The Sisters of St. Croix

by Diney Costeloe

  Captain Gregoire got to his feet, his cigarette still hanging from his lip, and picked up a ring of keys from the desk in front of him. “In here,” he growled, and Mother Marie-Pierre followed him through a door into a passage beyond. Several doors led off this and Gregoire paused outside one. He raised the flap on a spy hole and peered in, then he turned a key in the lock and let Mother Marie-Pierre pass him into the cell. It contained nothing but a low stone platform to serve as a bed, and an open drain in the corner.

  Sister Eloise was sitting on the bed, but as Mother Marie-Pierre came into the room, she stood up shakily. Her habit was torn and dirty, her hood gone, so that her hair, grey and short-cropped, was exposed as it had not been since she had been professed. Her face was bruised, her lip split and one eye nearly closed. Without the dignity of her wimple she might have seemed diminished, to have dwindled into a little old lady, but the light in her eyes was undimmed.

  “Mother!” she cried as she saw who was there. “I knew you would come!” She held out her hands, but Mother Marie-Pierre gathered her into her arms.

  “My poor sister,” cried Mother Marie-Pierre. “Eloise, what have they done to you?”

  Sister Eloise managed a smile as she rested her bruised cheek against the reverend mother’s for a moment. “Nothing that won’t mend, Mother.” She withdrew from Mother Marie-Pierre’s arms and sank back down onto the stone bed.

  Reverend Mother sat beside her and took her hands. “Tell me what happened.”

  Sister Eloise told her about the Gestapo search and Simone being found. “We thought it was safe to keep her in your bed while you were away,” she explained. “We didn’t think the Germans would come back, and when she was better, Sister St Bruno had suggested that we could keep her as a lay worker instead of Marthe. We thought she’d be safe in the convent.” She sighed. “But they came without warning, swarming over the whole convent. I was in the middle of changing the dressing on Simone’s shoulder. It was impossible to hide her.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Mother Marie-Pierre quietly.

  “I don’t know,” replied Sister Eloise. “I haven’t seen her since we were brought here. That Gestapo colonel thought I could tell him about the other missing prisoners, you know, the ones that escaped from that lorry. He seemed to think we were hiding them at the convent too. I told him we had only seen Simone, I think he has finally decided to believe me. He says I’m to be sent to some camp or other, to keep me out of trouble.”

  “I know, he told me.” Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. “Oh, Sister, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault that you’re in this place, I should never have…”

  “Oh yes, you should,” cut in Sister Eloise swiftly with much of her old determination and energy. “What the Gestapo are doing is the work of the devil, and we should fight evil wherever we find it.” She gripped her superior’s hand. “Mother… you have always been a woman of great courage and determination. From the moment you arrived at the convent as Sarah, a green girl keen to do your bit, you have devoted yourself to what you thought was right; what God was calling you to do. No, let me finish,” she said as Mother Marie-Pierre tried to interrupt. “You were an unusual choice as Reverend Mother, being so young and comparatively junior in the community, but I have no doubt that you were God’s choice, and He had His reasons for choosing you. I shall be moving on tomorrow… somewhere… but wherever it is He will have work for me there.”

  “Sister, you have such faith,” whispered Mother Marie-Pierre, feeling humble in the face of it.

  “So do you,” replied Sister Eloise. “So do you. If it pleases God that I return to the convent at the end of this war, I know I shall find it standing firm, safe in your care. If not, we shall meet again in God’s own good time.”

  The key scraped in the door behind them, and Sister Eloise drew Mother Marie-Pierre to her once more, murmuring urgently into her ear. “Fight this evil, Mother, from wherever it comes.”

  “Time’s up,” growled Gregoire as the two sisters embraced for the last time.

  “God bless you, Mother,” Sister Eloise said as she let her go.

  “And you, Sister. You will be in our prayers, night and day.”

  “Out!” barked Gregoire, moving to push them apart. “Out! Your time’s up.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre left the cell and heard the door clank closed behind her, separating Sister Eloise from her community for the last time.

