An Owl's Whisper (9 page)

The befuddled soldier was stumbling backward when his comrade called, “
Herr
Corporal, I found the garden in back. Come on. Forget the witch.”

As the driver backed the truck toward the garden, Schweinslauter pushed past Mother. He ran behind the vehicle to the rear of the convent building. Mother followed, shaking the document and demanding the soldiers leave.

Barking came from the barn. As the truck lurched to a stop near the garden, Eva’s dog Caspar jumped through an open barn window and charged the soldiers, yapping angrily. The growling dog chased one of them onto a cement bench. He used an empty bushel basket to fend off Caspar’s bared teeth.

The ruckus drew the girls in Sr. Arnaude’s literature class to the window. Terrified, they watched Schweinslauter stride to the cab of the truck and snatched a rifle. Laughing, he aimed. “Don’t move, Franz,” he hollered. “I’ll save you from the wolf.” At that, Eva bolted from the window, running out of the classroom and down the stairs that led to the school’s back door.

Outside, before the corporal could fire, Mother scooped Caspar into her arms. She glared at the soldiers. “Cowards! You’d shoot a helpless animal? You’d steal food from the mouths of starving children?” She shook her head. “Stop and think what you’re doing!”

Schweinslauter leveled the rifle at Mother Catherine. He used the barrel to indicate,
Get inside now, or else
.

With the struggling dog in her arms, Mother walked to the convent door. Each step was unrushed, even stately. Her arrival at the door was simultaneous with Eva’s.

Eva was trembling. “I saw from the window, Mother. I was so afraid.” She pulled Caspar to herself. Scratching under his ear, Eva quieted him. Then she squeezed Mother’s hand. “I’ll never forget you risked your life to save my Caspie.”

Mother glanced at the hand on hers and smiled. Her gaze returned to Eva’s face. “But my dear, I didn’t risk my life just to save your dog. Mostly I risked it for those men. To show them that courage and grace are possible, even in these dark days. That life can always be respected.”

Eva huffed. “And what do you think the chances are that such men will grasp your lesson?”

“I don’t know, Eva. I only know I did all I could, unveiling a truth for them to see, if they’ll look honestly.”

For a moment, Eva peered silently at the floor. When she looked up, her face was streaked with tears, for a veil before her own eyes had momentarily lifted and the truth she glimpsed shook her bedrock beliefs. She turned and ran, holding Caspar tight to her breast.

In two hours, Schweinslauter and his men took most of the root vegetables, the potatoes, the ripe apples and green pears. They made sure to tromp much of what they didn’t harvest before driving off to the station in Lefebvre. That night the food was on a train bound for Germany.

With the chill winds of November howling, the outlook was for a cold and hungry winter. And as food supplies went, so did the spirits of the St. Sébastien girls.

One frosty December night just after lights out, the eve of the feast of St. Nicholas, the girls were in bed, each with a towel-wrapped, oven-warmed brick at her feet.

Isabelle from Paris pulled her tasseled nightcap over her ears. “I dreamed last night of my mother’s bouillabaisse. Wherever I was in the house, its aroma would seek me out. So rich, smelling was almost tasting. Mama used to make it on cold winter evenings, like tonight. And she baked crusty bread to go with it. Her bread smelled of yeast and wheat, and she served it oven-warm so that the butter melted into it and dripped onto the plate in a yellow pool.” Isabelle burst into tears. “It seems so long ago—in another life.”

Camille climbed into Isabelle’s bed to comfort her and ended up crying too.

Bébé pulled her knees tight to her chest. “Mirella and I’ve been talking about something for weeks now. Planning it. When the stinking war’s over, we’re going to make the world’s biggest confection. For all of us. It changes with every day, but right now it’s layers of chocolate, cherry, and
génoise gâteau
, with butter cream frosting. We’ll hollow it and fill the hole with
glacéed
walnuts, marzipan, licorice, honey, sugarplum, strawberry jam.…Let’s see. And pineapple gelato and hazelnut praline. Oh, and penuche crumbled on top. Did I forget anything, Mirella?

“Uh-ha,” Mirella said. “
Blancmange
and whipped cream.”

“Oh, yes.
Blancmange
and whipped cream piled on till it spills down the sides.” Bébé broke into soft sobs.

