An Owl's Whisper (6 page)

“‘With
my
geese,’ Blondie?” Clarisse smiled sweetly. “Or should I say,
Fraulein
?”

Late that afternoon, Mother announced that all the students should be in their dinner seats twenty minutes ahead of the usual 6:30 time. Everyone knew that Sister Arnaude had ridden her bicycle to get the news in Lefebvre. Anticipation bubbled.

Virtually every girl was seated by 6:00, rumors passing from student to student like answers to geometry homework. Camille’s was the most repeated. “After his success with U-boats in the Atlantic, they say
Monsieur
Hitler now turns the idea against us. He’s unleashed a fleet of underground vehicles, burrowing like moles under France and Belgium. Whenever they like, these
U-Wagens
as the
Boche
call them, pop to the surface to unleash death and destruction. It’s true; I swear on my braids! If you doubt me, put an ear to the ground. See if you don’t hear a faint rumbling.”

At 6:10 precisely, Mother Catherine came in. Quick as a radio unplugged, the room went silent. The eyes of every girl seemed fixed on Mother’s lips, as if seeing the words formed would bring their message better or faster.

Eva took in the nun’s countenance. Framed by her veil, Mother’s was a striking face. Even from across a room, her sparkling eyes ensnared one’s attention like
Cassiopeia’s
stars on a clear night. Eva liked her mouth, which could be anything from soft, even sensuous, to resolute. Mother’s nose was long and pointed, but slender, giving an elegant line to her face. She was tall and slim and moved with such grace that she seemed to glide an inch above the floor. Camille, who’d been at St. Sébastien longer than any other girl, swore that before her vows, Mother had been a silent film star—that she’d seen her on a movie poster. No girl doubted it.

Mother Catherine started with the sign of the cross and a prayer. She related the day’s news, emphasizing that most of the actual fighting was far west of them. She ended on an optimistic note. “Remember our patron saint. Each of you is a daughter of Sébastien, who defied a Roman emperor and his army of occupation. When they tried to silence his opposition with a rain of arrows, his spirit prevailed. And when Fourteenth Century Europe was enveloped by the Black Death, a foreshadow of the plague of war threatening us now, Sébastien protected the faithful. Pray that the French, the British and the Germans honor our wish for exclusion from their fight. But most of all, my flowers, maintain hope. Remember that the God who counts the tiniest wren will not forget you.”

When Mother said the word “wren,” Eva thought she saw the nun wink at her.

At precisely 6:30 the dinner meal was served. Potato and leek soup, coarse bread, butter, and cheese, with tea instead of the usual milk—the first of many changes to come.

Filthy and Pristine

On the third day after the invasion, the mayor’s wife bicycled to St. Sébastien and rang the bell at the convent’s entrance.

Sister Martine opened the door and eyed the beads of sweat on the visitor’s brow.
Madame
Beaugarde was an ample woman stuffed into a gray wool suit.

“Good day, Sister.”
Madame
Beaugarde was puffing. “I’ve come in an official capacity to confer with Mother Catherine.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her face and throat. “Oh my. So warm this morning. And me with only a bicycle since our motorcar won’t run.”

“Good morning,
Madame.
Please come in.” They walked to the reception parlor where a student in a long white apron copied figures into a ledger. “That will do, Bébé,” The girl curtsied and left. Sister followed her out. “I’ll fetch Mother.”

Mother Catherine came in and nodded. “Welcome to St. Sébastien,
Madame
. How are you this morning?

“I’m fine, Mother Catherine, thank you.”

“May we offer you tea,
Madame
?”

“I don’t care for tea on such a warm morning. Besides, I come on an official matter, not a social one.” She straightened her hat, a tired, small-brimmed, black felt affair topped with faded silk violets. Nervously she took a paper from her waistband. “The mayor wrote me notes so I shan’t forget anything.” Her hands shook as she unfolded the sheet. “Mother Catherine, you know that there is to be an assembly in the town square for all of us tomorrow?”

