“It is a blasphemy for a Jew to wear the habit of a Christian sister,” she cried. “I cannot believe you’ll sully these holy garments in such a way.”
Mother Marie-Pierre fought down her anger. “The garments are not holy, Sister,” she said. “They are simply clothes. But, with God’s help, they will protect Marthe from the Germans.”
When Sister Marie-Paul said nothing, simply tightening her expression, Mother Marie-Pierre went on. “The sooner she is safely in Paris the better, Sister. Mother Magdalene can take responsibility for her then.”
“We should not become involved in what is happening beyond the convent walls, Mother,” replied Sister Marie-Paul. “Our place is to nurse the sick in the hospital and to follow a life of prayer.”
“Certainly, Sister,” said Mother Marie-Pierre equably, “and to fight against evil wherever it rears its head. It cannot be right to send children like Margot to a camp somewhere in Germany.”
“She should have gone with her mother,” Sister Marie-Paul said. “Stayed with her family. There was no need to bring her here.”
Faced with Sister Marie-Paul’s intransigent attitude, Mother Marie-Pierre could only feel relieved that her novice mistress did not realise that three of the other children were also Jews. She sighed inwardly. “Well, they won’t be here for much longer, Sister, and you can relax again.”
“It’s very difficult when someone senior, like your novice mistress, is not in tune with your thinking,” Sarah confided to Aunt Anne later that evening. “I wonder how Mother Magdalene would have handled the situation.”
“Maybe more forcefully than you,” conceded her aunt, “but not necessarily better.”
“I’ve borrowed Sister Marie-Joseph’s papers for Marthe,” Sarah told her. “They might do at a pinch, one nun looks like another to the layman, but they won’t bear close scrutiny. I’ve nothing for little Margot. We’ll just have to pray we aren’t stopped.”
“You will all be constantly in my prayers,” her aunt assured her, as she clasped Sarah’s hands in farewell.
The farm cart lumbered away from the convent gate, pulled by a huge carthorse. There was no fuel for the farm truck, and even if there had been, Monsieur Danot would not have wasted it on taking a group of nuns and children to the station in Albert.
To reach the main road to Albert they had to pass through the village square. This was the part of the journey that Mother Marie-Pierre felt posed the most danger. Once they were clear of St Croix, there would probably be little interest in a group of nuns and children travelling from one convent to another, but should they be seen by Colonel Hoch, or even Major Thielen, questions would surely be asked. However, the risk had to be taken, there was no other practicable way to reach the Albert road.
Mother Marie-Pierre sat up beside Monsieur Danot and the rest of the party were crammed into the back. As they entered the square, Colonel Hoch emerged from the German headquarters. It was almost, Mother Marie-Pierre thought later, as if he had been lying in wait for them.
A sharp order from him had them halted and covered by the rifles of three of his men. The SS officer strode over and addressed her.
“What is this?” demanded Hoch. “Where are you going?”
Mother Marie-Pierre’s heart was pounding, her fear realised, but she managed to answer smoothly. “I am taking the children to our mother house in Paris, Colonel,” she replied. “The hospital is overflowing and so we are moving the children out to make more space.”
The colonel peered at the children and the two other nuns crowded into the back of the wagon. “Out!” he ordered. “All of you!”
There was no hesitation, Mother Marie-Pierre climbed down from the front and everyone else scrambled out of the back. Marthe, uncomfortable in her unaccustomed clothes, tripped and would have fallen if Sister Danielle hadn’t caught hold of her.
The colonel stared at her for a moment and she lowered her eyes, as Mother Marie-Pierre had told her to do if she were addressed by a German soldier, but the reverend mother could see that her hands were shaking as she clasped them together within the wide sleeves of her habit. Margot ran to her immediately and Marthe bent down to her, putting her arm round her, drawing her against her protectively. Colonel Hoch’s gaze moved across the other children as they stood grouped around Sister Danielle, who was carrying baby Anne Leon in her arms.
