The Sisters of St. Croix (12 page)

He was still speaking. “I understand that you run a hospital here.”

Mother Marie-Pierre jerked her mind back to what he was saying and managed a nod. “Yes, Major, we have a small hospital here for the local people. Just two wards.”

“And that you have an orphanage.”

He obviously did his homework before coming here, Mother Marie-Pierre thought. “Not really an orphanage, not as it used to be…” She almost added “after the war…” but bit the words back just in time. “Yes, we do still look after some children,” she agreed, “but only six at present.” She called, “Come in,” with some relief in response to a knock at the door.

Sister Clothilde, one of the novices, came into the room carrying a tray with a pot of coffee on it, and a tiny jug of milk. She set it down on the table and, with a nervous bob of her head, left the room.

Mother Marie-Pierre took time pouring the coffee, and then handed the major a cup. “I’m afraid we have no sugar, and only a little milk. We do have a cow, but we keep her milk for the children.”

The major accepted his coffee, but turned down the milk. He took a sip and regretted having any at all. It was bitter and there were certainly no coffee beans in its make-up. He put the cup down beside him. “Does the convent have a home farm?” he asked.

Mother Marie-Pierre shook her head. “No, not really. We grow our own vegetables as best we can, and we have a cow that is kept with Monsieur Danot’s herd. He sends over our milk each day, but there is little enough of it.” Mother Marie-Pierre decided not to mention the few hens that scratched about in the yard behind the kitchen and were Sister Marie-Marc’s pride and joy. She had no illusions as to what would happen to them if the Germans decided they needed eggs or a bird for the pot. The cow would have to take her chance with the rest of Monsieur Danot’s herd.

“I should like to see your convent and your hospital,” Major Thielen said, abandoning the coffee after a second cautious mouthful. It was not a request, but a demand, and he set down his cup and got to his feet. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show me round.”

Mother Marie-Pierre put down her own cup and stood up. “Of course, Major, but you do realise that though this is a religious community, it is a working one.”

She took him first to the hospital. All the beds were full, for despite the passage of time since the raid on the refugees, several of the badly injured were still being cared for and there were always patients from the surrounding area. She introduced him to Sister Eloise, who greeted him briskly and then excused herself, apparently entirely unimpressed by the German uniform.

“Yes, please carry on with what you’re doing, Sister,” said Mother Marie-Pierre, glad that the elderly but efficient sister had shown no fear of their unwanted visitor. “I will show the major round.”

They walked into the first ward, where ten beds were lined up, five on each side. It was clear that many of the patients were recovering from wounds rather than illnesses. Several were still heavily bandaged, and there had been more than one amputation. Major Thielen looked round the room. Two nuns were busy preparing to change the dressing for an old man whose right arm ended at the elbow, one sister bustling up the ward with a trolley of bandages, ointments and creams and a bowl of warm water, the other drawing a screen round the patient’s bed.

“What happened to these?” demanded the major.

“These?” Mother Marie-Pierre also looked round the room, as if seeing the patients for the first time. “Oh, these were refugees. They were bombed on the road.”

“They must have been in a military column,” the major said stiffly.

“If they were, we found no one in uniform,” Mother Marie-Pierre said calmly. There was no accusation in her voice, but the major turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out of the ward.

Mother Marie-Pierre paused a moment to speak with Sister Eloise. “Where is Marthe?” she asked softly.

“I sent her up to the children’s rooms, like you said.”

Mother Marie-Pierre nodded and followed the major outside.

He was staring out across the kitchen garden, where three nuns, their sleeves tucked up to their shoulders, were labouring on a vegetable patch.

“Do you sell your produce in the village?” he asked waving at the rows of potatoes the nuns were digging.

“No, certainly not,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied. “We have barely enough to feed ourselves and those in the hospital.”

The major nodded and continued to watch for a moment or two, as if estimating the yield of the garden, before turning back to the waiting nun. “So, we will go on.”