“So I have heard.”

“My husband wishes there to be no misunderstanding about the regimen for the event.”
Madame
Beaugarde paused as if expecting an invitation to proceed. When Mother kept silent, she cleared her throat and read. “The assembly will begin at noon. You and the sisters and girls must all be in place at that time. There will be no absences.” The woman’s finger led her eyes along the written lines. “No patriotic or anti-German displays will be tolerated. The reception afforded speakers and other dignitaries will be cordial.” She looked up from her notes and added in a defensive tone, “You know, I am just the bearer of the message. But, Mother Catherine, much
does
depend on Lefebvre’s attitude.”

Mother replied, “I have only the deepest animosity for the gang that violates our soil. But though I willingly place my own fate in the hands of God, I’ll do nothing to compromise the safety of my little ones. We of St. Sébastien will be mute witnesses to tomorrow’s black farce.”

Madame
Beaugarde rose. “In that case, good day, Mother Catherine. I will find my own way out.” She stopped at the parlor door and turned. “You know, I didn’t invite the
Boche
in. None of us did. But they’re here and like hornets under the eaves, stirring them up does none of us any good.”

“Indeed,” Mother replied. “But conscience and honor dictate that they also not be made to feel welcomed.”

Madame
Beaugarde huffed off.

The next morning, led by the nuns and walking two-by-two, the girls of St. Sébastien departed the school for the trek to Lefebvre. They walked in uncharacteristic silence along the country lane toward the village. Mother, her own mood one of brooding, was content to have the quiet, though she felt guilty for that.

About a kilometer from town, from behind her, Mother heard a lone voice begin singing softly.
“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?”
Mother looked back. It was Eva singing.

Doing the first verse alone, Eva’s face radiated courage. “Come now, girls,” she called, “remember how we deal with geese. Hold those heads high and sing along!
Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. Dormez vous? Dormez vous?”
By the second verse, every student had joined in, singing the round. There were even some smiles.

When all the singing had started, Sr. Eusebia looked back at them, her eyes wide in alarm. She was opening her mouth to silence them when Mother caught her eye and stopped her with an index finger raised to the lips.

So, the girls sang on, even as they marched into the village square at 11:45 to take their position. The townspeople had already assembled before the small dais that had been hastily erected in front of the
Hôtel de Ville
. As she and the girls stood facing the platform, Mother felt the sapped faces of the townsfolk to her right and left dragging her spirit down. But it soared as she thought of her girls’ arrival and saw them now arrayed behind her in military-straight ranks, each girl with head held high, standing resplendent in her uniform of snow-white blouse, blue wool jumper, white knee-high stockings, and shiny black shoes. Today it will be the children who teach their elders, Mother thought as she circled her troop, nodding encouragement.

Behind her students, Mother paused to drink-in Lefebvre’s town square a last time before its debasement. With her toe, she traced the edge of an ancient cobblestone, polished smooth over centuries by the scuffs of wheel, foot and hoof. In the square’s center, she gazed for a moment at the bronze statue of the she-fox
Liberté
defending her pups from a pack of weasels. On the north edge of the square, she viewed the red brick and white marble façade and the baroque-sculpted gable of the
Hôtel de Ville
. Facing east, her eyes caught the sun glittering off the gold leaf covering the ornate Guild House, between the half-timbered post office and the Nagelmackers Bank. She turned south, to the crouching granite soldier of the Great War memorial and Saint Marc’s, the dark Romanesque church where Father Celion was pastor. And west, to the colorful signs and awnings of the small shops—the bread bakery, the pastry bakery, the smoked meats shop, the butcher shop, the fruit and vegetable shop, the chocolatier, the wine merchant, and the café with its white-clothed, outdoor tables. Her eyes found the road between the café and Saint Marc’s leading to the bridge built in Roman times, the
Pont de Pierre
, saddle on the back of the mighty River Meuse. “A way out of town!” Saying it aloud felt empowering to Mother. Finally, scanning faces of the townsfolk, she shook her head at the grim expressions, the tear-streaked cheeks.
Lefebvre, you’ve been a quiet town who’s dealt with outsiders on your own terms or not at all. Today that changes. We all change. Adieu, Lefebvre.

