Laura resisted the temptation to drum her fingers on the seat in front of her, wishing that mass would begin. She had converted to Catholicism when she married Thierry, more as a concession to his family’s tradition than from any conviction of her own. She had been raised in a non-sectarian household and didn’t care much one way or the other. Her father, vaguely Methodist, had never practiced, and her mother’s people were Quakers. Neither parent imposed anything on her but she had attended some Friends’ Meetings with her grandmother when she was small. The plain, undemonstrative observances of her maternal relatives had hardly prepared her for the unashamed ostentation of the Catholic Church.
Not that she was shocked; she loved it. The gorgeous vestments in scarlet and purple and gold, the jeweled chalices, the theatrical quality of the services, had appealed to her from the first. The veneration of the saints had seemed to her the just adulation of icons, the reverential hymns the outpouring of souls steeped in ecstasy. And the Latin was a joy. With her linguistic bent she had readily absorbed the Roman tongue and made it her own. She had studied grammar and translation with Father Deslourdes along with the prescribed catechism, to better appreciate her new religion. He had been suitably impressed, never realizing that the beauty of the language itself attracted her, not merely its application in the mass. It was the communication tool of a people who had conquered three-fourths of their known world, a language of power and range and exquisite precision. With its colorfully defined genders and five cases (one of them devoted largely to the idioms of command), Latin covered everything.
Laura reveled in all of it. While engaged to Thierry he had taken her to Sunday afternoon Benediction at the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris, and she had been stunned by the almost hedonistic quality of what she had seen. The priest (actually a bishop), magnificently robed, had lifted the gilded, sunburst monstrance containing the host high into the air as he intoned the blessing. The red gowned altar boys had surrounded him, swinging pomanders which distributed the sensual perfume of incense throughout the church (gold, frankincense and myrrh, she thought now, recalling it). But what impressed her most was the ritualistic behavior of the massive congregation, bowing their heads in unison as the monstrance ascended into the sign of the cross, touching their breasts with the clenched fists of awe, of contrition, like Incas prostrating themselves before Atahualpa. She’d told Thierry afterward that she’d half expected a blood sacrifice and he had laughed.
She smiled to herself as she thought of her husband. His attitude throughout her “conversion” had been one of amused tolerance. When Father Deslourdes had complimented him on Laura’s dedication, Thierry had repeated the comment to her with a wry smile. Thierry knew his woman. It was the form that Laura liked, not necessarily the substance. She brushed over the thorny problems of immaculate conception and virgin birth, resurrection and ascension, to concentrate on translating the missal responses into English and learning the stories and songs. She could have embraced Judaism, with its rich tradition of heroism and miracles, its even more ancient language and equally impressive rites, with like fervor. Laura enjoyed the drama.
She looked up as Father Deslourdes entered and paused at the foot of the altar, his attendants flanking him.
“Introibo ad altare Dei,” he intoned. “I will go up to the altar of God.”
“Ad Deam qui laetificat juventutem meam,” the altar boys responded. “To God, who gives joy my youth.”
The mass had begun.
Laura folded her hands.
She spent the next forty minutes following the service dutifully, reading her missal (Latin with a French pony), and wishing that the sacristy guard would suffer a heart attack. He looked far too young for that fate, however, and by the consecration she had not come up with an alternative route to the one that would take her past him. The altar boy rang the bell and the worshippers bowed their heads as the priest raised the host.
“Take this and eat of it, for this is My Body,” he said in Latin.
Laura glanced at the guard. He had lowered his head with the rest.
“This is My Blood, which shall be shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins,” Father Deslourdes declaimed, his back to them, holding the chalice aloft with both hands.
The guard moved his lips silently and Laura felt an abrupt surge of hope. Was the boy Catholic?
The congregation stirred restlessly now that the solemn, all important moment of the consecration had passed. Laura waited for her opportunity. Faith, she thought, remembering where she was and why. Have faith. You will figure this out. Something will happen. Something always does.
The communion had finally arrived. The choir began to sing Adeste Fideles, the Latin Christmas hymn, and people rose to leave their pews in orderly progress, filing up to the altar to receive the host. Laura waited to see what the guard would do, holding her breath. She wished she didn’t have to make herself so visible at the mass but she knew Curel was right. If Becker learned anything of Vipère’s doings this Christmas Eve, as he surely could, he wouldn’t have to think hard about who might be involved. Curel worked behind the scenes but Laura was the sister-in-law of the saboteur Alain Duclos, and automatically under suspicion. Unless she was seen parading around the church in full view of hundreds of people on the night in question. She sighed and chewed her thumbnail, her mind racing.
And then, to her inestimable relief, the sacristy guard got into the communion line. He was going to receive! She slid out of her pew at once, thanking God, Thierry, the spirit of the French Republic, whoever had been responsible for this break. She hung back until several other people had preceded her and then walked up the center aisle, joining in with the hymn.
“Natum videte, Regem Angelorum,” she sang loudly, causing Odette Giradot to glance over her shoulder at her.
“Venite adoremus,” Laura caroled, the picture of jubilant piety. It was, after all, the festival of Christ’s birth. Cause for celebration.
