An Owl's Whisper (17 page)

Looking like a boxer pummeled by an inspired opponent, Le Deux took an unsteady step backwards. He could find no words.

A commotion broke out in the crowd. Eva had burst forward and was being restrained by Sister Arnaude. Abruptly she stopped struggling and dropped to her knees. “Mother, please. Don’t take such a stand. Not now. For it kills us all, these innocents—“ She glanced back at the other girls. “—and me, too.” She raised her arms in supplication. “Please, Mother.”

Le Deux’s eyes flickered hope. “Perhaps,” he said, “the plea of a little one—” Before he could finish, Weibel’s hand sent him stumbling backwards.

Weibel had sensed things were going badly. He knew from combat that only decisive action could turn an unfavorable tide. As he thrust Le Deux out of the way, he howled, “
Dummkopf, Raus
!” and bolted for Mother Catherine.

Mother’s eyes didn’t move from Eva, and they were as placid as a crucifix Christ’s. She embraced the bittersweet blend of peace and pain, wanting to tell Eva, wanting to sing it as tenderly as Wally would,
My child, of them all, you are the hardest one to leave.

But a terrible surprise remained.

Françoise had taken Eva’s hand and was pulling her back with the rest of the girls when she saw Weibel grab Mother’s chin and wrench her ear close to his mouth. It seemed to happen so slowly. Weibel’s arm went up and pointed toward Eva and her as he hissed a few words.

Even so close, Françoise could barely make out his twisted French. As she heard it, he had snarled, “
Celle-là est juive
.” (That one is the jewess.)

Françoise’s eyes closed and her knees shook.
It’s over
.
I’ve been found out
. She squeezed Eva’s hand as desperation washed through her.

For Mother, Weibel’s few words were cruel as the arrows that assailed Sébastien. Their points pierced her breast with a thud, and their thrust pinned her heart in mid-beat. She looked at Weibel. Though she said nothing, her expression was a desperate plea. A plea that it not be so.

Delight danced in Weibel’s eyes as he nodded. “Ja!”

With Weibel’s words, life drained from Mother’s face. She turned her stunned eyes ever so slowly back to the crowd in the square, to the girls of St. Sébastien, to Eva. Turned as if it were harder than dying. Like estranged lovers alone in a garden of statues, Mother and Eva each fixed her eyes on the other. Each bared her soul to the other. Each bared her despair. For together they had lost everything.

Weibel bellowed, “
Hörstler, bringen sie hier der Sack. Macht schnell!
” A soldier hustled out with a brown cloth bag. Without a word, Weibel raised his thumb. The two soldiers took Mother’s arms and hoisted her onto the wobbly chair.

Mother looked a hundred years old, tottering on the chair above the crowd. She only stared blankly at Eva. And Eva stared back. For them, time stood still.

Weibel nodded and one of the soldiers hopped onto the beer cask and pulled the bag over Mother’s head. The soldier was efficient, as if he’d done it before.

No one made a sound. Not Mother in her darkness. Not Eva. Not Weibel. Not Le Deux. Not a townsperson. Not one of the other girls of St. Sébastien.

The soldier on the cask put the noose over the bag covering Mother’s head. He tightened it and jumped down.

Everyone was frozen. The moment was Weibel’s and he relished it.

When Weibel had savored it enough, he snapped his fingers. The two soldiers, Steckmann and Hörstler, grabbed the back of the chair and looked at each other to time their move. Hörstler pursed his lips and gave a tiny nod. The two soldiers jerked the chair away. It was done.

Those who watched saw the sudden tautness in the line of the rope running from the gallows down to the hooded figure and through her body to the black stockings and black shoes extending below the hem of her white habit. They saw the legs go rigid, feet straining stiffly down and toes stretching vainly, reaching for fleeting earth. They were silent, as if the sight had sucked the air from their lungs and rendered them mute.

The icy silence was shattered only by the white heat of Eva’s shriek. Essential and tortured, it was the sound of a soul ripped from a body. Then there was silence again.

Icy silence.

It was as if lightning struck Lefebvre’s square when Mother Catherine was hanged.

For Françoise de Lescure the lightning severed her future from her past. She knew in the moments after Mother’s death she should leave St. Sébastien and go into hiding. On the ride back to school that afternoon,
should
became
must
.

