An Owl's Whisper (14 page)

She ran into the dormitory as the girls were making their beds. Without waiting to catch her breath, she gathered them around. “It was during chapel that I heard it. Surely you did too?” She knew they hadn’t—no one had said anything. “Right after the
Gloria
and then again after communion. No? You must all be deaf! The noise came from down in the vault. At first, I thought it was mice. Then in the quiet after communion, I heard a sneeze and then whispers.” Nathalie paused dramatically.

She smiled as excited chatter broke out in the circle like splattering raindrops—until it went on too long. She pulled the spotlight back to herself with a firm
Shhh
. “If you want to know about our little mice, you’ll have to listen to
me
.” When Dani and Chloe kept talking, Nathalie bluffed, “Fine! Then I won’t tell you about
the
children
down there.” She made a show of studying her fingernails. “Doesn’t matter to me whether you know or not.”

Dani begged Nathalie to continue.

Nathalie sighed. “I suppose I can.” She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned into the circle. “So, I was telling you about the voices. As we were filing out after Mass, I noticed a basket in the shadow near the door down to the vault. A loaf of long bread poked from the white napkin cover. I can’t believe none of you saw it. Outside, I told sister I’d forgotten my rosary so I could go back. Well, I’m hiding behind the statue of St. Sébastien, watching the basket, and two minutes later, here comes Mother Catherine and Sister Martine, carrying a steaming teapot. Mother takes the oil lamp hanging there, and they pick up the basket and go down the stairs into the vault. They leave the door ajar. I creep over and listen, and I hear talking down there. It’s Mother and Sister—and some children.”

Nathalie’s expression turned serious. “You won’t believe what I heard. Swear not to tell?” The girls nodded enthusiastically. “Give me your a cross-my-heart oath, or I won’t say another word.” She thrust her hands to her hips and scanned the circle.

Each girl chirped, “Cross my heart and hope to die,” and dashed an X on her breast.

Nathalie said, “OK. With my own ears I hear Mother say, ‘Oh, my dears, you are children of God and while you are here, you are children of mine. The sanctuary of St. Sébastien is yours for as long as you need it. As long as I breathe.’”

“Gypsies!” Laetitia gasped. “I thought I smelled Gypsies.”

Clarisse laughed. “No, that’s Chloe’s breath.” She pinched her nose.

Chloe covered her mouth. “I do not stink,” she whined as she slinked away.

Clarisse called after her, “Bye-bye, Skunksie.” She turned to Nathalie. “Hey, Thumbelina, my money it’s Jews or Bolsheviks down there.”

Nathalie pushed her deformed hand into her pocket and scowled at Clarisse. “If you can shut up for a minute, LaCroix, I’ll say who it is.” She cleared her throat. “As they come back upstairs, Sister Martine is saying, ‘Hiding Jews is so dangerous, Mother. I pray we’re doing the right thing.’ And Mother replies, ‘Sister Martine, what would Our Lord do? We’re here in the country, far from the concerns of the Gestapo. Besides, can you look into those little faces and have any doubts?’” Nathalie’s eyes were wide. “So,
we’re
hiding Jews!”

Nervous shrieks erupted at the thought:
We’re hiding Jews!
As if they’d gone with a friend to the bakery for bread and, out of the blue, she’d pulled out a pistol to rob the place, the girls were all suddenly accomplices.

On the outside of the circle were Eva and Françoise. They had been quietly listening,
just
listening. Finally, Françoise took Eva’s hand and pulled her away to the corner of the dormitory.

Françoise’s face was pale. “Eva, this is a bad thing for Mother Catherine and the rest of us here. Especially for me. My family had to leave Brussels. They abandoned our shop and went into hiding. I’ll see them
when the world is set right again
. That’s how Father put it in his last letter. He said, ‘Be the little mouse, the creature most easily overlooked. The creature that survives.’ But like fish draw flies, those children will draw the attention of bad men. Men so frightful that I wish those brats in the vault were somewhere else. I don’t give a damn where. Just not here, putting me at risk. I hate myself for thinking that, but I can’t help it.”