Odette kept on walking.
“Venite adoremus, Dominum,” Laura yodeled. She was nearing the altar. She could hear Father Deslourdes saying, “Corpus Christi,” (the Body of Christ) to each communicant. She kept her eyes on the gray uniform in front of her. When the German knelt, closing his eyes as the altar boy held the paten under his chin, Laura turned sharply to the right.
Odette felt the movement and glanced at her. Laura held her finger to her lips and shook her head. After a timeless moment Odette nodded almost imperceptibly and then turned her eyes back to the altar.
Laura glided by St. Michael, stepping carefully around the rack of votive candles which burned continually at his shrine, and then bolted through the open door of the sacristy.
She didn’t pause to wonder if anyone other than Odette had noticed her departure. She raced past the folded piles of embroidered chasubles and racks of vestments, hoping that she wouldn’t encounter Jean Resnais, the sacristan, polishing a chalice at this unlikely hour. Hiding behind a closet door she changed her clothes, stuffing her dress into her bag, and then proceeded without interruption to the outer door.
Which wouldn’t budge.
She banged her fist on it in frustration, thinking of Curel waiting for her in the cold, cursing her descendants for the next three generations. She thought about the injured serviceman who needed their help. She swallowed and took a deep breath. Calm down, she instructed herself. There’s a way out of here. There must be.
Then she noticed that the door was bolted at the bottom, three inches from the floor. Amazed at her own stupidity she knelt and threw the bolt, gasping as the door popped open and she was assaulted by a frigid draft. She pulled her scarf up around her ears and stepped outside, yanking the heavy door closed behind her.
She could see Curel in the distance across the cobbled courtyard.
Langtot’s horse was reined to the buggy in which he sat; the animal’s breath became plumes of steam as the bay pawed the ground, seeking activity. Laura ran full out, arms pumping, a
s if rounding the bases while playing softball. She reached the buggy in seconds and clambered up beside the old man, out of breath.
“Where the hell were you?” he greeted her.
“I had to wait until almost everyone else had received,” she explained.
“That was the longest mass since the last supper,” he grumbled, clucking to the horse and slapping the reins on his back. The animal ambled forward and Curel waited until they were away from the church to prod him into going faster. They turned onto the northern road and the horse broke into a brisk trot.
“Put this over you,” Curel said, sharing his lap robe with her, and Laura snuggled into its woolen warmth.
“Thanks.”
“If we’re stopped we’re going to see my sister Adele in Fragonard for the holiday,” he told her. “She’ll back up the story.”
Laura nodded and sat back.
The trip was conducted in studied silence. Aside from their work with Vipère the two did not have much in common, and even if they had, it was too cold to talk. Laura watched the bare trees slip by for some time, then closed her eyes and huddled inside her coat, trying to convince her face not to freeze solid. After a short interval she felt a drop of moisture on her nose, then her cheek, and she opened her eyes.
“It’s snowing,” she announced to Curel.
He swore expressively. “Do you ever think that God might be working with the Germans?” he asked finally in disgust.
“The possibility has occurred to me,” she mumbled to herself. She was jolted sideways as the horse lost its footing on the icy road, then recovered adroitly, plodding forward diligently. Laura gripped the edge of her seat and hung on tightly.
Their luck held. They didn’t see a soul until they reached their destination. The Germans must be celebrating the holiday indoors, with a supply of schnapps to keep them festive. At length Curel guided the semi-frozen animal up the secluded lane to the Convent of Saint Claire, and the front door opened as soon as they came in sight of it. A boy ran out to take the horse to the nearby barn as Curel barked instructions concerning its care and feeding. Laura ran up the steps and into the vestibule, seeking warmth, and almost collided with the nun standing just beyond the door.
“Oh, excuse me, Sister,” Laura said breathlessly, “I didn’t see you.”
The woman nodded kindly. “You’re here for our visitor,” she said.
Laura nodded, looking at the nun. She appeared of indeterminate age, as people of her calling often did, and was wearing a dark gray habit with a white wimple and a black veil. A thick rosary of brown beads hung from the cincture at her waist and a heavy gold and black crucifix lay on her breast, suspended from a stout chain.
“How is he?” Laura asked.
“Much better, I think, though still very thin,” the nun said conversationally, as if greeting Résistance fighters at three in the morning on Christmas Day were an ordinary occurrence. “We’ve done what we can for him but what he really wants now is to get back to his unit. I’m afraid that we’ve had a quite a time convincing him to wait for you and not to go off on his own.”
Curel came up behind them. “Good evening, Sister,” he said respectfully, remembering his manners.
The nun nodded. “Happy Christmas. I’m Sister Mary Joel.”
Curel shrugged. “No names for us,” he told her.
“I understand,” Sister Mary Joel said. “The other sisters are all sleeping but Mother Superior granted me permission to stay up and take you to our patient. If you’ll come with me this way…”
Laura and Curel followed the nun through the deserted convent, past the reception rooms at the front and the chapel on the main floor, to a staircase at the back.
