Sins of the Flesh (30 page)

Boots scraped the hard wooden floor and chairs were pushed back suddenly, the sound like thunder in the quiet church.

“Ach, no fool will be out in this weather. Who will know if I climb that damn belfry? You can't see your hand in front of your face,” one of the soldiers grumbled.

“Orders,” another said harshly. “These French are fools. We do what we are told. I want to see my wife again. Quickly, so I can transmit.”

It was impossible to tell how long they remained under the pews—perhaps close to an hour, Mickey thought. They'd been in the sanctuary for well over an hour, which meant the Germans must be transmitting every three hours.

Mickey's entire body was so numb, she thought she'd never be able to move again. The floor was ice cold with drafts blowing from every direction. She could feel herself start to shiver.

The German returned from the bell tower, his boots stomping across the floor. “I told you there is nothing out there but snow. These French, they are probably lighting Christmas trees,” he snarled.

Mickey's eyes widened in the darkness. Christmas! Surely it wasn't Christmas. If it really was Christmas, that meant they would…be killing…she didn't know for sure that it was Christmas. Killing is necessary no matter what day it is, she cautioned herself.

“Send your message, Kort, so we can divide our shift. I need some sleep,” ordered the officer from the belfry, tired now and half-angry. “And while you're at it, find out how much longer we're going to stay in this damned church. There are no R.A.F. pilots around here, or we'd have seen them. There are no tracks in the snow, and we searched every damned house in this miserable village. They went over the mountains. They're probably all dead by now.” His voice was angrier now and sullen.

“Yes, my general,” the transmitter mocked as he prepared to send his message to God only knew where.

Mickey could feel Yvette tense at her side. She knew her ears were straining to hear the taps of the keys.

Fifteen minutes later they were back in the sanctuary, where it was colder still. Mickey slipped into her heavy jacket, grateful for the warmth it offered. “At least two of them will sleep, possibly three,” she whispered.

André nodded. “You two will be the last in line. The transmitter stays alive. Which one is he?” he asked Yvette.

“We saw only boots, nothing above the knees. He has very large feet, and he sits like this,” she said, demonstrating a wide-legged stool position.

“I think it's Christmas,” Mickey said in a hushed voice. The others were silent as they digested her words, each of them remembering other Christmases with family and friends.

“It makes no difference,” André said with a catch in his voice. Mickey wondered then how old he was and if he had a family. Suddenly she didn't want to know; it was enough to know he was human and had feelings he kept hidden like the rest of them.

André turned to stare at his group. In a low, harsh voice he whispered, “For thousands of years a church has been designated as a place of sanctuary. This is our church, it belongs to every French Catholic in France, and we are protecting it from those German killers. I don't know if God will forgive us or not for what we're about to do. I hope He will,” he said, blessing himself.

Mickey felt calm suddenly, almost peaceful as she dropped to her belly. God would forgive them because they were His children. He alone knew there was no other way.

The Germans were sluggish with the warmth of the fire and the wine and food they'd consumed. It was to the partisans' advantage as they attacked—brutally. Mickey thought she would never get used to the sight of blood spilling from a man's throat, or the sound of the death gurgle, but this time she barely noticed, wondering if it really was Christmas.

Two men with braided rawhide strips around their necks were alive. Tethered as they were, they could signal only with their eyes.

“Call this one a horse's ass in German,” Yvette said to Mickey as she spat in the soldier's face. “Look, see the fear in his eyes. He's afraid of us foolish French. Damn you, Mickey, say it!” she shouted. The soldier cringed, knowing his life was almost at an end. At that moment he would have confessed anything—unlike these men and women. Small in number, these partisans fought loyally and to the death. In his mind he admired them. He was a horse's ass; well, he'd been called worse in his life, mostly by his wife, who loved him dearly. Now he wished he'd told her more often how he felt about her.

