An Owl's Whisper (5 page)

Sitting with Caspar asleep on her lap, Eva quickly tired of peeling off repetitious
Aves
and instead surveyed the cavernous vault. She’d been down there just once before and the eerie place fascinated her. As her eyes acclimated to the darkness, she studied the vault’s details: The geometry of the groined arch stonework that came together above her. The tarnished brass candle holders in the four corners of the main chamber, each holding a thick, yellow tallow candle capped with a flickering, flaxen flame. The dark crucifix hanging from the ceiling directly over the small altar. The rack of dusty wine bottles sleeping in the antechamber on the right. The small wooden door on the left, the one Camille said shut in an old nun who’d gone insane. The cold wall stones she’d felt on the stairwell. The flat floor stones, stippled with glittering flecks. The sweet aroma of ancient incense that infused everything. For Eva, the vault’s features were as intriguing as the wrinkles on the face of a centenarian.

When the rosary ended, Mother Catherine gathered the girls around her to sing popular songs from the carefree days after the Great War. When most of the girls joined in, Eva felt the fear in the vault scurry off behind the cobwebs.

After what seemed to Eva an entire day, Mother Catherine sent Sister Arnaude to reconnoiter the outside world. In thirty minutes or so she returned and briefed Mother privately. As they conferred, the vault vibrated with girls’ whispers.

Mother cleared her throat to restore order and spoke in a loud voice that echoed through the chamber. “My flowers, Sister Arnaude has investigated the situation outside. Things seem quite peaceful there, at least for the moment. It is mid-morning. We can now go up to God’s good sunshine and air, but I want you all to stay together in your classrooms. You may read while luncheon is prepared. We hope to hear more news from wireless broadcasts and from Father Celion. When I learn anything, I will inform you.”

The girls were giddy with excitement at the twin prospects of leaving the dank vault and learning what parts if any of their wild speculations and whispered rumors were true. For Eva there was also the prospect of celebrating her seventeenth birthday, that Friday, May 10, 1940.

Be the Leaf

In the older girls’ classroom that afternoon, ancient Sister Eusebia got the students seated and ambled off to settle the younger ones next door. The moment she left, Camille ran to the window, the ribbons on her brunette braids dancing behind her like butterflies. Pointing outside, she shrieked, “There in the orchard! Soldiers on black horses…I think.” Like apples tumbling into a bin, wide-eyed girls scrambled to the window. But they found the orchard tranquil. Other such
sightings
followed, and in every case, the alarms proved false. The remains of the downed aircraft, its burned hulk and the black-smudged pasture around it, would have fanned the fires of excitement, but they were hidden from view by the old stables and Eva told no one what she’d seen. So quiet, accompanied by disappointment, began to blanket simmering fear. It was in that broth that eight St. Sébastien girls, including Eva and Françoise, clustered together.

Isabelle from Namur was nicknamed
Soleil
—Sunshine. Pushing her fingers through her auburn hair, she said, “Call me selfish, but I say tough luck if the muddy boots of war tromp someone’s toes. My heart’s racing, and I like it!”

“Call you selfish,
Soleil
?” said Clarisse LaCroix. “I’d call you easily amused. What have we found? A few crumbs of excitement. Well, it leaves me wanting. Wanting the whole cake.”

Camille fingered her braids. “How’s this for cake, Clarisse? Down in the vault, I dozed off and dreamed of armies moving on the hillsides like swarms of insects. It was tingling terror, seeing those swarms seethe in battle! Then,
merde
, I woke up.”

Clarisse slipped a hand under Camille’s sweater and ran wiggling fingers up her back, squealing, “Here’s your tingling terror, Cami!”

Camille shrieked, but soon she was laughing with the others.

Simone Jaffre had a voice so tiny her nickname was Trout. “I’d dream of a handsome boy, no matter his side, brought in badly wounded. Imagine cleaning his wounds! Comforting him. Nursing him over many months.” She hugged herself.

“Hey, Troutsie,” jeered Clarisse, “don’t forget to imagine his torrid tongue flicking your ear and his frantic fingers dashing up your linens.”

