The Sisters of St. Croix (25 page)

“But the Germans certainly will,” Mother Marie-Pierre pointed out. “The cellars will be the first place they search if they raid again.” She shook her head at the young man. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you won’t be able to stay here very long. If you were caught here, the whole convent would suffer.”

“I understand,” he said. “I’d better move on then, while it’s still dark.”

Sister Marie-Marc watched their faces as they spoke, unable to follow the conversation in English, but when she saw the airman get to his feet she made as if to push him down again. She turned to her superior. “Surely you are not letting him go, Mother? We must help him get away.”

Reverend Mother repeated what she had said about the Germans searching and the little nun nodded. “But the Boche will not come again,” she asserted. “That Gestapo man, he thinks he has frightened us, so we will not help anyone else.”

“I hope you’re right, Sister,” said the reverend mother, “but we can’t rely on that.”

“This boy will be safe for a few days while we think of a plan,” said Sister Marie-Marc stoutly. “If they find him, Mother, they will shoot him.”

“If they find him here, they may shoot us all,” returned her superior dryly. “There are several sisters who would be most unhappy to know he was here.”

“Then we will not tell them,” replied Sister Marie-Marc with a shrug.

“Let’s have a look at the rest of the cellar,” said Mother Marie-Pierre, and picking up the oil lamp they had brought down with them, she led the way. Together they explored the underground space. It was dark and musty, smelling of damp. Some parts were little more than caves hewn from the rock, others, with old wooden doors, were more like walk-in cupboards. At the far end of the cellar they came to one of these. The lamp showed stone walls and a flagged floor; there were some slatted shelves where apples might once have been stored, otherwise the room was empty, but it did have a stout door to close it off.

“This might do,” suggested Sister Marie-Marc hopefully.

“It’s the furthest from the door,” remarked the airman, peering into the dark corner, “but it don’t smell as musty, somehow.”

Reverend Mother sniffed the air. There was a coolness to it and it certainly smelt fresher. She held the lamp higher to cast the light further and the flame flickered within its chimney.

“There’s a draught,” exclaimed the airman. “Here, give me the lamp.”

He took it from her and held it up above his head. The flame continued to flicker, but by its light they saw there was an iron grating set into the ceiling.

“Must be to let air circulate in the cellar,” said Terry Ham as he peered up at it. It was clearly overgrown, choked with vegetation, no light penetrated, but fresh air seeped through, dispelling the mustiness of the air below. “I reckon I could loosen that if I had a crowbar, then if anyone comes poking about down here, I can nip up and out sharpish.”

“That depends on where it comes out,” pointed out Mother Marie-Pierre. “You could climb straight into the arms of whoever is waiting above.”

Sister Marie-Marc thought for a moment, trying to orientate herself. “It must extend beyond the walls of the building as it is open to the outside air,” she said. “Maybe it comes up in the courtyard.”

“Well, we can’t go and look now,” said Reverend Mother. “Tomorrow you can search, Sister, while you are seeing to the hens. In the meantime,” she turned back to the airman, “you must stay down here, in this furthest corner of the cellar.” She looked the young man in the eye. “Under no circumstances are you to come out of this part of the cellar, is that understood?”

His eyes held hers as he replied. “Yes, I understand.”

“Sister Marie-Marc will bring you food and water and a bucket for… your needs.” Reverend Mother looked away in some embarrassment as she said this, as did the young man.

“All right,” he mumbled. “Thanks.”

“I will come down again tomorrow night and we’ll decide what, if anything, we can do for you.” She turned briskly to Sister Marie-Marc and explained what was needed. “Make sure you are not seen, Sister. The fewer people who know about Flight Sergeant Ham the better.”

“My name’s Terry,” he said.

Mother Marie-Pierre smiled. “Well, Terry. We’ll do our best for you.”

When she had regained the privacy of her own cell Mother Marie-Pierre lay on her bed and considered what she could do. Clearly Terry Ham could not stay in the convent for more than a day, it was too dangerous for everybody, but where could he go? How was he going to get home to England? Wouldn’t it be better if he gave himself up to the Germans? He’d be a prisoner of war, after all, not a spy. They wouldn’t shoot a prisoner of war, they’d just send him to a prison camp. Wouldn’t they? If he surrendered to Major Thielen he’d be all right, wouldn’t he? Then she thought of Colonel Hoch and shivered.
He
might do anything.

