A Purpose True Read online

  “You would love southern France, with its endless variety of flowers, in shades that stir the heart. I hope you’re gardening in spite of London’s recalcitrant clay soil. But most of all, I wish you happiness.”

  For the millionth time since December, Kate pondered the irony of Addie, an Iowa farm wife, taking her place in Mr. Tenney’s London government office and living in his mother’s upstairs rooms. Kate recalled her own days in those very rooms, after her husband’s fatal crash.

  She’d lost everything: Alexandre, then the baby, born too soon. Bereft of all that gave her meaning, she’d sought ways to contribute to the war effort. But who would ever have imagined she would join the Secret Operations Executive and become part of the British war machine?

  The Baker Street office, her mentor Miss G, Ringway Airport where she learned to parachute, and Tatton Park where she practiced jumping, seemed otherworldly from the vantage point of these soft hills. London had become Addie’s world now, and her husband Harold would soon storm France’s northern shores.

  Reminding herself to shred her outpouring into the pigs' swill back at the homestead, Kate set the notebook aside and pulled an ancient volume from her backpack. Though its French forms challenged her, the Midi-Pyrenees folklore piqued her curiosity.

  Midway into the afternoon, the sheep startled when a solitary peasant crossed the hill. His dark brown velvet pants, green wool vest and espadrilles came straight out of her book. Probably a Résistance liaison, perhaps with clandestine papers tucked in his shoes. Captured by the Gestapo or the Milice, those hated French collaborators, he would swallow that evidence.

  Kate’s training taught her that the Résistance had yet to reach many obscure Basque areas. Many believed the Parisian government still owned this struggle with the Nazis. And unlike inhabitants farther north and east, most of the locals had yet to view a German officer or patrol pass through their area.

  Le Chien circled the herd, but Kate could not forget the wiry stranger who might have lived a century earlier. Except for his clipped mustache, he resembled Maurice, her former circuit’s organizer.

  With SS Waffen tank units advancing northward to face the Allies and the Gestapo on every hand, this fellow crossing their land enjoyed about as much defense as the kids romping at the flock’s edge. Like him, so many innocents stood to suffer all over the world.

  Reports of horrendous Nazi ratissages—raids meant to strike terror in the populace—filtered in from Russia. Belgium, Poland, Greece, North Africa and Holland. Italy, now in the fourth battle for Monte Cassino, recorded its own agonies.

  Day by day, this war’s tentacles stretched. Now, unthinkable cruelty verged as close as Figeac, a little to the north. Kate and Domingo witnessed the aftermath after the Germans hauled young men off to detainment camps. Doors torn from hinges, fruit cellars ransacked, window glass shattered, stores plundered, woebegone children, and women weeping.

  The oppressors took whatever they pleased, but especially sought young males to work in their war industries. At least their closest neighbor Edorta snatched Domingo’s brother Gabirel from school and absconded to the Ségala highlands.

  But Madame Ibarra could not manage without her youngest son, so Domingo had gone to fetch him from the high country before he returned to his own missions. But what could Domingo do if Nazi tanks suddenly descended on this peaceful place? What miracle could save these hard-working folk?

  The answer rang as clear as today’s crystal-blue sky—L’Invasion, or Jour-J, as the French called it. Liberty from the collaborating Vichy Regime rested on the promised Allied Invasion, so Kate merged her prayers with tens of thousands more rising from the heart of France.

  Chapter Two

  Instead of periwinkle lavender buds poised to turn color by early July, fallow fields languished on every side. The slight wayfarer who joined Domingo a kilometer back rubbed a handful of last year’s harvest in his palm.

  “Field hospitals use this oil to treat burns. But it’s bound to run out, with so few workers left to tend the fields.”

  This partisan’s hunger for talk ran against the grain—the land itself proved comrade enough for Domingo. Always something new to notice, and every trip increased his speculations about the war. This fellow might provide more mental fodder, but Domingo remained silent.

  His comrade chatted on until a signpost came into view. “Oh—I turn west here. Salut, mon ami. Bonne chance—a liberté!”

