The Sisters of St. Croix (20 page)

Sister Marie-Marc may be old with creaking joints, Reverend Mother thought now, but she’s in no way senile. When she found the wounded woman, she kept her head, locking her safely in the pantry and then coming to find me. She must have cleaned the blood from the floor, too, before Major Thielen’s search party had arrived in the kitchen, as they didn’t find anything. Pray God we can get the children away before another search, and also find some way of protecting that poor woman upstairs; though what we’re going to do with her is yet another problem.

A tap on her door heralded the arrival of Sister Marie-Marc.

“Come in, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said and pulled a chair round so that they could sit comfortably across from each other as they talked. “Now tell me, was there any problem when the soldiers came searching through the kitchen?”

The elderly nun gave a cackle of laughter. “No, Mother,” she replied. “I had cleaned the floor, but when
les sales Boches
came in I hadn’t had time to empty the bucket. I heard them coming, so I tipped the bucket into a pan and I put it on the stove. Then I stirred it, as if it were soup.”

In spite of herself, Mother Marie-Pierre laughed. “Soup?”

“Oh yes, Mother. And if they’d asked for a taste I’d have given it to them.”

“Then I can only thank God that they didn’t ask,” replied her superior, trying to control her quivering lip. “Now, Sister, we have a problem. The woman you found is badly wounded, but she is also wanted by the Germans. We have to keep her hidden and safe until she is well enough to move on.”

Sister Marie-Marc nodded.

“So the fewer people in the convent who know she was actually here,” went on Mother Marie-Pierre, “the better.”

“So you’re not going to tell our sisters.”

“No, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied gently. “I think it is safest for all of us if as few as possible are in on the secret.
You
know, of course, and Sister Eloise. So does Sister Henriette, who has been helping Sister Eloise. There is no need for anyone else to know that we are sheltering an escaped prisoner.”

“In the Great War,” Sister Marie-Marc said slowly, “we were fighting the Germans, our army fighting theirs, but they weren’t here, in France. They weren’t living in our village, taking people’s homes, sending people away to Germany. Shooting people. It can’t be right, Mother, for them to do what they are doing to the ordinary people of France.”

“There is always cruelty in war,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “we saw enough last time. But I agree this is different, and we must respond differently.” She smiled across at Sister Marie-Marc. “Now, we shall have to find a way of looking after the woman you found, but I know I can rely on you if I need you.”

Mother Marie-Pierre and the children set out for Paris the following day. Jean Danot, the farmer, had agreed to take them to Albert in his farm wagon and they had piled all the children and their luggage into it. The children were both excited and fearful. The older ones were leaving the only home they had ever known, but with a growing excitement at the thought of Paris. The Leon children kept close to Sister Danielle, the new rock in their swirling sea of change and anxiety. Marthe, dressed in the flowing habit and small headdress of a novice of the community, held on tightly to Margot’s hand, each the last link with her lost family.

When Mother Marie-Pierre had approached Sister Marie-Paul to give her a novice’s habit, Sister Marie-Paul had been horrified.

“It is a blasphemy for a Jew to wear the habit of a Christian sister,” she cried. “I cannot believe you’ll sully these holy garments in such a way.”

Mother Marie-Pierre fought down her anger. “The garments are not holy, Sister,” she said. “They are simply clothes. But, with God’s help, they will protect Marthe from the Germans.”

When Sister Marie-Paul said nothing, simply tightening her expression, Mother Marie-Pierre went on. “The sooner she is safely in Paris the better, Sister. Mother Magdalene can take responsibility for her then.”

“We should not become involved in what is happening beyond the convent walls, Mother,” replied Sister Marie-Paul. “Our place is to nurse the sick in the hospital and to follow a life of prayer.”

“Certainly, Sister,” said Mother Marie-Pierre equably, “and to fight against evil wherever it rears its head. It cannot be right to send children like Margot to a camp somewhere in Germany.”

“She should have gone with her mother,” Sister Marie-Paul said. “Stayed with her family. There was no need to bring her here.”

Faced with Sister Marie-Paul’s intransigent attitude, Mother Marie-Pierre could only feel relieved that her novice mistress did not realise that three of the other children were also Jews. She sighed inwardly. “Well, they won’t be here for much longer, Sister, and you can relax again.”