“Who is the transmitter?” André asked coldly. Neither man acknowledged his question. “Let me put it to you another way: the one who does the transmitting is the one who stays alive.” The man Yvette called a horse's ass jerked forward. When André nodded, the remaining German was pulled backward into the darkness of the church. There was a moment of light scuffling and then silence.

André himself tied the German to his chair, the knots in the stout rope cutting deeply into the man's wrists. He made no sound. He was alive and they needed him. For what, he didn't know, but whatever it was he would help them, for he wanted to stay alive to tell Ilsa how much he loved her.

“We get warm, we eat, and then we dispose of these miserable excuses for human beings. How nobly they died for the Third Reich. Pigs! Swine! You should all die with that paperhanging bastard. If I ever hear the words
Heil Hitler
again, I will shoot to kill on the spot!” André cried passionately.

Mickey had heard it all before, so many times that she found herself drifting into sleep with the warmth of the fireplace at her back. These hard-fighting Frenchmen gave voice to their thoughts because they felt so helpless against the German machine. Now she would sleep, her belly full of the thick greasy sausage and heavy black bread. When she woke she would cook for the children and make up parcels of food to take with them.

For three days they ate, slept, and ate again and again as they waited for the children, whose arrival was delayed because of the heavy snow. The German named Kort did as he was told, sending out his dispatches and receiving others. The deciphered messages made no difference to their situation, Yvette pointed out.

Mickey was busy cutting turnips and cabbage into the soup pot when she heard Kort ask André a question in his broken French. “If I tell you a safe way to get over the mountains, will you let me go free?”

Mickey finished her task and walked over to the German. “Why do you think we would believe anything you say? There are Germans all along the border. We'll find out our own way. The German hasn't been born that I would trust,” she said viciously. “Unless, of course, you want to come with us,” she added.

“No…yes…If that is what is necessary for me to remain alive, I will go with you. Your guide.”

“No!” Yvette shouted.

“Why not, Yvette?” Mickey said. “Think about it. He could carry the food and, from time to time, the children when they tire. He is strong, burly, well fed, and he's lived well on our land and our food. I think we should take him. I think he should pay for our country's generosity. Look how strong he is, my friend. He'll be better than a pack mule. We will load him down so heavily he cannot escape. And”—she wagged a finger under Yvette's nose—“he will walk in front of you.” To the German she said in a voice she could have used to discuss the weather conditions, “My friend hates Germans; they slaughtered her husband in Paris because he walked in front of the commandant. She held him in her arms and watched him die. She watched that same commandant kick her husband in the ribs when he didn't die fast enough.”

Kort stared up at Yvette and in the whole of his life had never seen such hatred. Fear crawled around his belly, but he knew he would do what these two women asked of him, do it gladly if they allowed him to live. “I will give you no trouble,” he said.

“André?”

“As you say, he will be better than a pack mule. I say take him, but watch him.” Later he would tell Mickey to kill the German bastard the moment they set foot on Spanish soil.

Nine children arrived the following day, cold and hungry, but warmly dressed for the bitter weather outside. Mickey and Yvette bustled about ladling out food and spreading blankets and pillows by the fire. Young Gage had proved to be an apt scavenger, looting the village houses in anticipation of the children's arrival.

If we could only stay here for the winter, Mickey mused as she stared at the sleeping children. There was certainly enough food in the root cellars and plenty of firewood. And more than enough Germans to go around. Her thoughts were bitter and angry as she stared at the defenseless children.

“I'd say the oldest is eight, possibly nine,” Yvette whispered. “I wonder which ones we'll lose.”

“Yvette, for God's sake, we haven't even left yet and already you're worrying about…about…”

“You're thinking the same thing, don't deny it, Michelene,” Yvette said calmly.

A sound, foreign to their ears in the small church, startled them. The men at the table stopped talking, and André ran to the door, his rifle in readiness, Gage on the other side. When they heard the sound again, it came from the direction of the children.