  Awakened by spring, the countryside embraced Domingo’s relieved sigh. Good fortune to you, and to liberty ... he definitely echoed the sentiments, but far better to forge his way to the Résistance encampment alone. He brushed at burrs sticking to his pants and sleeves.

  How many times had he freed a sheep from such a hindrance? If only ridding this land of the Bosche oppressors were so simple. He paused to drink at a rivulet, and half an hour later, dusk faded into darkness. Farther, a dank sweet lavender scent lured Domingo to a shed used for drying. The herbal, hay-like essence calmed his senses as he sank to the floor against a wooden support for a nap.

  But in a dream, one of the long line of British pilots he’d led over the Spanish border suddenly hovered inches away. In a scratchy voice, he murmured, “If it weren’t for the longbow, I’d have been born speaking French like you.”

  Domingo remained quiet, so he continued, “I mean the Hundred Years War, you know.”

  Yes, I know, but who cares if you think me unschooled? Why explain that Euskara, not French, has always been my native tongue? French or not, you need me now, for we have a border to reach.

  Just then, both of them froze at the sound of boot steps. Domingo shook himself awake, the pilot’s statement still ringing in his ears. It ignited a perennial question. Why had he been born into Basque heritage? That line of thinking brought Katarin to mind—she’d come so far from her American origins to aid the cause.

  But that pilot also reminded him of a failure he’d rather forget—leaving behind one of the men entrusted to his guidance across the Spanish border. He’d shut out many details, but that energetic American who foolishly broke his ankle when he left the path still had a hold on Domingo.

  He’d never imagined moving on without a pilot, but that time, he’d had little choice. Gestapo agents nearly closed in, and a British pilot suggested hiding the American under a stinking animal carcass near the river. “You can come back for him later, when it’s safe—otherwise, we’ll all die.”

  With the enemy on their tails, and the injured pilot urging them all to leave him, Domingo had finally agreed. But when he returned after guiding the others across the border, the American had vanished. Did the Gestapo find him and kill him or ship him off to prison in Germany? Had he gone off in this wilderness alone after they left and been attacked by an animal?

  Dried lavender straw scaled from his clothes as he gnawed a hunk of Maman’s bread. If not for the war, he’d be breathing in the richness of fertile soil with the sheep at pasture all day and anticipating a meal of hearty porridge tonight. Instead, he slept wherever he could and wrestled with these unknowns, both past and future.

  In the cool misty dawn, he resumed his trek. Barring Gestapo interference, he’d arrive at the camp soon. But that pilot’s eyes taunted him again. How could Domingo ever forgive himself for forsaking that man?

  ~

  A day later, another night mission arose. Domingo had begun to expect these sudden assignments, but this one sent him across the border of Lot and plunged him into a fiery task.

  “Hurry!”

  He obeyed the order from his group's leader and set a wire sizzling toward explosives stuffed into an unused coal shaft, hustled away from the site and sprinted up a prickly incline. Smash! A groan as someone smacked into a tree told him others were following him toward his cycle’s hiding place. He plunged through a ravine of scraggly chestnut starts, dousing his soles in a narrow creek.

  “Dom...”

  Must people chatter, even now? Gestapo would soon swar
m this whole place like flies on manure. Nearing a rocky indentation opposite the inferno, Domingo collapsed. Another man followed him, and a third tripped over that one.

  Figuring they had run about halfway between Decazeville and Montredon, Domingo crawled through lush growth at the mouth of a cave. Inside, a solid limestone wall supported his weight as he struggled for breath. The two other partisans crawled in, and one began speaking as soon as he gained enough breath.

  “Where did you learn to run in the dark, man?”

  Domingo gave himself to breathing.

  “Who taught you to move like that?”

  “Playing ... pelota.”

  Silence reigned, but not for long.

  “Hopefully no miners lose their lives in this raid, especially after being employed this winter.” The heavier of the two men studied Domingo. “I have some chicory in my pack. Do we dare make a fire?”

  “I doubt they’ll search this far away before dawn.”

  Soon, the scent of thick root coffee spread its fervor, and Domingo relaxed for the first time in hours. He welcomed the quiet of these hills, but as he often found, others needed to talk. At least by now, these two surmised he had no such inclination and addressed each other.