“Our rooms are up here,” Sister Mary Joel said, ascending the wide steps to a hall with a dozen numbered doors on either side. It looked much like a hotel. The nun walked soundlessly to the end of the corridor as they trailed her, Laura very aware that she was in a part of the convent that lay people rarely saw. The order was Franciscan and she noticed framed pictures of Saint Francis and Saint Claire on the walls.
“We are not a nursing order,” the nun said, reaching her destination and putting her hand on the doorknob, “but we did the best we could for him. Take as much time as you like. I’ll wait for you out here.” She turned the knob and the door swung inward to reveal a sparsely furnished cell: a rough cross encircled by dried palm leaves on one wall, a bureau against the other. They faced a cot on which a man lay, wearing the leather flight jacket of a U.S. bomber pilot. He sat up as the nun stepped aside, and Laura felt the shock of recognition whip through her body as blue eyes met green ones across the narrow room.
The man they had come to get was Dan Harris.
Chapter 10
“Christ above,” Curel said, his face blank with astonishment. “Am I seeing things?”
The nun closed the door behind them as Laura and Harris stared at one another, transfixed.
“Laura,” Harris said hoarsely, finding his voice at last. The spell was broken and she ran to him, dropping to her knees beside the cot and flinging her arms around his neck, her face buried against his shoulder.
“Laura,” he repeated softly, pulling her close, running his hands over her upper body as if to assure himself of her presence. “Is it really you?”
She murmured something, barely able to speak, and clutched him tighter.
Harris closed his eyes and bent his head, his breath escaping in a soundless sigh.
Curel, who’d thought that two wars had inured him to everything, felt his throat tighten at the scene. He left the room, joining Sister Mary Joel in the hall. She was seated on a straight backed chair, reading.
“I want to leave them alone for a few minutes,” Curel explained awkwardly when the nun looked up from her book.
She gazed at him inquiringly.
“They know one another,” he said inadequately, and turned away.
Inside the cell Harris held Laura off and gazed into her face.
“You cut your hair,” he said mournfully, half laughing.
“It will grow,” she whispered, and kissed his hand where it lay on her shoulder.
“God, I can’t believe it,” he said, searching her face. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Well, I had a little problem with a German anti-aircraft gun,” he said, sighing. “It seems I was dropping bombs on some sons of the Fatherland and they weren’t too happy about it.”
“Curel told me you were shot down,” Laura said quietly.
“My plane was,” he replied dryly. “I sort of fell down with it.”
“How long ago?”
“Six months. I was flying night runs across the Channel out of Framlingham...”
“England?”
“Yeah. B-25s. We were hitting Rouen pretty hard and I guess they decided to hit back.”
“Did anyone else get out of the plane?”
Harris looked away from her. “My bombardier. We were picked up as soon as our chutes touched the ground. We planned the escape together and he broke out with me but...”
Laura waited.
“He didn’t make it. I had to leave him when he died. The ground was frozen and I couldn’t even bury him.”
Laura put her hands in his. “How did you get here?” she asked gently.
He shrugged. “The camp was in some nowhere town in Germany. I knew if I made it to France I could hook up with some partisans and then find my way home. So I just headed east. It was rough until I crossed the border. I had to hide all the time. But once I got into this country people helped me out along the way, fed me, gave me a bed for the night.” He paused. “I thought of you but I never expected to get this lucky. I didn’t even know if you were still in France.”
“Glad to see me?” she asked, smiling.
“What do you think?” He cupped her chin. “‘Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she wal
ks into mine,’” he said archly, obviously mimicking someone.
Laura gazed at him, puzzled.
“Don’t you recognize it? Casablanca.”
“What’s that?”
“The movie. I saw it when I was home on leave.”
She raised her brows.
“You’re such a movie freak, I thought...” Then he stopped. “What the hell’s wrong with me?” he asked himself. “Of course you haven’t seen it.”
“Dan, the last American movie I saw was the one in London with you,” Laura said.
“Well, you’ll like it when you do see it,” he said lamely. “Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Lots of stuff about the brave, indomitable Résistance fighting off the Nazis. I’ll take you to see it someday.”
“Someday,” she echoed. “Did you see it with a friend?” she asked, trying to sound neutral. Two years was a long time.
“Yeah. Gamble. He has a moustache and very bad legs.” He winked.
She smiled.
“Did you miss me?” he asked softly.
She closed her eyes. “You cannot know how much.”
“I know,” he answered. “I know.”
They said nothing more for a long beat and then Harris cleared his throat.
“So, you’re taking me out of here?” he said, pulling her to him and nuzzling her hair.
“That’s right.”
“Where?”
“To Switzerland.”
“You do this sort of thing all the time?”
“It’s my work now,” Laura said simply. “Getting people like you back to safety.”
He thought for a moment. “Still at it, then, with Vipère?”
“Oh, yes.”
“For Alain?” he asked.
“For Alain and Thierry. For all of them. And especially for me.”
He smiled gently. “That’s my girl.”
Overcome, Laura embraced him again. He felt so incredibly wonderful, exactly as she remembered. He even smelled the same.
“Why are you so surprised to see me?” she whispered. “Didn’t you know what I would be doing?”
Clash by Night (A World War II Romantic Drama) Page 23