“It's all right; one of the little ones is making sounds in his sleep,” Mickey said quietly as she made her way to the little group of children. One boy with golden curls was sleeping on his side, his hand under his cheek. An angel, Mickey thought, a sweet little angel no more than five or six that God was going to put to the test. Bitter tears scalded her eyes.

“So,” she muttered, “this is what we all heard.” Leaning over, she opened the buttons of the child's bulging coat. A dog with warm, wet eyes stared out from his nest against the little boy's chest. Careful not to awaken the sleeping child, Mickey gently withdrew the small dog and held him up against her cheek. How warm and soft he was. His little pink tongue crept out of his mouth to lick at her, hesitantly at first and then lavishly.

“
Mon Dieu!
What are we to do with this little rascal?” Mickey demanded.

The men all looked at one another. There was none among them who had not had a dog as a child. They looked on helplessly, not wanting to be the first to say the dog had to be gotten rid of.

“Food, Yvette. This warm bundle needs food and some water,” Mickey ordered in a strangled voice. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks, remembering Jake and Dolly.

At the table the men were making quiet wagers as to whether or not they would take the dog with them over the mountains. The German Kort offered to carry the dog along with his other load, but Mickey ignored him. Of course, he would be eager for the dog to go along, so he could bark and give away their positions. But if the dog's sense of smell was developed, it could work to their advantage. Puppy or not, the animal would be devoted to the little boy who had carried him through the snow. He would smell danger if it threatened his master.

Sitting on their haunches, Mickey and Yvette watched the little dog gobble down more food than they themselves had eaten all day. When he was finished he lapped water from a cracked cup, then looked at them solemnly and piddled at their knees. Hearing no sharp reprimand, he wobbled over to the boy with the golden curls and within seconds was snug inside the boy's coat.

“This could be a problem,” Yvette said, watching.

“If we leave him behind, he could die. He's too little to forage for himself,” Mickey said glumly.

“Yes, but if he barks when silence is called for, we could
all
die,” Yvette reminded her.

“Yes, that is a possibility. We must decide, you and I. The dog is probably the only thing left to this little angel. I cannot be the one to…to…say…I cannot be the one who says he must be left behind.”

“Well, don't expect me to be the monster.”

Mickey smiled. “So where does that leave us?”

“I guess he goes with us,” Yvette said with a sigh. “We can take turns carrying him. He's a beauty, isn't he?”

“It's been settled,” Mickey crooned to the little dog who was peeking out of the boy's coat. He seemed to understand her words. His eyes closed and he was asleep in seconds, safe and secure against his young master's beating heart.

 

It was three days before the snow let up. Three long days for the children to eat and sleep and get warm. Three days to become attached to the frisky pup who was now everyone's friend, even the German's. Three long days with enough hours to become attached to the solemn-eyed children who would be Mickey's charges. They were so little, so young, she thought. She'd laid aside any last doubts about the German even though Yvette hadn't changed her mind about him.

Kort didn't need prodding when it came time to make his transmission. Mickey carefully translated the French words into German, and Yvette stood over him, her pistol pressed against his temple as she watched him make the three-hour transmittal. And always it was the same message: Heavy snow conditions, the village was deserted, and there was no sign of any R.A.F. flyers or French partisans.

One more transmittal was scheduled for the noon hour, during which Kort was to ask questions and read off a statement Mickey had translated for him. He was to say two of his men spotted tracks in the snow and followed them south, and he had not heard from them since. Mickey and the children would start out immediately, heading north, while the other partisans headed west. They would all have a three-hour start.

“The question is,” Yvette said, “will they believe him?”

Mickey translated the question.

Kort nodded. “I see no reason for them not to believe me. My superiors have a great respect for your Resistance movement. Your people have killed many of my countrymen and given safe passage to many English flyers. They will believe me,” he said defiantly, his eyes on Yvette and the pistol in her hand. For some reason he wasn't nearly as afraid of the men in this group as he was of this redheaded witch.