“And who are these?” he demanded.
Mother Marie-Pierre answered for them. “They are our orphans, Colonel. Our convent runs an orphanage as well as a hospital. They’ve lived with us ever since their parents died. I have their papers here if you wish to see them.” She made as if to produce papers for everyone, but the colonel ignored her; it was as if she hadn’t spoken.
“You,” he pointed. “What is your name?”
Jean-Pierre stared at him, wide-eyed with fear.
“Come on, boy.” Hoch took a step towards him. “What is your name?”
“Jean-Pierre,” muttered the boy, cowering back.
“Jean-Pierre what?”
“Jean-Pierre Malpas.”
“Well, Jean-Pierre Malpas, learn to speak when you’re spoken to.” Hoch turned and, with a jerk of his head, summoned one of his men. “Search this cart.”
The man climbed up into the back of the cart and heaved out all the luggage. “No one here, sir,” he said when all the baggage was strewn on the ground and the wagon was clearly empty.
“Look underneath,” ordered Hoch, and the soldier dutifully crept in underneath the cart.
“Nothing here, sir,” he said as he emerged.
Hoch glowered at them all before turning on his heel and going back into the town hall. The soldier slouched off after him.
“All right, children, let’s get our things back into the cart,” Mother Marie-Pierre said bracingly. “We don’t want to miss the train, do we?”
Everything was gathered up and put back into the wagon, and the children and the sisters climbed back on board.
“They’re looking for someone,” Mother Marie-Pierre said quietly to Jean Danot when he had whipped up the horse again and they were lumbering out of the village.
“Still haven’t found the two who escaped from the trucks,” grunted Jean. “They’ve been over my farm three times. Sticking bayonets into the hay bales weren’t enough. They pulled the whole lot out into the yard last time. It took me all day to get it safely back under cover again.”
“They searched the convent too,” said Reverend Mother. Only once though, she thought, so they might be back, and what would happen then? She had left the woman—her name was Simone—in the charge of Sister Eloise, and for the time being there was nothing more that Mother Marie-Pierre could do for her. Now she had to concentrate on getting the children safely to Paris.
Silence rested between them. Jean Danot was a man of few words at the best of times, he had no time for idle gossip… dangerous gossip, he thought it. You couldn’t trust anyone, nowadays, not even nuns.
The train for Amiens belched its way into the station and Mother Marie-Pierre and Sister Danielle got their small flock on board. Marthe, still moving awkwardly in her habit, had been given charge of Margot. It would give her something to concentrate on during the journey, Mother Marie-Pierre thought. It was Marthe and Margot who were at the greatest risk. They were the only ones without valid papers.
The train was crowded and the little group crammed themselves into a compartment, the smaller children sitting on the nuns’ knees.
The train was slow and stopped several times, so that when they finally drew into Amiens it was late and they had missed their connection.
“What shall we do now, Mother?” asked Sister Danielle anxiously, Anne still held in her arms, and Catherine clutching the skirt of her habit.
Reverend Mother looked round the bustling station, and then took them into the waiting room. “Wait here,” she said, “and I will find out if there is another train today.”
There wasn’t, and when she
asked the stationmaster if they might all stay in the waiting room for the night, his reply was not encouraging. “Sorry, Sister, you’d be breaking curfew.”
Mother Marie-Pierre had forgotten about the curfews imposed by the Germans. They had little relevance to the convent as none of the nuns were ever out at night. “What time is that?” she asked and he told her it was eleven o’clock at present.
“I see,” she said. “Then we’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. Is there a pension, or hotel which might have room for us all?”
“You could try the Lion d’Or,” the man suggested doubtfully, “they might have room.” He gave the reverend mother directions and, with her little brood in tow, she set off through the streets. The Lion d’Or had no room. The proprietor had taken one look at the group on his doorstep and raised his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. He regretted he had no room for such a party.