“The operating theatre and the women’s ward are the other end of the building,” she volunteered, anxious to move away from any area that might encourage the major to return and load his supply lorries. “Would you like to see those?”

“No, I would like to see inside the main building.”

“That is where the sisters live,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly.

“And I would like to see their quarters.” Major Thielen had been wrong-footed by the sight of the patients in the ward and their reason for being there. He was determined to wrest the initiative back from this cool-eyed nun.

Mother Marie-Pierre shrugged, as if it were of no great consequence and led the way back indoors. She showed him the kitchen and scullery where Sister Elisabeth and Sister Marie-Marc were preparing the midday meal. She led him through to the refectory where the long tables were already laid up. A single glance was enough for him there and they went on, up the stairs to the dormitory corridor where each sister had her cell.

Without invitation he opened the door of one of these and peered inside. His eyes took in the narrow bed, the locker at its side and the prie-dieu and the crucifix that were its sole furnishings.

“They are all the same,” remarked Reverend Mother quietly. “None of us has more than any other.” She rested her hand on the door of the next room as if to open it, but the major shook his head. These rooms, cold and bleak even in the heat of summer, were not what he was looking for. He stared down the corridor for a moment. Mother Marie-Pierre thought of her aunt, old Sister St Bruno, bedridden in the room at the end and hoped that he had seen enough. It would upset the elderly nun if a man came striding into her room where she was propped up in bed dressed only in a nightgown and shawl. But he appeared to have lost interest in the rest of the rooms on this passage.

“And the chapel?” he asked abruptly. “Where is that?”

“Please, come this way.” Mother Marie-Pierre guided him back through the convent to the chapel. There was no service at this time of day, but she opened the great west door softly and then stood aside. The major stepped in and then came to an abrupt halt, staring in surprise.

The chapel was warm and quiet, the scent of incense lingering heavily in the air, the sanctuary light glowing red in its hanging lamp-holder. The sun shone in through the stained glass in the south wall, casting patterns on the stone floor and striking fire from the ornate gold reredos. It was not this, however, that made the man halt in his tracks, but the sight of a nun, lying prone before the altar, cruciform; her arms outstretched, her legs arrow-straight, her forehead on the stone floor, her face concealed by her hood. He stared at her at length, and then crossing himself backed out of the door.

“What is she doing?” he asked awkwardly, as the reverend mother closed the door behind them.

“Penance,” replied the nun.

He looked startled. “Penance? Penance for what?”

“I have no idea,” answered Mother Marie-Pierre. “That would be between her, her confessor and God.”

“And do you all do that?” The major’s questions had changed character. Now he was asking because he was intrigued.

“There is always someone watching in the chapel,” Mother Marie-Pierre explained. “Our Lord is never alone. The penance is not always the same.” She smiled at him. “You understand, Major. You’re a Catholic yourself.” She had seen him bless himself and knew that it was true. His action had been instinctive and belonged to a man who had learned to cross himself as a child.

The major made no answer to this but said sharply, “Where is your orphanage?”

Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. She had hoped to get away without bringing the major face-to-face with the children, but she knew it would be pointless to refuse and probably dangerous to show reluctance. Reasonable as this German officer seemed to be, he was just that, a German officer.

“They are in the far wing,” she said, “so that they don’t disturb the sisters at their prayers.” She led the way back through the main part of the building and then along yet another passage to a stout door set in the stone wall.

As she opened this, they were greeted by the wails of a baby and the sound of children’s voices. Sister Danielle was sitting at the table encouraging a small girl to eat her lunch, while a young girl of about eighteen was walking up and down the room trying to pacify the crying baby.

Sister Danielle looked up and at once came to her feet. “Mother,” she said, her eyes wide at the sight of the German. “Can we help you?”

“Not at all, Sister,” replied Reverend Mother. “Major Thielen was interested to see the work we do with the orphaned children.” She turned to the major. “We have four other children at present, but they are at their lessons with Sister Marie-Joseph, in the next room.”

At that moment the baby gave a great burp and was sick all over the shoulder of the girl who carried her.