Simone blew on her hands. “I’ve gone beyond thinking of food to thinking of hunger. Days I can push it from my mind, but at night, lying in bed, it’s always here, like a worm gnawing my insides. And nights like this, when I can see my breath, I shiver ‘till my body aches.”

Clarisse LaCroix brushed her long, red hair. “When Mom died, my aunt moved in with us. She was an awful cook. I lived on bread and jam in those days. But her cuisine was like something from Maxim’s compared to the shit we’re served here, these days.”

“So you dined at Maxim’s often, did you, LaCroix?” sassed Isabelle from Paris.

Soleil scolded, “Clarisse, you know Sister Martine does her best with what little she has. Don’t be so critical.”

Clarisse shot back, “Sister Martine is a ninny. Everything she makes tastes like dishwater. So she doesn’t have a full larder? For variety, she could have Sister Eusebia dangle her stinking feet in the soup for a few minutes—at least that might flavor it.”

Camille groaned. “Oh, Clarisse, you’re a sick bitch. I wish you’d just shut up.” She ducked as Clarisse’s hairbrush flew by her head.

Eva jumped out of bed. “Girls. Girls! Please. Maybe it’s time for a meeting of the Whispering Owls. Françoise, light a candle. It may not give off much heat, but its glow will distract us from the thermometer’s mischief.”

With blankets pulled over their shoulders, the girls in their white flannel nightgowns formed a tight circle around the candle.

Eva gave them a moment to settle. “When I’m hungry and cold, it makes me feel better to think of the story of Bottomwobbles’ soup. Does that work for you, too?”

The girls looked at each other and chorused that they didn’t know the story.

“Don’t know the story of Bottomwobbles’ soup? Well then, you must listen.

“During the time that the geese occupied the forest of the school of St. François D’Assisi, food there became scarce. At first, Mother Swan’s boyfriend,
Monsieur
Ermine, brought gifts of food, but he proved to be an unreliable weasel. The wrens cried that they were hungry, for all they had to eat was watery soup and a few grains of corn. Sister Mouse, the cook, said she had nothing else to prepare. Mother Swan would not take food from others in the forest, who were all hungry too, and certainly would never ask the geese for help. As always, it was old Sister Tortoise who came up with a gem of an idea, without knowing it.

“Sister T told the wrens, ‘If you are hungry, my dears, take your mind off it by doing good works for another. Better yet, do good works for your enemy. Surely that spiritual nourishment will satisfy both soul and body.’

“Now one of the wrens there that day was named Zanzibar. As a new-hatched chick, she’d fallen from of her nest into the lap of Abracadabra, an old gypsy woman, passing below in an old gypsy wagon. Abracadabra took Zanzibar’s arrival as a good omen and decided to keep her. She called her Zanzibar because…well, she just looked like a Zanzibar type of bird. The gypsy taught the wren the arts of guile and cunning. When the old woman accidentally turned herself into a salamander one day, Zanzibar flew off and eventually nested at St. François.

“So there Zanzibar was with the others that day, considering Sister Tortoise’s suggestion. Suddenly, an idea struck our wily gypsywren. She twittered, ‘That’s it. We’ll take Sister’s advice! Follow me.’ Out of the tree of St. François, Zanzibar and the rest of the wrens flew like a storm of bats. Straight to Herr Bottomwobbles, the goose in charge of that part of the forest.

“Bottomwobbles was dozing behind a large desk when the wrens swept in. He woke and pretended to have been thinking.

“Zanzibar hopped onto the corner of the desk and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir. We wrens wondered if we could show our pleasure at having your company here in the woods by running errands for you.’

“Bottomwobbles snorted, ‘What errands might tiny wrens run for geese?’

“Now Zanzibar knew that geese were fat and lazy and preferred sipping beer to working. ‘I thought we might deliver food from your kitchens to the geese stationed throughout the forest. We’re quick on the wing and food delivery is too menial a task for geese.’

“‘That is certainly true. Hmmm. Yes, little wrens, if it would please you to shuttle sacks of food around the forest for my geese, I will allow it.’