  “You go toward Correze?”

  “Unless I receive other instructions. My directions change like the wind.”

  “I travel to another munitions attack tonight.”

  His pack bunched under his head, Domingo feigned sleep. Outside the cave, wind whooshed in the pines while the men passed a cup back and forth.

  “When Louis the Eighth gave Duke Decazes this land, he had no idea the Duke would one day hinder free France.”

  “At least he and Cabrol opened their minds to the English way and mixed ore with coal to cast iron. They birthed our industrial revolution.”

  “And we just destroyed their tunnels.”

  “Decazeville has other claims to fame. You know Timbaud himself lived here as a child?”

  “Jean-Claude, our hero?”

  “Oui. No light matter, joining the Résistance in two great wars. Did you hear that he sang the Marseillaise before the firing squad?”

  “Indeed, and he paid with his life.”

  “But he still killed one German commander—long live Timbaud’s memory.” Someone spit into the fire.

  “And good riddance, Feldkommandant Hotz.”

  Timbaud had grown legendary, yet Résistance tales reached Domingo only second-hand. He'd never heard the name of the commander Timbaud killed until tonight. Guiding downed British pilots over the Pyrenees dominated his past two years, but lately, the pilots often joined the Maquisards in this wilderness instead of returning to England.

  That was good, because his sabotage assignments increased by the week. Surely that meant the Allied invasion would inevitably come, and that could only bring about the end of this war.

  After the two talkative strangers snored, Domingo pilfered a draught of tepid coffee and cautiously edged his way down the incline. Criminals and thugs ranged these hills. For all he knew, those fellows back in the cave only posed as saboteurs in order to turn him in to the Gestapo at first light.

  ~

  A lazy sun saw Le Chien circle, prod, and nip, a vigilant warden to sheep intent only on filling their stomachs. The dog nudged Kate’s elbow, alerting her to return home for the night.

  She rubbed her scarred heels, almost healed after the hard trek just a few weeks ago. As she followed Domingo in his unabated passion to reach his home, her shoes had proven inadequate on the rough trails. When he noticed her blisters, he applied cool moss to her blisters and handed her an extra pair of espadrilles.

  Today, gratitude flooded her once again as she slipped her feet into their comfort. Considering the gentleness of Domingo’s touch and his willingness to meet her needs even though he longed to hurry home, she whispered a prayer for his safe return.

  After the sheep crowded into their pen and the kids nuzzled their mother, Le Chien’s eyes, one scarred across the pupil, caught Kate’s attention. Some would call the dog ugly, but there was something appealing in the angle of his head

  “When Domingo comes, I’ll tell him a shepherd’s life seems easy, since you do all the work.”

  Le Chien perked his ears at his master’s name, gave her a reproachful look, and sauntered to the sheepfold gate. Kate sank to the low stone wall that seemed to grow out of the earth.

  I am the door of the sheep. Through me they go in and out and find pasture. The verse brought her confirmation Sunday to mind, long ago and across the Atlantic in little Halberton, Iowa.

  With Le Chien blocking the gateway, no one could hurt these sheep, and they couldn’t leave the enclosure either. Kate whispered into a slight breeze, “Gives new meaning to the saying, Over my dead body.”

  The heavy iron pump handle protested when she filled a stone trough and two pails to take into the house. Inside, Madame Ibarra sliced potatoes into a pot, with steam rising around her like hazy river vapor.

  “Madame, I wore Domingo’s scent this morning as you suggested, but the herd knows the difference. They’re still bleating their protest.” Kate glanced down at her borrowed men’s trousers and shirt. If the Gestapo came, she certainly looked her part.

  A small stoneware crock above the stove held her new identity card. Once again, she’d transformed into a milkmaid, as when she first arrived in France, but now as Emazteona Giselle Ibarra, twenty-four, born in the Department of Lot. The age tweaked her sense of humor—she must’ve matured quickly, since she’d turned twenty-one just a month ago.