“It’s very difficult when someone senior, like your novice mistress, is not in tune with your thinking,” Sarah confided to Aunt Anne later that evening. “I wonder how Mother Magdalene would have handled the situation.”

“Maybe more forcefully than you,” conceded her aunt, “but not necessarily better.”

“I’ve borrowed Sister Marie-Joseph’s papers for Marthe,” Sarah told her. “They might do at a pinch, one nun looks like another to the layman, but they won’t bear close scrutiny. I’ve nothing for little Margot. We’ll just have to pray we aren’t stopped.”

“You will all be constantly in my prayers,” her aunt assured her, as she clasped Sarah’s hands in farewell.

The farm cart lumbered away from the convent gate, pulled by a huge carthorse. There was no fuel for the farm truck, and even if there had been, Monsieur Danot would not have wasted it on taking a group of nuns and children to the station in Albert.

To reach the main road to Albert they had to pass through the village square. This was the part of the journey that Mother Marie-Pierre felt posed the most danger. Once they were clear of St Croix, there would probably be little interest in a group of nuns and children travelling from one convent to another, but should they be seen by Colonel Hoch, or even Major Thielen, questions would surely be asked. However, the risk had to be taken, there was no other practicable way to reach the Albert road.

Mother Marie-Pierre sat up beside Monsieur Danot and the rest of the party were crammed into the back. As they entered the square, Colonel Hoch emerged from the German headquarters. It was almost, Mother Marie-Pierre thought later, as if he had been lying in wait for them.

A sharp order from him had them halted and covered by the rifles of three of his men. The SS officer strode over and addressed her.

“What is this?” demanded Hoch. “Where are you going?”

Mother Marie-Pierre’s heart was pounding, her fear realised, but she managed to answer smoothly. “I am taking the children to our mother house in Paris, Colonel,” she replied. “The hospital is overflowing and so we are moving the children out to make more space.”

The colonel peered at the children and the two other nuns crowded into the back of the wagon. “Out!” he ordered. “All of you!”

There was no hesitation, Mother Marie-Pierre climbed down from the front and everyone else scrambled out of the back. Marthe, uncomfortable in her unaccustomed clothes, tripped and would have fallen if Sister Danielle hadn’t caught hold of her.

The colonel stared at her for a moment and she lowered her eyes, as Mother Marie-Pierre had told her to do if she were addressed by a German soldier, but the reverend mother could see that her hands were shaking as she clasped them together within the wide sleeves of her habit. Margot ran to her immediately and Marthe bent down to her, putting her arm round her, drawing her against her protectively. Colonel Hoch’s gaze moved across the other children as they stood grouped around Sister Danielle, who was carrying baby Anne Leon in her arms.

“And who are these?” he demanded.

Mother Marie-Pierre answered for them. “They are our orphans, Colonel. Our convent runs an orphanage as well as a hospital. They’ve lived with us ever since their parents died. I have their papers here if you wish to see them.” She made as if to produce papers for everyone, but the colonel ignored her; it was as if she hadn’t spoken.

“You,” he pointed. “What is your name?”

Jean-Pierre stared at him, wide-eyed with fear.

“Come on, boy.” Hoch took a step towards him. “What is your name?”

“Jean-Pierre,” muttered the boy, cowering back.

“Jean-Pierre what?”

“Jean-Pierre Malpas.”

“Well, Jean-Pierre Malpas, learn to speak when you’re spoken to.” Hoch turned and, with a jerk of his head, summoned one of his men. “Search this cart.”

The man climbed up into the back of the cart and heaved out all the luggage. “No one here, sir,” he said when all the baggage was strewn on the ground and the wagon was clearly empty.

“Look underneath,” ordered Hoch, and the soldier dutifully crept in underneath the cart.

“Nothing here, sir,” he said as he emerged.

Hoch glowered at them all before turning on his heel and going back into the town hall. The soldier slouched off after him.

“All right, children, let’s get our things back into the cart,” Mother Marie-Pierre said bracingly. “We don’t want to miss the train, do we?”

Everything was gathered up and put back into the wagon, and the children and the sisters climbed back on board.