If only I had someone to discuss it with, she thought, as her mind churned with worry and indecision. Aunt Anne maybe, but she was an old lady and would probably tell her to do what she thought best. She needed someone outside the convent, but there was no one, no one she could trust anyway. If only Father Michel were a stronger man, she could go to him, but after this evening’s visit she knew that was hopeless; she already knew what his advice would be.

If only he were more like Father Bernard in Amiens, she thought. Now there was someone you could trust. Mother Marie-Pierre felt her spirits lift a little. If I could only get Terry to Father Bernard, she thought, he’d know what to do.

For the next hour she lay in bed, considering and rejecting plans for Terry Ham’s escape, and only slipped into a fitful sleep as the rising bell rang out through the convent, calling the sisters to matins.

“I would like to speak to everyone after breakfast,” she told Sister Marie-Paul to pre-empt any comment. “Please take the meal, and I will see you in the recreation room when you have all finished.”

Sister Marie-Paul inclined her head. “Yes, Mother, of course.”

Leaving the sisters to go into the refectory, Mother Marie-Pierre went to the kitchen, and, collecting Sister St Bruno’s tray, carried it up to her. As the old lady ate her bread and honey her niece told her everything that had happened since she had left the convent three days earlier with the Jewish children. Then she reached the discovery of the English airman in the cellar. “Of course Sister Marie-Marc did right to hide him, at least
I
think she did, but what am I to do with him now? I wish I had somewhere to send him, as I did with the children.”

“Well, I think you may have,” her aunt said. “Why not send him to this Father Bernard in Amiens? He helped you before, and clearly he knew what you were doing then. Maybe he will help again.”

“He might, I suppose.” Sarah sounded doubtful. “I did think of him, but how on earth do I get Terry to him? How can he travel without papers? He will be picked up at once. And supposing Father Bernard turns him away?”

“Do you think he will?”

Sarah considered for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think so, but it will put Father Bernard in danger as well. I don’t know if that is justified simply because he didn’t give me and the children away last time. Anyway, I still don’t know how to get him there.”

“As you did with Marthe,” replied her aunt.

“Marthe?” Sarah stared at her. “But Marthe went disguised as one of us.”

“So she did; so could he.”

“But he’s a man.”

“Indeed he is,” replied Aunt Anne patiently, “but put him in a nun’s habit and who is to know it? How big is he? Does he have a moustache? A beard?”

That drew an unwilling laugh from Sarah. “No, he doesn’t have either.”

“Is he tall?”

“No, quite small actually.” Sarah thought for a moment and saw there might be a possibility here. “But where will I get a habit from? Sister Marie-Paul isn’t going to give me another. It was bad enough last time, when it was for a girl, and someone we knew. She would consider it sacrilege for a man to wear it. Anyway,” Sarah looked a little guiltily at her aunt, “you know, I don’t really trust her. She says we shouldn’t get involved with secular things. I don’t think I can rely on her to keep the secret anymore.”

“There’s mine,” suggested Aunt Anne.

Sarah stared at her. “What did you say?”

“There’s my habit. I don’t get up much these days, so I don’t need it for a while. I’ll just stay in bed, or in my room anyway.”

Sarah’s eyes flicked to the habit hanging on the back of the cell door. Sister St Bruno had been tall and though she had shrunk since she’d had to take to her bed, the habit was quite long. As Terry Ham was not in any way a big man, he might fit into it.

“He couldn’t go by himself,” Sarah said musingly. “Someone would have to go with him to do the talking. He doesn’t speak any French. And he’d need papers.”

“What did you do about papers for Marthe?”

“I used Sister Marie-Joseph’s.”

“Then use them again.”

“He doesn’t look anything like Sister Marie-Joseph,” Sarah laughed.

“Very little of him will show,” pointed out her aunt. “And, with luck, all people will see is a nun.”

Sarah considered the idea. It was on the face of it quite outlandish, disguising a grown man as a young nun, and yet the very absurdity of it meant that there was an outside chance that it would work. People saw what they expected to see. Even so.

