‘The nuns you will deal with,’ snapped the officer – I could not see his uniform so I did not know his rank. ‘You will deal with them as you would with any female who resists,’ he said, and there was a lick of lechery in his tone. Someone responded with what was probably an obscenity, and there was a shout of laughter.
This, clearly, was a reconnoitre party, and the men intended to make Sacré-Coeur their headquarters. If the nuns allowed them to take over the convent it would be a bloodless process, but if they did not, the soldiers would sweep the entire community aside as uncaringly as if they were flies to be swatted, and if blood were spilled, they would not care. I stood there with those worn old stones at my back, with that music still wrapping its cadences round me, and I was vividly aware of two facts. The first was that the nuns would not meekly allow the soldiers to take over Sacré-Coeur so that they could possess Liège and then Belgium. It would not be in their natures. The second fact was that any resistance the nuns might attempt would be useless. They would not have the strength or the numbers, and even if they did, they would not know how to fight such an onslaught. I did not know how to fight it either, but I did know about escaping from importunate bailiffs and angry husbands, and those principles (that word is possibly not the most apposite one here) could be applied now.
I ran around the sides of the chapel until I found what I was looking for – a low arched door leading directly inside. I threw it open and sunlight from the gardens streamed into the dim old chapel, laying harlequin patterns across the floor. As I stepped into that well of gentle light, into the scents of candle smoke and incense, it was as if the layers of prayer wrapped around me, and I thought – I can’t break into this. I can’t fracture this tranquillity and disturb these women. Then I remembered that the soldiers would unquestionably disturb them, and I strode to the centre aisle and faced the small congregation.
There was a gasp of shock, and some of the nuns rose to their feet. One – an imposing authoritative figure, certainly the Mother Superior – came towards me, gesturing me to go back.
In the best French I could manage, I said loudly, ‘Forgive me, but you are all in great danger. German soldiers are in the grounds – preparing to invade your country. But if you come with me now I may be able to get you away.’
They did not take it in. Of course they did not. They had been rapt in prayer, in the service, in the music, and they were confused, as if suddenly faced with too-bright sunlight after hours of darkness. Then several of the younger ones stood up, but Mother Superior at once rapped out a command.
‘All remain in your places. Sister Jeanne, continue to play. It is the time for the Magnificat.’
The small bespectacled nun seated at the organ glanced at me. She started to say, ‘But Sister Clothilde—’
‘It is an order, Sister.’
The tradition of obedience held strong, and little Sister Jeanne bowed her head. The massive organ chords began to roll forth, and from behind the rood screens, the silver and golden voices started again, thready and uncertain at first, then with more confidence.
I went towards the rood screens, intending to push them aside, but the soldiers were already at the door, blocking out the sunlight. As they entered the chapel, the current of air sent the candle flames flickering wildly, casting grotesque shadows across the chapel, making the soldiers seem like striding giants. Their hard boots rang out on the marble floor, and they took up positions across the main aisle, the altar at their backs. One of them went to stand by the organ, and two more stood like sentries on each side of the main door. All had rifles, and all grasped them firmly. I stepped unobtrusively back into the shadows of a deep alcove – not from a craven wish to hide, but to try to work out an escape plan for the nuns.
The commanding officer – I recognized his voice – said, ‘Who is your Mother Superior?’
‘I am Sister Clothilde, Mother Superior of Sacré-Coeur.’
‘Then, Sister, we are taking over your convent. Belgium is claimed by the Kaiser – it is his route into France – and this place is to be the headquarters of this battalion until our task is complete.’ He paused, then with relish said, ‘Until Belgium falls.’
He spoke in extremely bad French – even I could tell that – and some of the words were German, but the nuns understood him.
There was a silence, then several of the older nuns came to stand with the formidable Sister Clothilde, their faces white and set, although the younger ones still cowered back in fear.
Clothilde was not afraid, though. She said, sharply, ‘Belgium will never fall. Leave our chapel. This is God’s house, and we will not submit to the brutality of you or your Emperor.’
I dare say she could not have found anything that would have infuriated and insulted the soldiers more. I’m not actually sure if she cared, though, and she delivered the words with a precision and authority that would not have shamed Bernhardt or Duse.