  Gregoire almost pushed Sister Marie-Paul out of the gendarmerie, and she found herself outside in the darkness of the street, but the chill in the autumn air was nothing compared with the bleakness in her heart. She stood for a moment, about to walk back to the convent, but with sudden resolution she turned towards the church and the curé’s house. Perhaps Father Michel could speak to Colonel Hoch and get him to reconsider his decision to send Sister Eloise to the internment camp.

  No lights showed from the windows, but she knocked and waited just the same. At first there was no reply, but as she went to raise the knocker again she heard the scrape of bolts being drawn back, and the door opened a fraction. Mademoiselle Picarde peered round it, and saw who was outside. “Reverend Mother, what do you want at this time of night?”

  “I wish to speak with Father Michel,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. She kept the anger she felt out of her voice and stepped towards the half-closed door.

  “He’s very busy,” said Mademoiselle Picarde, but encountering the look of determination on her visitor’s face she took a step back and allowed Mother Marie-Pierre to push the door open and enter the dimly lit hall.

  “Wait here, please,” the housekeeper said. Opening a door and switching on a light she showed Mother Marie-Pierre into a parlour. “I will tell Father Michel you are here.”

  The elderly priest came out at once and led the nun into his study at the back of the house. Here a small fire burned in the grate, and it was clear that this was where Father Michel spent most of his time.

  “Thank you, Rose,” he said to his housekeeper, and the woman backed out of the room closing the door behind her. Indicating she should take the chair in front of his desk, the curé took his own seat behind it. “Now, Mother, what can I do for you?”

  Mother Marie-Pierre explained about Sister Eloise. “She was simply nursing an injured woman, Father,” she said. “That is no reason for the Gestapo to deport her to a camp in Germany.”

  “The trouble is,” Father Michel looked at her over his steepled fingers, “the trouble is that she became involved in secular matters, matters that shouldn’t concern you in the convent. You are not to know who is a criminal and who is not. People who come to the hospital with gunshot wounds should be reported to the authorities.”

  Sister Marie-Paul’s words echoed in Mother Marie-Pierre’s head, and she realised where they had originated. “Did Sister Marie-Paul come to you for advice, Father?” she asked though she already knew the answer.

  “She did, Mother. In your absence she had nowhere else to turn.”

  “I understand, of course.” Mother Marie-Pierre was conciliatory, though anger burned inside her. It was better to let the priest think she agreed with what he said, to keep him safe in his authority so that he would not question hers. She smiled sadly. “I just thought you might have some influence with the colonel, that he’d respect your cloth and perhaps release Sister Eloise.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mother. I really feel it would be wrong to involve myself in such secular affairs. ‘Render unto Caesar’, Mother. Remember Our Lord’s teaching, and at the present time ‘Caesar’ is the German authorities.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre got to her feet and ducked her head as if in submission. “I quite understand, Father. Thank you for seeing me. I must go now or I won’t be in before curfew.” She turned and walked to the front door followed by the priest. He raised his hand in blessing and then closed the door quickly behind her, shutting her out into the night.

  14

  The convent was in darkness when Mother Marie-Pi
erre let herself in fifteen minutes later. The sisters had all retired for the night, and the Great Silence had settled on the house, but even so she had half expected Sister Marie-Paul to be lying in wait for her and it was with immense relief that she made her way up to the chapel without meeting anyone. As always, one of the sisters was in the chapel keeping watch, kneeling in prayer before the altar, but she was alone and did not turn when Reverend Mother came in and knelt quietly at the back. In the sweet-smelling silence that enfolded her, Mother Marie-Pierre laid out all her troubles before her Lord, and when she rose from her knees some forty minutes later, she felt stronger and knew a measure of peace. She left the chapel as silently as she had come and went to her own cell. She longed to discuss everything with her aunt, but the Great Silence prohibited that and she must wait until morning.

  She had just begun to remove her hood when there came a scratching at her door. Throwing a shawl round her head, she opened it to find Sister Marie-Marc outside. She was fully dressed, and despite the Silence, it was clear that she needed to speak. Constrained by the Silence, Sister Marie-Marc simply stared at her, her eyes intense and urgent. Obviously there was some emergency and Reverend Mother broke the Silence.

  “Sister! What has happened now?”

