The officer was certainly infuriated. He turned to his men and issued a series of orders, speaking too rapidly for me to follow. Whether the nuns followed it I don’t know, but as the soldiers moved towards them, their rifles raised threateningly, they seemed to square their shoulders in readiness, and they stood their ground. I stood my ground as well, frantically looking round the chapel to find a means of creating a diversion.
The young nuns were still huddled together in a frightened bunch, but when Sister Clothilde turned to look at them, they responded as one, going to stand with her. Sister Jeanne stood up again, but Clothilde called out to her – I think this time it was something about maintaining the silver cord of prayer to the Lord – and Jeanne nodded. The music began again, and after the first few notes, the singing started once more. The soldiers were momentarily disconcerted and I was not surprised, because while the organ music seemed to be a natural part of the chapel, that cool, intricate chant, apparently coming from nowhere, had an other-world quality to it. But the officer gestured impatiently, and they went purposefully towards the small inner door, which presumably led through to the main convent.
Sister Clothilde was ahead of them. She whisked across the chapel and took up a stance in front of the door.
‘Stand aside,’ said the officer, angrily.
‘I will not.’
‘You force us to use violence against you, Sister.’
‘Then do so. I shall not flinch.’
Clothilde stood her ground, and I felt deeply shamed that I was still cowering in the shadows and not rushing out there to slay the soldiers. But to do so would be useless; they would shoot me at once. Instead, I began to edge stealthily towards a massive statue on a stone plinth – Christ displaying his glowing heart, with all the love and compassion that traditional image conveys. The plinth was easily four feet high, the statue itself another three; if I could topple the statue to the ground it would create such a crashing disturbance that the nuns might be able to make a run for it.
The older ones had followed Clothilde’s lead, ranging themselves with her, effectively blocking off the door. The music and the singing were continuing, but Jeanne’s hands were stumbling over the chords, and sobbing broke out from behind the rood screens, splintering the music into ugly fragments. At this, Clothilde turned towards the screens and issued another of her ringing commands. This time I heard and understood better – she was ordering the sisters and the singers to hold fast to the prayer, for the prayer and the music were the sure and certain bonds through which would come God’s help. God would not fail them, she cried. There was the ascending note of the fanatic in her voice, and there was certainly the gleam of the zealot in her eyes, and it was clear she meant to defy the invaders no matter the cost.
But even the most extreme of militant Christianity was not going to fell ten or a dozen trained soldiers, all of them armed, none of them particularly sympathetic to women – at least, not these women – and the soldiers moved towards the door, their rifles held out.
The singing was still struggling to maintain its momentum, and there was something so heart-rending about those frightened, determined voices that renewed determination washed over me. A dozen more steps – perhaps a dozen and a half – and I would be within reach of the stone plinth. I would have to trust to luck that the statue was not cemented down, and I would also have to trust to luck that the nuns and whatever was behind the rood screens would respond fast enough for an escape.
I am not sure if Sister Clothilde was entirely sane at that point. From where I stood I could not hear very clearly, nor could I entirely follow what she was saying, but I think it was something about not yielding to the emissaries of Satan and standing firm in the face of Satan’s armies. Mad or sane, she had a grandiloquent line in rhetoric.
The officer said, in a cold voice, ‘You expect us to shoot you, Sister?’
‘We will die in God’s love.’
‘So you have a hankering for the Martyr’s Crown,’ he said, very sarcastically. ‘Well, we shall disappoint you over that, for we do not commit murder if we can avoid it, at least not against religieuses. But there are other methods of persuasion, Sister.’ There was a gloating lasciviousness in his voice, and he rapped out another of the orders to the soldiers. I thought one of them hesitated, but the others moved at once, grabbing the arms of the two youngest nuns and pulling them into the main aisle.
I took several more steps nearer the statue, praying not to be noticed, hoping none of the sisters would remember I was there and give away my presence.
‘Well, Sister?’ said the officer. ‘We have two of your choicest pigeons. Now will you stand aside and let us into the convent?’
‘I will not. Sisters, stay brave. God’s love and His strength are with you.’
The two young nuns were struggling and sobbing, and I don’t think they really heard her. They both wore what looked like the garb of novices, and one of the soldiers had pulled away the headdress of the smaller one. Beneath it she had cropped hair, soft and silky, like a baby’s. She looked about seventeen and even tear-streaked and terrified she was extremely pretty. The men reached for the headdress of the other and snatched that off as well, standing around the two girls, laughing and jeering.
‘Now, Sister,’ said the officer to Clothilde, ‘you see what is about to happen, I think? My men have not seen females for a very long time. Will you allow us into your convent to use it for our headquarters, or do I persuade you to do so by letting my men make use of these two choice little morsels?’
(He may have used words other than morsels, but my German was not equal to translating obscenity.)
Whatever words he used, there was no doubt about his meaning. Sister Clothilde turned white to the lips, and Sister Jeanne let out a cry of fear and anguish.