“I’ll think about it,” she said at length, getting to her feet. “We can’t do anything until I can speak with him again tonight.” She sighed. “In the meantime I must go and talk to the sisters. I have to tell them about Sister Eloise.”

“Remember what she said to you when you left her,” said her aunt quietly. “You must fight evil wherever you find it.”

“Are you suggesting Sister Marie-Paul is evil?” Sarah was startled.

“No,” replied her aunt sadly, “just misguided, but the results may be the same.”

Throughout the day Mother Marie-Pierre considered Sister St Bruno’s suggestion. Sometimes it seemed almost feasible and at others quite impossible. She had an opportunity to speak to Sister Marie-Marc, privately, before the midday meal, and was assured that their visitor had been supplied with all he would need for the day.

“I’ll come down and see him again when everyone has gone to bed,” Reverend Mother promised. “Then we’ll discuss his escape.”

By the time the convent was quiet, Mother Marie-Pierre had come to some sort of decision. She took Sister St Bruno’s habit, and, rolling it up under her arm, slipped quietly down the stairs to meet Sister Marie-Marc in the kitchen. Together they went into the cellar, carrying the oil lamp and a dish of stew for their guest.

“I am sorry you’ve been in the dark all day,” Mother Marie-Pierre said as she set the lamp on the floor and Sister Marie-Marc handed him the stew. “We simply couldn’t risk anyone seeing the light either from the outside, or if they came down into the cellar for something.”

“That’s all right, Sister,” Terry said, and turned his attention to the food. When he had finished, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “So, what next?”

“I have an idea for getting you away from here,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre, “but it depends on several things if it is going to work.”

“OK. Shoot!”

So, Mother Marie-Pierre explained her plan. “One of the sisters will go with you, as you don’t speak French. The story will be that you are going to the mother house in Paris.”

“On a train?” Terry looked doubtful. “What about papers and that?”

“You’ll have the ones that belong to one of our sisters,” Mother Marie-Pierre told him. “But none of this will work if you don’t fit into this.” She held out the folded habit.

Terry stared open-mouthed. “Me? Wear that?”

“Try it on now,” instructed Mother Marie-Pierre. “Sister Marie-Marc and I will give you time to change, then we will come back and arrange your hood.” And before he could protest any further, Reverend Mother drew Sister Marie-Marc out of the little room and into the main part of the cellar.

“Did you discover where the grating is, Sister?” she asked as they waited for their guest to struggle into his disguise.

“Not in the courtyard, Mother. Nowhere in the courtyard is that overgrown. I think it must be outside the wall. I haven’t been able to find it yet, but I will keep looking.”

“You can come back now,” Terry said in a strangled whisper, and the two nuns returned to his cellar. He stood awkwardly in the lamplight, his face red with embarrassment. Mother Marie-Pierre fought down the urge to laugh, but Sister Marie-Marc had no such inhibitions and laughed aloud, making Terry’s young face crack into a grin. She was immediately hushed by her superior, and together they set about dressing the young airman in the wimple and hood, which would do more for his disguise than the habit itself.

When they had finished they stepped back to survey their handiwork and Sister Marie-Marc gasped. “It will work, Mother,” she breathed, and Mother Marie-Pierre, looking critically at the young nun before them, actually began to believe that it might. Terry Ham was young and his face, if they could get him a razor, would be smooth. The wimple covered his hair, his forehead and his ears, fitting snugly under his chin, the shape accentuating the roundness of his boyish face. The hood, with its starched peaks, stood away from his head, and the whole presented a rather coltish nun, but at a glance a nun, nevertheless.

“I’ll bring you a razor from the hospital,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “and then I think you’ll do.” She smiled at the look of dismay that still played on his face. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here and safely to Amiens. It will be a start.”

Terry looked down at his feet. “What about my boots?”

Reverend Mother looked at them, emerging from under the habit. That could be a problem. The nuns all wore black-laced shoes, but they were nothing like as heavy as the flying boots Terry was wearing.

“We’ve no ordinary shoes big enough for you,” she said. “You’ll just have to pull the habit down as far as you can, and try not to let them show. Keep your hands in your sleeves, too. They don’t look like a woman’s hands.”