Two Crosses (37 page)

Even in the World War when flour was so scarce, he had kept the store open, handing out loaves to the famished villagers who came by. But his favorite memory was not of handing out bread to starving people. It was even better, more delicious, like the first bite of a brioche fresh from the oven. It was that memory that held him this black morning, as he rolled the dough and felt it seep slowly up through the openings between his fingers.

He wasn’t young anymore, but he remembered the knives he’d hidden in the bread. Baked them right into the dough, and off they went! Remembered the papers and the names of those imprisoned. And now once again he was playing a game of hide-and-seek.

He reached into the pocket of his heavy gray trousers and pulled out a small piece of paper. He had received it yesterday in the delivery from Marseille, hidden in a bag of flour. A piece of paper that he now rolled into a thin cylinder and placed in a tube of plastic.

“And
oop là
, in she goes!” he sang as he embedded the plastic tubing into the middle of the dough in one of the pains de seigle. On this loaf he added no fancy cuts that baked up into crisp little ridges. It was a simple omission. No one ever noticed. But he knew. And he would be ready when the right person came into the store, asking for a pain de seigle.

Jean-Louis Vidal passed up the café-bar on his way through town. Tomorrow classes resumed. His thin lips were pressed together as he toddled along the cobblestones, turning down a side street and into a boulangerie. The aroma of fresh bread hung thick and succulent around him.

“
Bonjour, Jean-Louis
,” called out the aging baker from behind the counter.
“Alors, quoi de neuf?”

“Nothing much today, Pierre,” the broad-bellied professor answered back. “Only thought I might be tasting a bit of your bread. That’s all. Pain de seigle, if you don’t mind.”

The baker’s mouth opened into a delighted bellow. “Pain de seigle, Jean-Louis.
Mais bien sûr!
I have one just for you.” He handed over a hot loaf with a wink. The store was empty.

“Just like in the old days,
n’est-ce pas, mon ami
? I’ve not seen so much fun in almost twenty years. Though I was a lot sprier then. We both were, as I recall.”

The two men laughed, and Jean-Louis paid for his bread. “Keep the change,” he said, still smiling.

The afternoon sun shone through the windows of Mother Griolet’s office. She didn’t notice the flirting rays as she tapped her foot nervously under her desk. A note lay before her with a Huguenot cross drawn in the corner. She had received it ten days ago and reread it now.

Someone is seeking information about the new orphan Ophélie. Potentially dangerous for the operation. Watch the child carefully. Don’t let her leave the premises. Answer no questions.

Hugo

Mother Griolet had worried over the note all week, unable to forget the letters she and Sister Rosaline had found concealed in Ophélie’s tights. This child was an important link with what was happening in Algeria. She was sure the list of names was not a simple coincidence.

But how could she protect Ophélie? Thankfully M. Hoffmann had been gone for the past ten days. Mother Griolet feared him the most. But surely he wouldn’t betray his own child! Or did he even know she was his daughter? The letter said Ophélie’s mother had never told him. And Ophélie seemed to have no idea that her father was nearby either. Mother Griolet sat in the office, perplexed. She needed to confront the child with the facts.

She walked quickly to the girls’ dormitory and found Ophélie’s dresser. Opening the second drawer, she retrieved the pair of blue tights and pulled the velvet bag out. The two small envelopes appeared to have been untouched.

Mother Griolet took out the letter to M. Gady. Carefully she copied every word into her small spiral notebook. Then she took the other pieces of paper and began copying the names and addresses listed there. Her hand was shaking as she wrote.

Dear Lord, forgive me if this qualifies me for a spy.
The thought made her laugh.
A seventy-two-year-old nun spying on a six-year-old orphan. Your sense of humor, Father, indeed. But the child will not be bothered. She will continue in some state of blissful ignorance. This, I think, is best.

The bell rang, announcing the end of classes. Mother Griolet slipped the envelopes back into the velvet bag, then tucked the bag far down into the leg of the blue tights and placed them neatly in the second drawer. She reviewed her work. Not bad for an old nun. She walked briskly out of the dormitory as the children burst out through the basement doors into the courtyard.