“They’re looking for someone,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly to Jean Danot when he had whipped up the horse again and they were lumbering out of the village.

“Still haven’t found the two who escaped from the trucks,” grunted Jean. “They’ve been over my farm three times. Sticking bayonets into the hay bales weren’t enough. They pulled the whole lot out into the yard last time. It took me all day to get it safely back under cover again.”

“They searched the convent too,” said Reverend Mother. Only once though, she thought, so they might be back, and what would happen then? She had left the woman—her name was Simone—in the charge of Sister Eloise, and for the time being there was nothing more that Mother Marie-Pierre could do for her. Now she had to concentrate on getting the children safely to Paris.

Silence rested between them. Jean Danot was a man of few words at the best of times, he had no time for idle gossip… dangerous gossip, he thought it. You couldn’t trust anyone, nowadays, not even nuns.

The train for Amiens belched its way into the station and Mother Marie-Pierre and Sister Danielle got their small flock on board. Marthe, still moving awkwardly in her habit, had been given charge of Margot. It would give her something to concentrate on during the journey, Mother Marie-Pierre thought. It was Marthe and Margot who were at the greatest risk. They were the only ones without valid papers.

The train was crowded and the little group crammed themselves into a compartment, the smaller children sitting on the nuns’ knees.

The train was slow and stopped several times, so that when they finally drew into Amiens it was late and they had missed their connection.

“What shall we do now, Mother?” asked Sister Danielle anxiously, Anne still held in her arms, and Catherine clutching the skirt of her habit.

Reverend Mother looked round the bustling station, and then took them into the waiting room. “Wait here,” she said, “and I will find out if there is another train today.”

There wasn’t, and when she asked the stationmaster if they might all stay in the waiting room for the night, his reply was not encouraging. “Sorry, Sister, you’d be breaking curfew.”

Mother Marie-Pierre had forgotten about the curfews imposed by the Germans. They had little relevance to the convent as none of the nuns were ever out at night. “What time is that?” she asked and he told her it was eleven o’clock at present.

“I see,” she said. “Then we’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. Is there a pension, or hotel which might have room for us all?”

“You could try the Lion d’Or,” the man suggested doubtfully, “they might have room.” He gave the reverend mother directions and, with her little brood in tow, she set off through the streets. The Lion d’Or had no room. The proprietor had taken one look at the group on his doorstep and raised his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. He regretted he had no room for such a party.

“Then perhaps you could suggest somewhere else.” Mother Marie-Pierre fought to keep her voice polite. The man shrugged again and she turned away in frustration. As she did so, she noticed a church on the corner of the next street. Surely they would be able to seek shelter there.

“Come along,” she said briskly, and led the way to the church. Once inside she sat them all down. “You are all to wait here,” she told them. “I will go to the priest and tell him of our plight.”

The priest’s house was not difficult to find, and when she knocked on the door she was welcomed by the housekeeper.

“Why, Sister, come on in,” she said when Mother Marie-Pierre had told her that she needed to speak to the priest. “Father Bernard is in his study. I’ll find him for you.” She showed the nun into a sitting room and leaving her there went in search of Father Bernard. When he arrived, Mother Marie-Pierre explained that she was taking a party of orphans to the mother house in Paris, but that their train had been delayed and they were now stranded in Amiens. She passed lightly over the reason for their journey. The less information she gave the better for all.

The priest took in the situation at once. “You must all come here,” he said. “It will be a bit of a squash, but we shall manage. Do go and fetch them while I warn Madame Papritz that we have guests.”

With great relief, Mother Marie-Pierre collected her charges from the church and brought them across to the priest’s house.

Madame Papritz was as welcoming as Father Bernard, and she soon had the children sitting round her kitchen table. While she fed them bread and honey, Father Bernard took the three nuns upstairs to a bedroom at the front of the house, which offered a sagging double bed.

“The children can sleep in here,” he said. “It’s a bit small, I’m afraid, and there aren’t any more beds, but I’ve plenty of blankets. You sisters can sleep in the room next door.” He opened another bedroom door. This contained only a narrow single bed. Father Bernard sighed. “There used to be two of us in the parish, but Father Gilbert went into the army as a chaplain. He didn’t come back, God rest his soul.”