  Wrinkles littered Madame Ibarra’s forehead. She took her time answering. “They’re just being stubborn. Keep them in the nearest pasture tomorrow, and they will respond to you. Always remember, we drive cattle, but sheep must be led.”

  She slanted her knobby finger toward the window. “Gabirel should be home soon from Edorta’s.”

  “Is Edorta the one who protected him? The man in Figeac said ...”

  “Ah, oui. We call him brother, more bound to us than by blood, closer than family. He took Gabirel from school before the soldiers came. He did the right thing, but now...” She slipped into silence.

  Kate eyed the wood supply. Probably Gabirel kept the box filled, but she could help. Three loads later, seeing the fruits of her labor satisfied her. She turned to the barn to do evening chores and found comfort on the ancient wobbly stool beside a nanny goat.

  “Come on, nanny. Give us some milk.”

  The door squeaked, and as Madame Ibarra entered, Kate squirted herself in the face. She licked her lips—um, sweeter than cows’ milk. Domingo’s mother chuckled low in her throat, but her eyes communicated good will.

  “Tonight, Domingo travels safely. I feel it.” She pulled up a milking stool and milked the cow and another goat before Kate finished.

  Did Domingo’s mother refer to the same unique sense that often bolstered her? Sometimes when she thought of Addie, it seemed Addie might be thinking of her, too. Or did the matron of this household refer to some deeper wisdom?

  The simple spurt, spurt of creamy white milk echoed against the pail as daylight eased into the evening. As Kate finished with the goat, a motor grumbled out on the road. On tiptoe before a high window, she spied a lorry painted the brown-gray of feldgrau uniforms.

  Her pulse tumbled over itself when the motor stilled. Like a phantom in the dim light, a German officer emerged from a truck and strode toward the barn. Kate hissed, “Enemy soldiers,” and raced back to her stool.

  Madame Ibarra sat immobile, showing no other sign she heard. The brightness in her eyes momentarily calmed Kate, who buried her face in the animal’s side. Outside, boots cracked against dry stones and harsh male tones rose and fell.

  The barn door creaked, turning Kate’s stomach. Heavy steps neared. Then cool leather-gloved fingers grasped the back of her hair.

  “Tell me your name, light-haired one.”

  For a moment, Kate’s
mind went blank. Then she remembered. “Emazteona Giselle.” A second soldier stationed himself a few yards away, but not far enough to mask his smell, the odor of stale wine overlaid with sweat.

  “Qui est la mere de la maison, eh? Show me your cartes d'identité.” The first soldier barked his question and finally let go of Kate’s hair, but his rifle butt brushed her nose. With a gentle swish, Domingo’s mother rose from her stool and gestured for the Germans to follow. The upward tilt of her chin revealed dignity—indeed, she presided as the mother of the house.

  The second Nazi ordered, “You—stay where you are.” He followed his comrade, but stationed himself at the barn door. When Kate risked a glance at his back, his broad shoulders and wide stance in tall leather boots made her gulp—the picture of power.

  A surreal sensation flooded her—she shared a barn with an SS officer. Could this really be? Yes, Madame Ibarra had just led enemy soldiers down the alley between stalls. Like a true heroine, with no training or previous experience, she acted with composure.

  The radio! It was hidden just a few feet above this stall in the granary. If the Germans searched the premises, what could she and Domingo’s mother do?

  She should take some action, at least pray, but no words came. Images of Domingo’s fragile mother reaching into the stone crock filled her thoughts. But a German fiend shadowed Madame Ibarra. Everything depended on those identity cards passing inspection.

  And then the guard swayed back down the aisle. He slouched against a divider a few yards away, eyeing Kate through half-closed eyes.

  An eon passed. Empty teats slumped between Kate’s fingers, but she pretended to continue. Ice ran along the course of her spine when the guard moved closer, but at the same time, Mrs. Ibarra led the other German through the door. The guard returned to the divider as coarse black homespun—Mrs. Ibarra’s sleeve—brushed Kate’s arm.

  The first soldier gestured her away with his hand and pierced Kate with his stare. “You have lived here since birth?”

  Kate froze—she couldn’t have answered for her life.