“Marthe, take Anne to the nursery and change her,” ordered Sister Danielle, “put her down for her nap and then get cleaned up yourself.”

The young girl ducked her head, and muttering “Yes, Sister,” hurried from the room, still clutching the baby.

“Who is that?” asked the major as the door closed behind her.

“The girl?” Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “That is Marthe. She comes in every day from the village. We are trying to train her as a nursery nurse.”

“I would like to see the other children,” the major announced suddenly. “Have them brought in here.”

“They are working with Sister Marie-Joseph…” began Mother Marie-Pierre, but he cut her short with a wave of his hand.

“I will see them now.” He indicated Catherine watching him wide-eyed from the table where Sister Danielle was still trying to get her to finish a bowl of stew. “It must be time for their lunch. They will be glad to finish their lessons early.”

Sister Danielle half got to her feet, but Reverend Mother waved her back. “You finish giving Catherine her lunch, Sister,” she said. “I’ll go and fetch the others.” She opened the door at the far side of the room and disappeared for a few moments.

While he waited Major Thielen looked across at Catherine. “How old is she?” he asked Sister Danielle.

“We think she’s five,” replied the nun, continuing to offer the child a spoonful of stew without looking up at him.

“You don’t know? Where did she come from? What happened to her parents?”

Before Sister Danielle could answer, Mother Marie-Pierre came back into the room with the four children. Paulette came first holding David tightly by the hand, followed by Jean-Pierre and Monique.

“Children,” Mother Marie-Pierre said softly, “this is Major Thielen. Say bonjour.”

In the brief moment outside the room, Reverend Mother had warned the children that there was a German soldier who wanted to meet them. “Just say bonjour to him, and answer politely if he asks you anything.” One look at David told her that he was petrified, all colour had drained from his face and his mouth was open as if in a silent scream. “Paulette, take David’s hand,” instructed the nun. “Be a good boy, David, and hold Paulette’s hand.” She dared not leave David in the other room. The major already knew that there were four more children and she did not want him to wonder why he was only meeting three.

There was a muttered chorus of “Bonjour, Monsieur” from the three other children, but David said nothing, his eyes fixed in obvious terror on the German soldier standing in front of him, then with a wail, he ripped his hand free from Paulette’s grasp and dashed screaming from the room. The three older children stared after him and Catherine, still sitting at the table, began to cry. Sister Marie-Joseph, who had been coming in through the door as David thrust past her, turned at once and followed him out.

Mother Marie-Pierre stepped forward and closed the door firmly behind them and turning said to the startled major, “I’m sorry, Major, but he has just lost his father in this war and is afraid.” She turned back to the three children who were standing rooted to the spot. “Go and wash your hands for lunch,” she directed, “and then Paulette, you can take Catherine out after her nap.”

Sister Danielle, taking this as her cue, gathered up the still weeping Catherine in her arms and swept her out of the room, shooing the older children out ahead of her.

Reverend Mother opened the door that led back into the main part of the convent and stood aside to let the major precede her. He seemed anxious enough to leave the schoolrooms and marched out in front of her. He made no comment about David’s outburst, and Mother Marie-Pierre found herself sending up a heartfelt prayer of thanks that he had not done so. She wanted no awkward questions about David. She had a prepared story of course, but she was not sure it would stand up to real scrutiny.

However, as they left the children’s wing and headed back to the main hall, he asked, “Why are the children not in school?”

“School is over for the summer,” Mother Marie-Pierre replied easily. “They will go back in the autumn, but in the meantime they practise their reading and numbers with Sister Marie-Joseph each day. She was a teacher before she joined us, and it does her good to keep her hand in.” She looked across at her unwelcome visitor and asked, “Is there anything else you wish to see, Major?”

“No, I have seen enough. I must tell you, Reverend Mother, that I am looking for a suitable billet for myself. The men are well accommodated in the village for now, and most of my officers will live at The Manor, but I want something separate.”

“Here?” Mother Marie-Pierre looked at him in undisguised amazement. “In the convent?”