“And so, that is just what they did. But on their flights, the wrens dropped a bit of their load down the chimney of each of the forest creatures. Crumbs of bread, pieces of meat, peas, beans, onions, and potatoes. The dropped food fell into the soup pots boiling in the hearths. And at every table in every home that evening, the scene was like that at the table of the school of St. François—as the soup was ladled into the bowls of each sister and each wren, everyone thought what Mother Swan said. ‘My, Sister Mouse, your soup smells especially good this evening.’ Mother took a sip. ‘Oh my, Sister, this soup tastes so rich and hearty. However did you make it?’

“‘As I always do these days, Mother—with just the few grains I’m able to get.’

“‘Then your culinary skills have become extraordinary, for this soup is fit for a princess.’ The wrens all chirped their agreement.

“From that day on, the soup served at St. François has been called Bottomwobbles’ soup. And it was the wrens’ example that inspired St. Nicholas to drop gifts down the chimneys of good children the world over every year on his feast day.”

That night, Bébé wrote by moonlight in her diary about Bottomwobbles’ soup and how “a story, for a few hours at least, banished hunger, sent it to stand outside, shivering alone in the courtyard.” And even years later, married to a Swiss banker and a mother of six, she called every soup she made, no matter the recipe,
Bottomwobbles
.

Eva continued her walks, even as cold weather closed in. And the winter of 1941-42 was a mean one, with unusually strong winds, low temperatures, and deep snowfall.

One crisp, bright February morning began as had many before it, with Eva hiking the hills rolling up from the Meuse valley. There had been snow on the ground for two weeks. The day before, the temperature rose above freezing and it rained. Overnight the north wind swept back. Rain turned to sleet and heavy, wet snow turned glassy.

Eva went out that morning, notebook in hand with Caspar in the lead, as always. Without much problem, she made it to the foot of the hills that overlook Lefebvre, the
Pont de Pierre,
the highway, and the rail line. She followed the dog up the path—step after tentative step. About halfway up, as Eva reached into her pocket for her pencil, her feet slipped from under her and she was falling. Falling ever so slowly. As in a dream. On the way down, she struggled to free her hand, but she couldn’t pull it from the coat pocket. She kept falling, falling, falling. And she had all the time in the world, but it wasn’t enough, for she couldn’t free the hand that would save her. Eva used her left hand to break the fall. It absorbed some of the shock as it crashed through the icy surface, jamming the wrist. Her body continued its downward hurtle, and she was tumbling when her brow hit the ice with a thud. The right side of Eva’s face crashed through the snow’s frozen crust. Its broken edges were cold and sharp. As cruel as skin is gentle. Eva went limp. A rag doll body sliding down the hill. Slowly. Finally, she came to rest, the fingers of her tardy right hand still clutching the pencil caught in her pocket.

Eva lay there, cheek on ice, for a moment. Several moments. Stunned. On the edge of consciousness. Caspar dashed back to his mistress, barking.

When Eva raised her head and opened her eyes, she was startled by the large stain on the snow. Red. Living. Part of her. She could feel her heart throbbing in the gash over her eyebrow. The cut burned, like a razor’s slice. Around the burn, her forehead and eyebrow were numb. Drops of thick red blood spattered onto the snow. Eva lay on her right side. As she moved her left hand to the injury, pain shot from her wrist—already stiff. She touched the gash. Burning, numb
.
She pulled her right hand free. Her shoulder ached. She wiped thick, fiery blood from above her brow with a handkerchief and pressed a handful of snow to the burning wound.

“Perhaps we’ll go back now, Caspie,” Eva said. “In a moment I’ll feel better.” She noticed the blood splotch on the ice and quickly looked away. “I’ll be fine in a minute or two.”

Caspar tried to lick her wound, but Eva turned her head. He licked her ear. She pushed herself up slowly. Caspar licked the blood on the ice, as if that could remove the injury.

Eva moved unsteadily down the hill. It was like walking on a moving train.

“Come on, boy. Come, Caspar!”

It was snowing again.

“The cold air helps,” she whispered to herself. “You can do it, Eva.”

She was fine until the trickle of blood reached the corner of her mouth. The taste of it set the world under her feet spinning again.

Eva panicked. Her legs felt weak. She knew she was going down again.

She sank to her knees.

To hands and knees.

Panting.

“Caspie, it’s cold, I can’t feel my toes but my brow’s on fire..”

Eva forced her eyes open. She wondered how it had suddenly become so dark.

She sank flat to the snow and closed her eyes.