“Clarisse!” Simone whined.

Isabelle from Paris huffed, “LaCroix, you’re the only one slut enough to think that.”

Clarisse studied her nails. “I doubt it.” She blew Isabelle a kiss and strolled off.

Laetitia took Simone’s arm in hers. “Well I like your dream. My soldier’s a cavalry officer on a white charger. He’s got curly, black hair and a strong mouth. As I nurse him back to health, we fall in love and ride off on his steed, eloping to the Riviera.”

Isabelle said, “For me, his name is Laurent. We too fall madly in love, then have an exquisite, tearful goodbye when he’s sent back to the front.”

Camille giggled. “We’ll have Puccini write you a farewell duet, and I can just see the last scene: Laurent dies at the front with, ‘Isabelle, my love!’ on his lips. And brokenhearted, you die here—of consumption, naturally.” Camille leaned back and coughed softly. She put a hand to her heart and fluttered her eyes closed.

“Cami, you goat!” Isabelle pinched her friend as everyone erupted in laughter.

When the group quieted, Simone took Eva’s hand and looked into her eyes. “And Eva, for what do you long?”

Eva shrugged. “For nothing so romantic, I guess. I feel restless. I just want to get on with it.” Her eyes opened wide, as if she’d startled herself saying all that. “Whatever
it
is.”

No one asked Françoise what she felt. Good thing, for icy fear froze her tongue.

Just when Eva had given up on a birthday celebration, Françoise pulled her away from the others. “If only we could get back to the dormitory,” she whispered. “I have gifts for your birthday hidden there, and you must have them now, in case something dreadful happens.”

Eva took Françoise’s hands in hers. “We could sneak back there. Sister E. won’t return for a few minutes, and she won’t notice us gone when she does. The next time the others rush to the window, we’ll slip out together. How about it?”

Within five minutes the pair were creeping into the deserted dormitory.

As they sat together on her bed, Eva said, “Your idea to come here is the best birthday gift. Breaking rules—it’s the best antidote for boredom.”

Françoise beamed. “But the plan was yours, Eva.” She turned serious. “Being here with you is wonderful for me, too. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time to a safe world, far from the claustrophobia of the vault and the silliness of the classroom. A world where I don’t expect grim-faced soldiers with rifles and bayonets to burst through the door. One where rumors aren’t passed from girl to girl like influenza. Where, for a moment at least, fears for my family can evaporate like beads of water on a hot stove. Where I can simply celebrate a best friend’s birthday.”

Bathed in a shaft of golden sunlight streaming in through the window, Eva opened her gifts: A tin of candied apricots, a copy of Rostand’s
Cyrano de Bergerac
, a pair of silk stockings from Françoise’s father’s shop in Brussels. The pair sang a birthday duet, ate sugared fruit, and promised always to be best friends, no matter what.

There was a thud, perhaps the slam of a door. Eva saw fear flicker in Françoise’s eyes. “Françie, we’re sharing my birthday. Caspar is safe. We’ve got excitement. It’s not so bad.” She took Françoise’s hand. “Look, we’re all afraid. That’s uncertainty for you. But it’ll be fine in the end. No matter what army marches in. It may mean a few new rules. The kings, the prime ministers, the chancellors—their lives will turn upside down. But we’re little people, leaves riding a stream. We go from still water to rapids, from eddies to falls, drifting along without trouble—unless we fight the current.”

Françoise forced a smile. “Eva, we are little people, you and I, but I’m not only that. As a Jew, I know if it’s the German army that marches here, there’ll no place for me.”

Eva squeezed Françoise’s hand. “I’ll concede Herr Hitler won’t have you over to dinner. But who wants his old schnitzel and sauerkraut anyway?” Eva grinned. “Life won’t turn black. Like I said, there
will
be new rules. But so what? It’s no big deal. Be that leaf in the stream! Don’t resist the current.”

