“No, I want to. You told me a bit about yourself, after all. I was born in Catford—in Southeast London. After a rather less than stellar academic career, I left St. Dunstan’s College. When the war broke out, I joined the Royal Air Force.”
He took another huge gulp of brandy, and Elise poured him more. “After training, I was posted to Ninety-two Squadron, based at Croydon, as a flight commander flying Spitfires. I was coming back from a raid on Dortmund—the factories on the outskirts, not the city itself. It was what Fighter Command called the ‘Rhubarb raids.’ Supposed to force the Luftwaffe to maintain aircraft in the west, helping to relieve the pressure on Russia…” He shook his head as if to clear it. “It was on the way home, over France. My Spit was hit in the engine. I was flying too low to bail out, so I shoved my canopy back and began looking for a field to crash-land. As you can see”—with a wry smile, he indicated his bandaged leg—“it didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”
“But how did you get here? To the convent?”
“The farmer who found me in his field didn’t know what to do, so he told his priest. The two of them brought me here, where Mère St. Antoine was kind enough to take me in and hide me. Although convalescing so close to the convent’s morgue has been…an interesting existentialist exercise. And how did you come to be here, mademoiselle?”
“I was—” Elise had never told all of her story aloud before. “I was a nurse in Berlin once upon a time.” Now was not the time. “I’m sorry, Gus—but I’d rather not speak of it.”
—
As Maggie waited on the train platform, her eyes went to a large poster with bold lettering:
10,000 FRANCS REWARD!
Following the decree establishing the death penalty for all those who hide English soldiers or aid them to escape, the German High Command announces it will pay 10,000 francs reward to any person providing names and addresses of those engaged in this criminal activity.
A German officer was staring at her. A captain, from his uniform. Using a technique she’d picked up in Beaulieu, she stared fixedly at his feet in their gleaming black boots, allowing a quizzical look to cross her face.
He stopped staring at her and followed her gaze. He shuffled his feet, looking at them from all angles, trying to determine what was wrong. Maggie kept staring; finally, he became so uncomfortable, he moved to another part of the platform.
Ha! she thought, pleased with her small victory.
The train pulled in with a whistle and a shriek of brakes. She was relieved to secure an empty car for herself, sitting next to the grimy window. The city faded, giving way to plowed fields. She could see old men in coveralls with hoes, cows, and the flashing green of crops. She pulled her coat around her, trying to ignore her wildly beating heart.
Finally, the train arrived in Chantilly. Maggie got off at the very last minute. The countryside felt a world away from the heart of Paris. From the posted map, she knew she still had a several-mile hike on a dirt road through a dense forest. Glad I changed my shoes, she thought as she followed the road, scrambling over stones and jumping across mud puddles, stopping once to catch her breath, leaning on an ancient oak.
When she finally reached the convent, it turned out to be a stone structure surmounted by a towering cross, encircled by a cluster of smaller buildings. Breathing hard, she made her way over worn paths, then climbed the steep stairs, hollowed by centuries of footsteps, and rang the bell.
The door of the Convent of Labarde creaked open. The nun facing her was very young, with freckles sprinkling her delicate face. She gave Maggie a wary look. “Yes, mademoiselle?”
“How do you do?” Maggie began. Then she stopped and took a deep breath. The entryway smelled of beeswax floor polish. What exactly do I say? Now that the moment had come, she realized how terrified she was of failing again. “I’m, well, I’m looking for someone.” She held out the photograph she’d taken from the Hess apartment. “Do you know this woman?”
The young nun took the picture. As she squinted at it, she blanched. “Come in, mademoiselle, and wait inside. I’ll get the Mother Superior. You can ask her.”
Waiting in the entranceway, Maggie examined the crucifix hanging on the wall, made of rosewood and brass, Christ’s carved ivory palms pierced. Moments later, an elderly nun appeared. “I am Mother Superior here,” she said, nodding to Maggie. “Mère St. Antoine. Let me take you to the parlor. We can speak there in private.”
Maggie followed the Mother Superior into a sparsely furnished room, flooded with sunlight. Both women sat on a hard horsehair sofa below a reproduction of Bouguereau’s The Charity—virtue personified as a young mother caring for twin infants.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mère St. Antoine,” Maggie began. “My name is…well, my name isn’t important. I’m—I’m looking for…Elise Hess. This is her picture.”
The Mother Superior looked long and hard at the image of the girl in the silver-framed photograph. Finally, she looked up. “We have no one here who goes by the name Elise Hess,” she answered.
“She might be using a different name,” Maggie pressed. “And she might look quite different. She might have much shorter hair and be much thinner.”
The Mother Superior’s voice was gentle. “And how do you know this person, this young woman you’re looking for?”
“She’s my sister. Half sister—we have the same mother. I know she was a prisoner at Ravensbrück because of her Resistance work with Father Licht and the German clergy in Berlin. To the best of my knowledge, the last time she was seen was in Paris.”
“And why would you think she’s here?” the nun asked.
“I was able to find her family’s Paris apartment. At the nearby church, Our Lady of Sorrows, Father Janvier said he hadn’t seen her, but that there was an order of nuns associated with the church—your order, Mère St. Antoine. I know Elise always wanted to be a nun when she was a girl. And she was a nurse at Charité Hospital in Mitte, Berlin. A convent with an infirmary like yours would be a place she’d be drawn to.”
There was a long silence as the two women took each other’s measure. “You must be tired from your journey.” Mère St. Antoine rose. “Let us bring you some refreshment. Please wait.”
—
The Mother Superior went to the kitchen and asked one of the sisters to prepare food and drink, then sought Elise. She found her with the injured Englishman, both of them smelling of brandy. “May I have a word with you when you’re done, Mademoiselle Eleanor?”
Elise jumped to her feet and adjusted her wimple. “Of course.” She followed the Mother Superior into the hallway and closed the door. The two women stood, facing each other in the stone corridor.
“Someone claiming to be your sister is here.”
“Sister?”
“A young woman, around your age? About your height? Red hair? She’s here to see you. She knows you were at Ravensbrück. She tracked you to Paris.”
“How—”
“Through Father Janvier at Our Lady of Sorrows, she heard of our convent.” Her eyes considered Elise warily. “Is she your sister?”
“She is, Mère.” Elise folded her arms across her chest. “But I won’t see her.”
“She says she’s come a very long way.”
“She’s—she’s not like us.” Elise struggled to explain. “We have nothing in common.”
Mère St. Antoine shook her head. “At least see her, child. These are troubled times. She may have something important to say to you. And who knows, you may not see her again on earth. If you’re at odds, best to make your peace now.”
“Are you giving me an order, Mère?”
“Of course not, child.” She reached out to grip the younger woman’s shoulder. “It’s up to you. It’s your decision.”
Elise was silent.
“But if you do wish to see her, she’s having tea in my study.”
Chapter Thirteen