An Owl's Whisper (16 page)

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.

When Mother Catherine scanned her girls, she also sought out Eva’s face. And as it had been for Françoise, Eva’s expression was a blow.

Le Deux saw the chink in her mettle, and his eyes sparkled.
Ah, the first tiny crack in the crystal goblet—easy to miss, but it invariably dooms the vessel. My prey’s resolve is likewise doomed.
A smirk slithered across his face.

Feeling like a gambler sure of his hand, Le Deux resumed his address, “When I spoke with Herr Reeder, he opined than anyone can make a mistake, and that if our Mother Catherine can merely acknowledge hers and make amends, even with just a token act of contrition—surely she is familiar with acts of contrition—her sentence could be suspended.” Letting the drama build, Le Deux scanned the crowd. He liked what he saw. “People of Lefebvre, would you have Mother Catherine spared to continue her work with the young ladies assembled here today?”

The crowd cheered their approval. Le Deux smiled, knowing he still held his ace.

“And you, my dear young ladies,” Le Deux stepped close to the line of girls and placed a fatherly hand on Françoise’s head, “Would you have Mother Catherine back home with you?” He looked to the heavens, as if in prayer.

Françoise was paralyzed with fear—she sensed a trap. The other girls, shocked by the spectacle, were tentative. Until Eva turned to face them, and the glisten in her eyes and her ringing “yes” were matches struck in darkness. Her
yes
flew through the troop of girls like fire flashes through tinder, becoming a blaze of chorused
yeses
that filled the square.

Seeing what he’d seen, hearing what he’d heard, Le Deux’s heart raced.
That should do it. If the sight of her wenches was a breaking wave, their sweet yeses are the tide at full flood. She’s done.
He stared at Mother and asked solemnly, “So, what shall it be?” He stifled a smile.

All eyes were on Mother. She seemed frozen for a moment. The girls’
yeses
had swept a torrent of memories of life at St Sébastien into her heart. She looked at Eva, at the hope she could now see on the girl’s face, and a rush of hope for the future tripped through her heart as well. She heard herself murmur the single word, “Life!”

But when Mother turned to Le Deux, he looked so smug with his arms crossed, Mussolini-style. The sight turned her stomach, and her thoughts flew to the statue of Saint Sébastien in the convent chapel.
Sébastien, you defied Roman occupiers. Let your courage inspire me now.
Mother bit her lip, and as she tasted blood, she recalled the red ringlet around each arrow shaft that pierced Sébastien’s body and the trickle of blood that trailed from each ringlet. Resolve snapped through her like a wrinkled bed sheet pulled taut.
Make me a new Sébastien,
she prayed.

Mother scanned the rows of girls. “Your sweet
yeses
—how precious to me at this moment!” The tension in the crowd eased. “But I am inspired by the peace and triumph that were arrow-ridden Sébastien’s when he stood up to oppression.” Mother closed her eyes and let her thoughts slip to the melancholy strains of Wally’s aria,
Ebben! Ne andrò lontana
—I shall go far away—from the opera
La Wally
.

The mention of Sébastien called to Françoise’s mind the resignation on his statue’s visage. Now she saw the same look on Mother Catherine’s face, and it froze the breath in her lungs. She turned to see Eva’s reaction and found only dread there. As if her friend already saw the inevitable endpoint of Mother’s fire, an endpoint that was equally dire for her.

Le Deux knew the nun’s look meant trouble, and his smugness vanished. “Mother, stubbornness helps no one, not you and certainly not your girls. I ask just a token—that your angels sing for Herr Reeder from the railway platform as he passes through town in two days. It’s only repairing a past slight—so little to ask. Listen to me! God put you here to serve these young women. Don’t blunt His will and snub your children out of hollow pride. Don’t toss your life away.”

Mother had been avoiding Le Deux’s face. But now she turned to glare directly at him. Like a genie freed from a bottle, she felt suddenly huge and powerful. “I snub my darlings by holding to principles?” Her voice wasn’t loud but it resonated. “Obsequious fool, is it a token to serenade a foreign occupier? I think not. Not on his first arrival and not now. And after your token, what then? Shall I bake a fruit tort for the jackal’s afternoon tea? I shall not! Invite him to supper at St. Sébastien? Huh! Use my veil to polish his jackboots there on the station platform? No, thank you! Poach one of my little ones for Herr Reeder’s luncheon? No, thank you, Herr Le Deux, I thank you, no. Just do your dirty work. Show us all your true nature.”