Françoise was silent for a moment, as if reluctant to reply. “Sweet Eva. Always wanting to help. Always so wise.” She paused. “Almost always. Eva, I’ll never have a truer friend than you. But I don’t think you understand how different things would become for the two of us. Hearing you now, I can only think of what my father says,
The only fish that swims with the current is the dead fish.”
Françoise shuddered. “We should get back.” She sounded exhausted.

Eva kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “Remember, we’re leaves, not fish. Chin up.” But even words bright as morning sunshine couldn’t melt the frost on Françoise’s heart.

Back in the classroom, Eva could taste the brew of fear and boredom fermenting there.
This calls for a tonic. Another chapter in the tales of the residents of St. François D’Assisi.

Even Clarisse slipped casually in among the listeners when Eva began.

“One morning the wrens were awakened early by a clamor outside their dormitory room in the grand old fir tree that served as the convent school. All atwitter, the wrens sprang from their nests. They were ruffling their feathers and chattering when Sister Mouse burst in. Since the dormitory room was a rather large space for so small a voice to fill, she cleared her throat and squeaked, ‘Students, this morning the forest is full of geese. Their coarse honking assaults every ear. We meet with Mother Swan momentarily on the chapel branch.”

Dani took Eva’s hand. “Who are the geese supposed to be?”

“L’Hôpital, that’s a really dumb question,” Nathalie said. “They’re some kind of soldiers or something. Right, Eva?”

Eva smiled, “Patience, girls. You’ll have an idea, soon enough.”

“In three minutes the wrens dressed and flew down to the chapel. A moment after they arrived, the door latch clicked, and every head turned to watch Mother Swan glide in. She was serene as she spoke. ‘My flowers, as you know, gaggles of geese fill the forest, and they don’t show signs of moving on. Have you thoughts on what to do about our
Goose-tapo
problem?’”

Danielle squealed, “The Germans. I knew it!”

Eva smiled at Dani and continued. “There were whispered chirps and hushed peeps, but no ideas surfaced. Finally, Sister Tortoise rose in her usual glacial way.

“Mother Swan smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Sister?’

“‘It occurs to me, Mother, that, ignoring certain obvious differences, there
is
a strong resemblance between a swan and a goose.’

“Mother Swan’s neck stiffened, and her beak opened, and her wings flared out, and a hiss began to form in the back of her throat, as if—

“Sister Tortoise seemed oblivious to Mother’s reaction. ‘Now, a swan is larger than a goose, but that would be to our advantage, wouldn’t it? In my experience, geese are easily intimidated. Mother, you could go outside and claim to be the head goose and order them to leave St. François alone.’

“Mother studied the notion for a moment. You could almost see her mind running with it. She relaxed her wings and her beak and her throat. ‘Sister Tortoise, you’re a genius!’

“Mother looked through the window at the geese below, strutting their silly, stiff-legged kick-walk. ‘We must hurry. Sister Mouse, come! Up on my beak.’ Sister Mouse jumped up, and it looked as if Mother had a stubby toothbrush moustache. She marched onto a tree limb overlooking the forest floor, and holding her right wing up, she boomed, ‘
Achtung!
’”

Eva put a finger to the space between lip and nose, a pseudomoustache, as she spoke Mother’s lines. The girls’ giggling turned to raucous laughter.

“The geese looked up, and their eyes popped. They cried, ‘Our
Führer
!’

“With Sister Mouse on her beak and wild wing flapping and loud ranting, Mother Swan had the geese spellbound. She roared, ‘I command that you keep clear of these parts. I will personally see to things here. Pity any goose who ignores my order! You are dismissed.
Raus
!’

“Mother kept up her flamboyant wing movements and guttural blusters until, in a cloud of feathers, dust, and honks, all the geese had fled. Then she strutted back into the chapel, to the cheers and adulations of every wren.”

St. Sébastien’s girls likewise broke into cheers.

A minute later, Clarisse pulled Eva aside. “In your fairy tales, Goldilocks, good may triumph. But you know, real life hardly ever works that way.”

“In real life who’s to say what good is?” Eva replied. “What matters to me is, for the moment at least, my fable’s sent fear and uncertainty scurrying off with my geese.”