  Sister Marie-Marc put her finger to her lips and stepped a little closer. Mother Marie-Pierre stood aside and let the nun enter, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Sister. You may break the Silence, Sister.”

  “Mother, thank God you are home.”

  “Sister, what on earth has happened now?” Mother Marie-Pierre asked in alarm.

  “I have found someone,” whispered Sister Marie-Marc dramatically. “In the shed.”

  “Who? Who have you found, Sister?” Mother Marie-Pierre’s thoughts ran immediately to the other Jew who had escaped from the lorry.

  Sister Marie-Marc looked a little guilty and murmured. “It is a man, Mother.”

  “A man? What man? Who is he?”

  “He is an airman, Mother, an English airman, shot down. His plane crashed and he jumped with a parachute.” Sister Marie-Marc’s eyes were round with the wonder of it.

  Mother Marie-Pierre sank onto her bed and looked up at her expectant sister. Drawing a long breath, she asked, “Where is he?”

  “In the cellar, Mother.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre sighed. “You’d better tell me,” she said, and reaching for her hood she began to replace it on her head.

  Sister Marie-Marc drew a breath and began. “I was collecting the eggs this evening, when I heard a noise in the shed behind me. I thought it was a rat. They’ve been getting into the chicken feed. I ran in and grabbed the pitchfork to kill it with. It was getting dark and I couldn’t see much but I stabbed the fork into the heap of straw Jean Danot had left there for me.”

  “A whirlwind with a pitchfork,” was how Flight Sergeant Terry Ham described it to Mother Marie-Pierre later, as she sat with him in the darkness of the convent cellar.

  Once he discovered that she could speak English, he launched into his tale. “I reckoned I’d found somewhere to hide for the night at least, and then she come in, jabbing away. I was lucky not to get stabbed, and that’s a fact. I didn’t want to make no noise, but I had to stop her from jabbing.” He grinned ruefully. “She says I didn’t hurt her when I took the pitchfork off her… least, I think that’s what she said. I don’t know the lingo, but she didn’t scream nor nothing, and when she saw my uniform she pushed me down under the straw again and pulled the door shut.” He looked across at Sister Marie-Marc who was hovering by the cellar door. “She’s a game old bird, begging your pardon, ma’am. She brought me some bread and water to keep me going, and then when it got dark she brought me in here,” he waved his hand round the cellar, “and give me some soup.”

  He went on to tell them how his plane had been hit as it was returning to England after a raid. “Skipper said bail out, so out I bailed. Not sure if the rest of them made it. I saw other chutes open, but it was windy and we was blown apart. So I’ve been trying to find them, the others. See if we can get ourselves back to England.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre listened carefully to his story, her mind running through what they might or might not be able to do for this man. She looked across at him, small and wiry, with light curly hair and a boyish face. It was the sort of face she remembered so well from the last war, the face of a young man who was afraid, but determined to hide it with a show of bravado.

  “Not sure how to set about it,” he admitted when Mother Marie-Pierre asked him if he had any real plans for escaping. “Suppose I should try and get to the sea, find a boat or something. Perhaps go to Spain. I heard of other blokes getting home that way.”

  “Well, the first thing to do is get you hidden safely here,” said Mother Marie-Pierre. “It wouldn’t be a good idea for it to be known in the convent that you were here. Sister,” she turned to the little nun still waiting in the background, “where else can we hide him?”

  “Nowhere,” replied Sister Marie-Marc. “The cellar is the best place. Only Sister Elisabeth and I come down here for the vegetables. It’s big. No one goes into the places beyond the coal cellar.”

  Mother Marie-Pierre had only inspected the cellars once, when she had become Reverend Mother. She knew they extended under the main part of the convent, left over from the days when the nuns kept their winter stores in its coolness; some areas were as small as cells, others spacious and lined with shelves and racks. Little of their capacity was used these days. There were a few old garden tools, some discarded items of furniture and some empty packing cases, but there was little food to store and almost no coal. Sister Marie-Marc was right. Few of the sisters would have any cause to come down the old stone steps at all, and if they did they would be unlikely to venture into the darkness beyond the first cellar.

  “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.”