On the platform a few meters away, two Nazi swastikas ominously sandwiched a Belgian flag. The town’s mayor, its constable, and its doctor sat on the dais looking as happy to be there as hungover men at the opera. Next to them, looking positively ecstatic, was a pro-Nazi Belgian, Leon Le Deux. And there was another civilian, a stranger, with a razor-sharp nose and the dark, darting eyes of a hawk. He wore a swastika armband.

Waiting for things to begin, Mother Catherine considered the scene before her—how it teemed with contradiction. On the one hand, the Nazi dais leering at her. On the other, reflected off cobblestones still wet from the early morning rain, the impressionistic image of the colorful shops lined up to the west—for Mother, an airy watercolor like ones she’d done as a girl in Paris. The first debauching the second like an animal carcass rotting in a glacial mountain stream. It was ugly and beautiful. Filthy and pristine.

Mother’s thoughts were interrupted when Mayor Beaugarde scurried up. “Oh Mother Catherine, your little angels sang so beautifully as you approached the square. I am to say
Monsieur
Le Deux invites you and your girls to stand around the speakers’ dais and serenade our distinguished guest, Herr Reeder, before the program.” The mayor turned to Le Deux seated on the dais and bowed. Le Deux smiled broadly and nodded back. “You see, he sends a greeting to you and your lovely charges. For the sake of Lefebvre, may I say you’ll do it, Mother?”

Mother Catherine put a hand on the mayor’s shoulder and drew him near. “See how nicely he shows his fangs. Please tell Herr Le Deux that I would sooner swallow a bucket of broken glass than sing for his German master.”

The mayor turned pale. “Oh please, Mother. It will only get more difficult for—”

The nun cut him off. “Tell him we’re fresh out of songs.” The steel in her voice made clear the discussion was over.

The mayor slinked back to the dais. He spoke timidly to Le Deux. For a moment Le Deux did nothing. Then he glared darkly at Mother Catherine.

At noon, Le Deux strode to the front of the dais. His festive look had returned. After a moment to relish the scene, he gave a sharp nod to the
Wehrmacht
officer standing next to the dais. The
oberleutnant,
a fish-faced man with an empty left sleeve pinned to his side, unholstered a Luger pistol and fired a signal shot. Every neck tensed as the report dashed out to each corner of the square and returned, a hollow pop.

At the far end of the square, next to the church, the canvass back covers on two transport trucks flew up and out poured twenty-one German soldiers. They formed four tight columns, a massive sergeant with a ceremonial sword in front and to the right. In quick succession the sergeant brought his troop to attention, had them shoulder their rifles, and moved them forward toward the assemblage. Half-way across the square, the sergeant bellowed a command, and as one, the unit changed from their quick time march to the high step parade march. Mother shuddered, thinking they’d been choreographed carefully as a Russian ballet, a group of men moving with the menace of a single predatory beast. She mentally dissected the elements that combined to wield such power: The black and red swastika banner out front. The uniforms tight and gray. Black helmets glittering in the midday sun. Shiny bayonets pointing skyward, threatening even the heavens. Polished, black jackboots swinging up in their ominous goosestep and slamming back down onto the cobblestones, each slam making a single report. And the soldiers’ carriage—bodies rigid, except for the machine-like legs and the swinging right arms.

Mother Catherine turned to nod encouragement her students. Her gaze fixed on Françoise and Eva standing together—Françoise struggling to hold back her sobs and Eva with her arm around her friend’s shoulder. Mother prayed,
my little Eva, always so strong, always so confident. Lord, give me Eva’s strength.
Eying the she-fox, she whispered, “
Liberté, en garde
! The weasels approach.”