she would be left all alone out here. But he could think of no other plan. He plunged toward the village, a whispered plea in his throat and the agent’s eyes burning his back.
•
A few furtive steps at a time, Kate worked her way to the other side. Finally the cross towered above her, so she crouched under heavy branches raised like powerful arms against the sky.
The forest seemed too quiet, and she started at the slightest echo. Then, her mind started playing tricks. She could have sworn muffled human tones emanated from nearby.
Be still. Stay quiet. Wait. So few choices, but controlling her emotions was one of them. Let Domingo come soon. Please, let us reach Monsieur Le Blanc before darkness falls.
For some reason, Alexandre seemed so real right now, and she longed for his embrace.
The voices came again, closer.
Sound carries much farther in a forest, especially low pitches. Make yourself as small and silent as possible.
“Attack precisely at five a.m. as the workers arrive. Rough up the supervisor with a small black check mark on the right side of his yellow helmet. He promised to put up a struggle. Make it look as though he obeys you at gunpoint, so when the Germans inspect, he will be able to tell the truth.”
“At least part of it.” A guffaw echoed through the grove.
“Shhhh. These woods could be full of Milice, especially after three raids this week. They’ve increased the guards at the plant from five to thirty-seven. Take every precaution, and communicate that to your people.”
“I’ve heard that four of those guards side with us. What fools the Vichy police are! At the City hall two villages over, we netted thousands of dollars worth of ration coupons. The Mayor kept them in his house, and even gave us the cupboard key. At Lyon, a savings bank made itself available to one of our units. And—”
“All successes, true. Still, this is no time to boast—no, it’s the time to act. The long, demoralizing winter has nearly ended. Now we strike, with many railway and factory workers on our side.”
“Last night that Harriot fellow called l’invasion a delusion.”
“A collaborator extraordinaire.” The other speaker hurled a curse. “Why listen to his garble? He hates la France. Of course, they want us to believe the débarquement will never come. But it will, have no doubt.”
“How can we trust the English? They destroyed our ships, remember?”
“You’ll see. Corsica fell to the Allies six months ago—keep that in mind. Now, they fight bad weather to secure our liberty.”
Branches crackled as though one of the speakers sideswiped a tree.
“Remind your men of Sicily’s liberation. Like the Corsican Maquisards, our work behind the scenes makes all the difference. Hum the Marseillaise. Wait in earnest.”
A long pause followed, with a vehicle moving, stopping, and backing. Something heavy dragged the ground amidst clipped orders. Next a slap-thud.
“Enough to blow two-thirds of the plant. How many men do you have?”
“Twenty on the outside, and only you know how many inside.”
“Three. Do they all live in the camp?”
“Thirteen. The rest operate from their homes as sédentaires.”
“Last night many sédentaires raided a manufacturing company up north—a large take of tents, khakis, and jackets. Furious gendarmes and Gestapo lurk everywhere. After tonight, lie low until you receive further instructions.”
“By then, the men will be more inclined to obey that order.”
“True. Now the Nazis know our recruits not only flee the German factories—they stand and fight. Call your men in.”
In another minute, the forest echoed grunts, soft mumblings, and curses. Kate visualized men lifting heavy loads. Then silence. Her left leg cramped, but she waited to stretch it.
The forest cleared. Ten minutes later, the unmistakable swoosh of espadrilles—Domingo. Finally, a pine bough spread. Kate drew back, but then his forehead showed, and the sparks in his eyes.
“He said for you to come.” He brandished a sheaf of ration tickets. “He sent francs for your hotel room and said to meet him late tonight in the dining room.”
“He mentioned nothing about a certain type of food?”
“No.”
“You are sure?”
A flush rose along Domingo’s neckline, and Kate tucked away this lesson. Above all, he hated being doubted.