In the back of the truck, Françoise sat between Eva and Laetitia Roux. Halfway home, Laetitia began crying, and Françoise put an arm around her. Laetitia sobbed, “I’m not the Judas. I would never betray Mother.”

Françoise comforted her, “There, there. Of course you wouldn’t. None of us would.” She turned to Eva. “Isn’t that right?”

Eva didn’t reply. She buried her face in her hands.

“But
he
accused me,” Laetitia said. “The German monster. He told Mother it was me.”

“Laetitia, what do you mean?” Françoise replied.

“I saw him. I saw him pull Mother’s ear to his mouth and point to me—I was standing just behind Eva—and I heard him hiss to Mother, ‘
Celle-là est Judas.
’ (That one is the Judas.) Then she turned to face me and her skin was like ashes. Her eyes shot right through Eva to me, pleading,
Why?
” Laetitia sobbed quietly.

Françoise stared ahead, as if Laetitia’s words had struck her senseless. She glanced at Eva, whose hands still covered her face, and turned those words over in her mind.
Juive. Judas.
Staring out the back of the truck, she recalled the torment the word seared into Mother. A feeling of nausea overcame her. After some deep breathes, she moved close to Laetitia and whispered in her ear, “Maybe the monster wasn’t pointing at either of us. Maybe he pointed to another.” Tears jeweled in her eyes, and in that instant she shared Mother’s despair.

That night Françoise slipped out of the dormitory and disappeared, rumor was, to Holland.

St. Sébastien was a lightning-struck tree. A tree struck deep to its heart. A tree struck dead. And her nuns and students were the leaves left dull, dry, curled-up.

In the back of the trucks as the nuns and girls were carted back to St. Sébastien, death hung in the air like the diesel engine exhaust. It followed the girls into the school. Each one was an island in an archipelago—though surrounded by others, she felt alone. On her own. That night, no dinner was prepared. No one bathed. No one brushed her hair one hundred strokes. No one spoke. Everyone just crawled silently into bed. And curled-up and rocked, or shivered, or cocooned herself in covers, or sobbed softly, or prayed for the night to end.

At midnight Clarisse LaCroix woke to screaming. She looked down the row of beds from her own and saw Simone Jaffre sitting up, bawling and flailing wildly. “Get them off. They’re all over me. Somebody help.”

Clarisse looked around and called, “Hey, isn’t anybody going to get up? Isabelle? Blondie?” None of the girls said anything. No one moved. Clarisse grumbled, “Mother called you her flowers. Flowers all right—spent tulips. Withered stalks watching the wind scatter your petals.” She shook her head and got up. “Here goes my image.”

Heading toward Simone, Clarisse paused at Eva’s bed. Eva lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. “Blondie, you of all people! I can’t believe you’d leave her crying like that.” Eva didn’t seem to hear. Clarisse huffed and went on. She took Simone by the arms and shook her. “Wake up, Troutsie. You’re dreaming. Nothing’s on you. It’s just a nightmare.”

Simone was panting and wild-eyed. She pulled Clarisse close. “They were all over the ceiling. Swastikas,” she gasped, barely pausing for breath. “Their crooked legs started moving and they came alive—spiders, all black and hairy and scurrying. So many of them. They lowered themselves toward me on silky threads, twisting and swinging—just like Mother Catherine in the square. I tried to get away, to cry out, but everything except my eyes was numb. They were just above my face, so close I could feel the cold of their writhing legs. So many legs. Suddenly they were on me, all over me, and I thought my heart would explode. When finally I could sit up, I tried to knock them off me but there were too many.” Simone became calm. “And then you came.” She looked Clarisse in the eye. “You saved me.”

Clarisse held Simone and stroked her hair. “You’re safe, little Trout,” she whispered, “safe in my arms.” Clarisse hummed the lullaby her mother used to sing to her, before she took poison during the depression of 1932.

Just then Sister Martine came into the dormitory. She was wearing a long muslin nightgown, a black woolen shawl, and a billowy sleeping cap. “Is everyone all right? I was walking. I heard the screams.”

Clarisse replied, “Simone’s had a nightmare.”

“Poor dear,” Sister said. “Shall I stay with you, Simone?”