“Then perhaps you could suggest somewhere else.” Mother Marie-Pierre fought to keep her voice polite. The man shrugged again and she turned away in frustration. As she did so, she noticed a church on the corner of the next street. Surely they would be able to seek shelter there.
“Come along,” she said briskly, and led the way to the church. Once inside she sat them all down. “You are all to wait here,” she told them. “I will go to the priest and tell him of our plight.”
The priest’s house was not difficult to find, and when she knocked on the door she was welcomed by the housekeeper.
“Why, Sister, come on in,” she said when Mother Marie-Pierre had told her that she needed to speak to the priest. “Father Bernard is in his study. I’ll find him for you.” She showed the nun into a sitting room and leaving her there went in search of Father Bernard. When he arrived, Mother Marie-Pierre explained that she was taking a party of orphans to the mother house in Paris, but that their train had been delayed and they were now stranded in Amiens. She passed lightly over the reason for their journey. The less information she gave the better for all.
The priest took in the situation at once. “You must all come here,” he said. “It will be a bit of a squash, but we shall manage. Do go and fetch them while I warn Madame Papritz that we have guests.”
With great relief, Mother Marie-Pierre collected her charges from the church and brought them across to the priest’s house.
Madame Papritz was as welcoming as Father Bernard, and she soon had the children sitting round her kitchen table. While she fed them bread and honey, Father Bernard took the three nuns upstairs to a bedroom at the front of the house, which offered a sagging double bed.
“The children can sleep in here,” he said. “It’s a bit small, I’m afraid, and there aren’t any more beds, but I’ve plenty of blankets. You sisters can sleep in the room next door.” He opened another bedroom door. This contained only a narrow single bed. Father Bernard sighed. “There used to be two of us in the parish, but Father Gilbert went into the army as a chaplain. He didn’t come back, God rest his soul.”
“If you don’t mind, Father,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “I think it would be better if we split up and had some children in each room. Then if they wake in the night, they’ll be with someone they know.”
“Arrange it entirely as you wish, Mother,” the priest said cheerfully. “I’ll find you some blankets and then when the children are settled, perhaps you would join me for the evening meal.”
How different from Father Michel in St Croix, thought Mother Marie-Pierre later, as she lay on a blanket on the floor with Jean-Pierre and David sleeping top-to-tail in the single bed beside her. He would never have put himself out in this way.
Madame Papritz found breakfast for them all before they set off once more to catch the train to Paris, so that the children were all well fed and comfortable for the rest of their journey.
Father Bernard said brief prayers with them and then gave them a blessing, but as they passed out into the street, he held Mother Marie-Pierre back for a moment.
“Mother,” he said quietly. “You must remind the young sister, Sister Marie-Joseph, is it? You must remind her to answer to her name… and teach her the Lord’s Prayer, if nothing else. Otherwise, she will give you all away.”
Mother Marie-Pierre held his eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Father. I will speak to her.”
“Go with God, Mother, and may He keep you all safe.” He raised his hand. “If ever you find yourself in need of somewhere to stay in Amiens,” he added in a soft voice, “please remember that you will always be welcome here, you and whoever is travelling with you.”
Mother Marie-Pierre took his hand. “Thank you, Father. I’ll remember.”
The nuns shepherded the children onto the Paris train and settled them into a compartment. It had been empty and as they filled it, no one else tried to get in with them. Several peered in through the door, but passed on down the corridor when they saw nuns and children packed into the small space.
At last the train started and Mother Marie-Pierre felt herself relax. They were on the last leg of their journey. When they reached the Gare du Nord they would be only a short walk away from the convent, safety and the commonsense of Mother Magdalene. Sister Danielle was singing rhymes with Monique, Catherine and Margot; Anne was sitting comfortably on Marthe’s knee playing with the cross she wore round her neck, and the boys were peering out of the window at the countryside rushing past. Mother Marie-Pierre closed her eyes, soothed by the rhythm of the train.
She awoke with a jolt as the door was hauled open with a loud rattle and two men came in. They were not in uniform, but there was no doubt that they were German and official.