There were thirty-two churches in Montpellier, and Jean-Claude had visited twenty-three of them. At first he had limited himself to those on the east side of the city, but when that search turned up empty, he decided to include all of the churches, Catholic and Protestant. But so far he had found none that housed children.

Three days recuperating from a concussion had been a waste of time, he contemplated angrily, furious at the thought of the man who had struck him. He was sure it was that cursed David Hoffmann.

Now it was January 10, and he needed to get news to Ali. He came to the parish of St. Pierre on the quai de Verdançon. A kind-looking priest opened the door to his knock and straightened his clerical collar.
“Oui, monsieur?”

Jean-Claude cleared his throat and spoke with the same gentle, flowing words he had used when talking to twenty-three other priests.
“Bonjour, mon Père.”
He inclined his head. “I’m looking for a pied-noir orphan.” He produced a picture of Ophélie. “Her mother was killed in the war, and I’m her uncle. The child has been lost, but the last word we received was that she was living in a church in Montpellier. I have visited most of the parishes now, with no success. I’m desperate for news. Would you perhaps know of this child?”

The priest shook his head, rubbing his chin as he thought. “
Non
, I’m sorry. We don’t house children.” Then he smiled. “Ah, but perhaps you have not tried the communities around Montpellier. Have you been to Castelnau? There’s an orphanage there. It’s been run for years by an old renegade nun.” He stopped himself, looking embarrassed. “Forgive me. I mean, a kindly Sister has run the orphanage for years. Perhaps she would have some information.”

Jean-Claude kept calm. “That’s a good idea. Castelnau, did you say?”

The priest nodded.

“And what is the name of this church … the orphanage, if I may ask.”

“St. Joseph. It is called the Church of St. Joseph.”

“
Merci. Merci beaucoup
,” Jean-Claude said.

“
De rien
,” the priest called out, as Jean-Claude skipped down the stone steps. “God be with you.”

Jean-Louis Vidal finished his afternoon history class on January 11 and watched the girls file out of the room. He liked to observe the legs of Mlle Caroline when she wore her skirt high above her knees. Not such a bad profession, this teaching of American girls. Even if it was difficult to get inspired after two weeks of vacation. Ah, but the legs of Mlle Caroline could at least make his heart beat faster!

Jean-Louis removed his worn leather coat from the back of the chair, retrieved his battered briefcase and papers, then closed the classroom door and locked it. His disheveled appearance contrasted with the neat Ivy League attire of M. Hoffmann, he knew, but it didn’t matter. Why throw away a coat if it still kept him warm? Why indeed, when there was no money to buy another.

He paused as he came to the ground floor and knocked lightly on the door to Mother Griolet’s apartment. After a moment the nun opened the door.

“
Ooh là!
M. Vidal, it’s you. Good. Come in, please.”

They stepped into her office, and Jean-Louis pulled the door closed. “Jeanette,” he said softly. “Are you well?” His red eyes were tender. “You look tired,
mon amie
.”

“Oh, Jean-Louis. I
am
tired. I have told the Lord I will not worry, but there seems much to worry about. A daily battle in the mind.” She sighed. “I have something for you. You will know how to get it where it needs to go, I’m sure.”

“Of course. And I have something for you too.” They exchanged papers silently, briefly touching fingers. “Jeanette?”

“Yes?”

Jean-Louis cleared his throat. “You’re doing a good job.” He said it quickly, feeling a flush come to his cheeks.

“Thank you, Jean-Louis.” She looked grateful. “You’re sure we are not too old for this now?”

“Jeanette Griolet,” he scolded playfully. “Was it not you who told me that the Lord takes care of His own? That He gives strength to the weary? Dear woman, you will not stop now?”

“Of course not, Jean-Louis. As long as the sun shines and the rains fall, O Lord, I will follow You.”

They caught each other’s gaze and broke out in laughter, like carefree children.

“Your eyes are still as bright as they were in the other war, Jeanette. Don’t tell me that you’re tired of this. I know you love it.”

“You’re right, old man,” she teased, a twinkle reappearing in her eyes. “Now off with you. We both have work to do.”

Jean-Louis left her office, shaking his head as Mother Griolet called after him, “Go easy on the pastis this afternoon, will you?”