Simone snuggled closer to Clarisse. “I’m fine now, Sister. You should get some sleep.”

Sister Martine’s eyes went to the floor. “Yes, I suppose I should try. I should return to my bed chamber.” She turned slowly, reluctantly. As she stepped away, a deluge of tears broke free. “But I’m so afraid,” she sobbed. “So alone.”

Laetitia took her hand. “Yesterday Françoise comforted me and now Clarisse nestles Simone. We all need each other. Stay with me, Sister Mouse.”

The words flew by the nun barely heard, so intent was she on the warmth of the girl’s hand. Without reply, she slipped under the duvet. Laetitia cradled the nun and gave her the yellow terrycloth giraffe she’d slept with since she was a baby. Sister kissed the giraffe and whispered, “Now you can sleep unafraid.” She pulled the doll to her breast and rocked rhythmically. As she drifted off to sleep, Laetitia heard her murmur, “Papa, don’t cry. Your
petit Chou
is home.”

The next morning,
Feldwebel
Haansch and another soldier brought Mother’s body in a pine coffin back to St. Sébastien. They brought along the young priest who’d taken Fr. Celion’s place in Lefebvre. The soldiers set the coffin before the altar in the chapel, and they left to dig a grave in the convent cemetery just outside while Mother’s Requiem service was held. After the mass, they watched eight girls carry the coffin before a procession of priest, nuns, and girls the few steps to the cemetery. The Germans retired to their truck and smoked during the graveside blessing and goodbye. Afterward, they finished the burial while the priest fashioned a crude cross with wood from the barn.

Before leaving, Haansch knocked on the convent door and offered a box of potatoes, onions, tinned food, and soap to Sister Arnaude. Without a word, she shoved the box away and slammed the door in the German’s face.

The pain of Mother’s death didn’t end with her burial. Night was the hardest time for the St. Sébastien women, but even in sunshine, terror stalked the school. In just one instance, a full month after Mother’s death, Chloe climbed onto a chair to water the ivy plant that hung from the ceiling near a dormitory window. As she stretched to reach the pot, the unsteady chair wobbled, its uneven legs tapping the floor.

The staccato sound and the image of Chloe’s precarious balance on the chair struck Niobe like a hammer blow. She screeched and lunged for Chloe’s legs. Clinging to her friend, Niobe screamed, “Mother Catherine, no!”

It swept everyone in the room back to Lefebvre’s square. Once more they were numb witnesses, watching mutely as Niobe crumpled to the floor.

“Just let us sing for the
Boche
,” Niobe sobbed. “It’s only one goddamn song!”

Not one of the other girls said a word. It was as if Niobe were invisible. After a moment, they turned one by one and blankly went off to class.

None of the girls ever fully left her dark moments in Lefebvre’s square behind.

And Eva was lightning-struck. In the days after Mother’s death, she was hardly seen at St. Sébastien. When she was there, she spent silent hours at the graveside. At night she tossed and turned and called out in her sleep.

Sister Arnaude worried to Sister Martine, “Eva seemed independent as a cat. Who would have thought she’d be most badly broken by Mother’s martyrdom?”

Sister Martine replied, “Oh, I don’t know about that. Mother once told me she liked to keep some distance from the girls, but she had a hard time doing that with Eva. As she put it, ‘We’re so much alike, the pull is too strong.’ Maybe Eva felt the pull, as well.”

Eva did feel that pull. She said as much, sitting at Mother’s grave one day, gazing up at a cottony cloud. “First, closeness to me doomed Krebs. And now you, Mother.”

She glanced down and spied a small moth caught in a web stretched across a crook of the grave’s wooden cross. The insect’s struggles brought the spider running. It attacked the moth and began encasing it in silk. Eva whispered, “Mother, you died by spider’s venom, and I was the web. It’s a sin only you can absolve. But how do I earn that? How do I atone? What can a web do? What more than bide her time, waiting for the spider’s demise?” Eva looked up at the cloud and her eyes opened wide. “I can be more than a puny web—I can hinder the spider, as you did, Mother.” She jumped up. “That’s it, hinder him. Oppose him.” She used a twig to gather up the web into a wad, entangling the spider, then she tossed it down and stomped it.