Eva took her friend’s hand. “Don’t be afraid, Françoise. Mother’s Jews are probably in transit to somewhere safe. Maybe Sweden. They won’t stay here long.
Mon Dieu
, we can’t even feed ourselves.” Eva’s grip tightened. “When it came to my sweet little Caspie, Mother put her girls first—she’d
better
do that again now.” She glanced at her hand and relaxed it. “Even if the Germans find out about her darling little Jews, what’ll they do? Send them for factory work?” Eva snorted. “They’d just be under foot. Mouths to feed. Look, Germans are smart. Smart enough to turn an eye. To let Mother worry about them till they become Sweden’s problem.”

Françoise winced. “Our talk has me wondering what’s worse, cowardice or contempt.”

Eva pushed Françoise’s hand away. “How can you say I have contempt for Jews? With you as a best friend? You’re right, I don’t give the smallest shit about Mother’s little rats, but it’s not because they’re Jews. Being Jews is their problem, not mine.”

“Cowardice, contempt? Maybe naïveté beats them both.” Françoise turned and stalked off.

Word about the children in the vault spread through the school quick as chicken pox. The nuns usually heard the latest scuttlebutt before most of the girls did, but not this time. Maybe they were deafened by the dread consequences if their secret were to get out.

After downplaying the significance of the vault children in what she said to Françoise, Eva subsequently avoided talking about them at all. Avoided the subject as if it troubled her—or made her angry. Avoided it by slipping away whenever it came up.

Lights in the Night

In her prayers that March night, Sister Martine thanked God for the three weeks of joy they’d had since the vault children arrived.
It’s been such a blessed time. I was wrong to worry. Mother Catherine was right.

That night Sister was exhausted, but it was an exhaustion to treasure, one born of doing the right thing and doing it successfully. And so, the Lord having been dutifully thanked, she slid effortlessly to sleep in her little bed in her little room, savoring the fact that the presence of the children remained apparently unsuspected by the girls, much less the
SS
. Savoring it like she did the peppermints her mother sent every Christmas.

Sister Martine slept sweetly, luxuriously. She dreamed a warm, honeyed dream in which she was a girl once again, sitting in a boat with her father on a calm, sunny day. They were fishing, as they both so loved to do in those bygone days, and Papa looked so young in his straw hat and blue and white checked shirt open at the collar, and he smoked that clay pipe he loved so much, and he was again calling her by the diminutive
Mon petit Chou
—what he called her when she was a girl but had given up, perhaps in bitterness, when she entered the convent to begin her novitiate, and Sister
petit Chou
was so happy that tears welled in her eyes without her waking.

In her dream she let her fingers dangle in the cool water, and, eyes closed, she turned her face to catch the warmth of the sun, and she breathed in air not sullied by war and occupation and vows, and she felt the lightness of her cotton frock as the breeze moved it ever so softly, so sensuously, on her breasts, and it felt so good, so natural, so free to be there like that, without the confining heaviness of her habit.
Heaven could be no better.
Off in the distance, Sister heard the rumble of thunder. It became gradually louder until it was a throaty groan. She was turning to see the approaching storm when she heard, “They’ve come!”
Papa? No, the voice seems wrong
. Sister’s gaze was pulled to the pail next to her foot, to the small fish floating glassy-eyed on the water’s surface. As she watched, the fish’s mouth opened. “They’ve come!” it gasped. Sister’s brow furrowed. Then loud thudding pulled her attention from the pail. Her father had a big fish on the line and it was thrashing against the hull.
The storm, a dead fish talking, now Papa needs help. Something’s not right.
She tried to move to help her father, but her limbs were numb, paralyzed. She couldn’t even call out, could not push air from her lungs to make a sound.

