“In the morning you will leave here. If you agree to further training, knowing what that training is to prepare you to do, then we shall be sending you elsewhere. If not, you will have several weeks at a particular establishment, before being posted to a new station to continue the work you were doing before you came here. In either case you will be bound by a pledge of secrecy, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Adelaide just managed to get the words out; her mouth felt dry and her heart was thumping.
“Right, well, I’ll see you in the morning for your answer.”
Adelaide returned to her billet and flung herself down on her bed.
A spy! she thought. They want me to be a spy.
Her heart turned over at the thought. Had she the courage to accept such a mission, to carry it through to the end whatever the consequences? Was this the sort of work Andrew had been thinking of when he said she had special talents? That she should be asked to use her French like this? “Is that what you’re doing yourself?” she murmured to her absent cousin. “I bet it is! I bet that’s where you’ve disappeared to!”
Cora did not reappear that evening, her bed was not slept in, though her kitbag was still stowed in the locker at the end of the room. She must have been sent somewhere else to make up her mind, Adelaide thought, so that we couldn’t discuss things between ourselves.
Adelaide did not sleep that night. She lay tossing and turning, Major Harper’s words churning round her brain. The very idea of being dropped into enemy occupied country terrified her. How could she possibly get away with what they were asking her to do? She remembered the bellowing sergeant. “Get it right first time or you’re dead meat!” Supposing she didn’t get it right? Supposing because of her other people were put at risk? Supposing she were to be captured, how would she cope? Would she be strong enough not to give away any information… under torture? A cold sweat broke out all over her and she lay shivering under the mound of blankets. I can’t do it! she thought in panic. I’m not brave enough! I’d be terrified all the time! I’d be useless.
She remembered what Andrew had once said, that everyone was afraid at times, but it was how they dealt with their fear that mattered. How would I deal with it? Adelaide wondered now. The major said I would need a cool head. Have I got a cool head? If I go how will I get there? Major Harper said something about being dropped behind enemy lines. Dropped? By parachute? Good God, I could never jump out of a plane!
“We need to boost the morale of the ordinary French people,” the major had said. Adelaide thought about her last trip to France, to visit her aunt, Sarah, in her convent. She wondered now how would the nuns be faring under the occupation? What about the children, the orphans living in their care? Where was Andrew? Had he really gone over there too?
The turmoil of her thoughts kept her from sleep and in the end she gave up. Switching off the light, she went to the window and pulled back the blackout. It was still dark outside, but she sat on a chair staring out into the night until the grey fingers of dawn crept across the sky. She watched a startling ray of sunshine, bursting from a sun as yet unseen, but piercing the greyness of the sky like a shining sword. Even as she watched, another joined it and the clouds were painted a brilliant orange, edged with gold. A new day dawning, a new beginning burgeoning with fresh hope. As the sun climbed upward from the horizon, first a half disc of burnished gold, then a full sovereign gleaming in the sky, Adelaide realised that to keep hope alive in a world at war, people had to do things they would never have considered doing before. They had to test their courage as they fought against the evil that threatened to engulf them all. Her eyes drank in the sunrise, and burned it into her brain. It would be a talisman to be conjured up in the future when her heart was low and here courage was failing. The dawn of hope, and she, Adelaide, must be part of it.
Three hours later both she and Cora were on a train to Scotland to begin their real training.
7
The black car had pulled to a halt in front of the convent door. The driver jumped out and going round to the passenger door, opened it smartly. A German officer stepped out. He was about thirty-five, tall and darkly good-looking, his uniform immaculate. He stood for a moment beside the car, his hand resting on the door, surveying the countryside spread below him before turning round to look up at the convent building. Mother Marie-Pierre watched him from a window, wondering what he was going to want and how she would deal with him. She saw him look at the door as if he expected it to open, but when it did not, he spoke to the driver, who still hovered at his side, and the man ran up the steps to pull heavily on the iron bell. The bell clanged loudly in the hall, and Sister Celestine, now back at her usual place in the portress’s office by the front door, looked up anxiously at Mother Marie-Pierre who still stood, concealed, beside the window. Reverend Mother could see the fear in the little nun’s eyes as they flickered back to the door.
“Go ahead, Sister,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, trying to quell the stab of fear she herself felt as she descended the stairs. “Let them in and show them into the parlour. Then come and fetch me. I’ll be in my office.” As she turned and went back along the corridor, she heard Sister Celestine open the grille in the great front door.
It was only moments later that there was a quiet knock on the office door. Mother Marie-Pierre rose from her prie-dieu and settled herself behind her desk before ringing the bell in answer to the knock. When the door opened, not only was Sister Celestine outside, but also the tall German officer.
“Mother…” began the little nun nervously, but the German swept past her and interrupted, in passable French.
“Good morning, Reverend Mother. I am Major Horst Thielen, Commanding Officer of the occupying force in St Croix.”
Mother Marie-Pierre got to her feet, and still standing behind her desk replied coolly, “Good morning, Major. If you had cared to wait, I would have come to meet you in the parlour.”
“I did not care to wait,” the major said, crossing the room uninvited and staring down into the little garden below.
Mother Marie-Pierre smiled reassuringly at Sister Celestine, who stood white-faced behind the major. “Thank you, Sister. Please would you ask Sister Clothilde to bring some coffee to us here.” She turned her attention back to the major as Sister Celestine scuttled away. “You will have a cup of coffee, Major?”
“Thank you.” The major did not smile but looked round the room, taking in its sparse furnishings; the desk, the prie-dieu with the crucifix above it. The only signs of comfort were the two armchairs that flanked the fireplace.
“Please, do sit down and tell me how I can help you.” Mother Marie-Pierre pointed to one of the chairs. She had decided that calm politeness was the best approach, as if this visitor were no more or less important than any other she might receive. She did not know why he had come, and she felt she must proceed with caution. She resented the cool assurance with which he had come striding into her office, but she had no intention of antagonising a man who might well have the power of life and death over them all. Neither would she show fear, however. She would revert to her earliest training as Miss Sarah Hurst and treat him with the cool civility one accorded to those to whom one would rather not have been introduced.
“We have just arrived in the village, Reverend Mother,” he said. “I am making myself acquainted with the surrounding area.” As he spoke, she looked at him. Good-looking, she supposed, with dark eyes, and a straight nose above a rather thin-lipped mouth; a cruel mouth she decided, and then gave herself a mental shake. How could she possibly know if he were cruel or not, simply from his mouth? Or was it his eyes, not the warm velvety brown of a generous man, but the cold, coal-black eyes of a hunter.
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 h
ad 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.
The Sisters of St. Croix Page 9