“Papers,” growled the first one and held out his hand towards Mother Marie-Pierre. The singing stopped abruptly and the three little girls stared fearfully at the two men. Paulette looked anxiously at Marthe and then Mother Marie-Pierre, and the boys turned from the window, the colour draining from David’s face. Marthe ducked her head and began rocking baby Anne in her arms. The child crowed with delight at the sight of the men and held out a chubby hand to them.
Mother Marie-Pierre calmly took the papers she carried for all of them and handed them over. Please God, she prayed silently as they began to look at them, let me think of the right words to say when they ask about Marthe and Margot.
She saw them glance at her own papers first, then Sister Danielle’s, then Sister Marie-Joseph’s. His interest seemed only cursory at first, then he turned to Mother Marie-Pierre. “You’re the reverend mother, right?”
Mother Marie-Pierre agreed that she was.
“And where are you all going then?”
“I’m taking these children home, to the order’s mother house in Paris,” she replied.
“Why’s that?” he demanded.
“They are orphans, Monsieur. We run an orphanage there.”
The man grunted. “Which of you is Sister Danielle?” he asked, looking over to the other two nuns.
“I am.” Sister Danielle raised her hand.
“So you’re Sister Marie-Joseph,” he said to Marthe.
Marthe kept her face close to the baby squirming in her arms. “Yes, Monsieur,” she whispered.
“Just a minute.” The second man had been scrutinising the children’s papers. Mother Marie-Pierre felt her heart give a jolt as he went on. “We’re one set of papers short here.” He looked at the children. “Answer your names,” he said gruffly.
Mother Marie-Pierre decided it was time to speak. “You are quite right, Monsieur, we have no papers for little Margot Lenoir.” She indicated the child who was huddled against Sister Danielle. “She has only just come to us. Her father died last year in the retreat to Dunkerque, her mother last week in a fire. Her papers burned with the house. We have no replacements for her yet. We shall apply for those when she is living in the convent.”
“You should not have travelled without them,” said the man eyeing her suspiciously. “A fire? Sounds rather convenient. How do I know it’s the truth?”
At that moment there was a noise from further down the corridor, some shouting, the sound of a shot and the train began screeching to a halt. Although it had not been travelling particularly fast, the carriages swayed violently as the brakes locked and the two boys, standing by the window, were thrown across the compartment, knocking Margot off Sister Danielle’s knee. The little girl began to cry, but her distress was forgotten as another shot rang out from further up the train.
The two men spun round and out into the corridor where a thin man, with blood streaming down his face, tried to force his way past them. There were more cries from behind him and with a terrified glance over his shoulder, he gave the men a violent shove and tried to open the door of the still moving train. The two men staggered against each other for a moment and then went after him, one grabbing at him to stop him from jumping from the train, the other drawing a gun from his pocket.
The fugitive forced the door open and without a second glance behind him flung himself out as the man raised his pistol and fired. The train finally ground to a halt, its wheels screeching against the track in protestation and immediately the two men—Gestapo, as Mother Marie-Pierre had recognised them to be—leapt out after the fleeing man. More men shoved their way along the corridor, and jumping down onto the line fanned out in search of the fugitive. There was the sound of more shooting before Mother Marie-Pierre slid the compartment door closed, and turned to her white-faced companions.
“Whoever that poor soul was, he saved us from the Gestapo,” she murmured.
“Were they Gestapo, Mother?” Sister Danielle asked softly.
“Almost certainly, Sister.” She smiled at the children. “Now then, guess what kind Madame Papritz gave me before we left.”
Paulette, old enough to realise the danger they had been in, tried to sound interested. “I don’t know, Mother. What?”
“Some pain d’épice!” She produced the gingerbread from her bag and as the children watched in delight, broke it into five pieces. The children took it hungrily and were happily munching when the train jolted and began to move forward again. An hour later than scheduled, it steamed into the Gare du Nord.
The Sisters of St. Croix Page 16