“Sister Martine, they’ve come. Go to the dormitory and see to the girls. I’ll confront them.”

Sister Martine sat up, panting. It took a moment to realize that she was back in her bed, in her room, in the convent, and that it had been Mother Catherine’s voice she heard. She jumped up and the chill of the stone floor jolted her fully awake. Instantly the cold, white light intruding through her window told her everything. She whispered, “they’ve come,” and terror gripped her heart. She threw on her shawl, and bolted through the door. With
Ave Maria
on her lips, she ran down the hall towards the girls’ dormitory, chased by the pounding on the front door.

Mother Catherine approached the door. She stopped there, and she took a slow, deep breath. The thundering blows and brutish shouts from the outside seemed enough to batter down the door at any instant. But Mother’s face was incongruously serene. She adjusted her brown veil. She looked down at the long rosary that hung from her belt and straightened its drape. The door rumbled on its hinges but Mother seemed not to notice. Her hands rose slowly to the silver crucifix that hung at her breast. She looked at the figure of Christ and it looked back. She recited a short prayer and then held out the cross as one might to ward off a demon.

Mother replaced the serenity on her face with thundercloud defiance. She slid back the heavy metal bolt and turned the key. As the lock clanked, the pounding ceased. She waited a moment and turned the iron handle. The latch moved up with a croak and the heavy door groaned open.

Wincing at the bright light, Mother confronted a terrifying specter. With vehicle spotlights trained on his back, the dark figure framed by a luminous white aura looked supernatural. Apocalyptic. He was freakishly tall with an expressionless, skeletal face. A dead man’s face. A face in keeping with the
Todenkopf
—Death’s Head, skull and crossbones—insignia on the front of his black peak cap. The leather overcoat covering the figure from neck to mid-calf glistened black, as if wet. The officer clicked the heels of the gleaming, black riding boots that protruded stick-like from the wide bottom of the coat and raised his right arm in formality. “
Heil Hitler
!”

Mother Catherine stood placidly with each hand tucked into the sleeve of the other arm. The set of her jaw and the steel of her gaze proclaimed that she would not be easily cowed. “I wish quite the contrary,” she said as if the German’s greeting was a polite suggestion that she join him in wishing The
Führer
good health.

“
Sie mussen Deutsch sprechen
,” he growled.

“In my country and in my home, French is the appropriate language for visitors. One who barges uninvited into both underscores his vulgarity by violating that norm.”

The officer fidgeted. He couldn’t understand much of what she was saying, and leftover from his elementary school days, he had a fear of nuns. After a moment, he scowled and called over his shoulder, “
Bauer, hier.
”

An SS enlisted man ran up from the shadows. “
Ja wohl, mein Obersturmführer
.”

The officer, clearly displeased at Mother’s attitude, spoke sternly to Bauer. When he had finished, Bauer snapped a nod and turned to the nun. He said in halting French, “
Madame
Sister,
Obersturmführer
Weibel instructs you he here comes with official mandate. He investigates the sheltering of fugitive persons. We now make searching of the premises. My
obersturmführer
foresees your cooperation in his mission.”

Mother saw a chance to buy some time. “Official mandate, did you say? May I please review the paperwork?”

Bauer winced. He turned to Weibel and indicated that the nun had requested to see documentation for the search. Weibel looked as if he had inhaled burning gasoline. He pushed Bauer aside and stepped toward Mother Catherine. The Luger pistol that had been aimed at the ground swung up and Weibel held it menacingly, the grip tucked tightly against his ribcage.

Mother told herself, keep a step ahead of them. She smiled calmly and said to Bauer, “I can review the papers later. Before you proceed, my girls need some moments to dress for your inspection. You may be chilled, out on a night like this. Would you please ask
Monsieur
Weibel if he would care for a cup of hot tea while we wait?”

The color returned to Bauer’s face. Nodding to the nun, he said, “Thank you,
Madame
Sister.” He turned to Weibel and translated her invitation.