The Sisters of St. Croix by Diney Costeloe Page B

out, “David, I bumped my head and they’ve put it in a bandage!” Marthe spooned in another mouthful of soup and then Catherine asked, “Where’s Maman? Why isn’t she here? My head hurts.”
    “Now then, Catherine,” Marthe said hastily, “eat your soup like a good girl,” adding as she turned to David, “poor Catherine can’t remember how she hurt her head.”
    “We’ll tell her all about it when she’s feeling a bit better,” Sister Danielle said quietly. She was still holding the little boy’s hand. “We want her to try and sleep as soon as she’s had her soup.”
    David understood what they were saying. Catherine didn’t know Maman was dead. The sudden picture of his mother lying, staring up at him with empty eyes and blood oozing from holes in her neck made him cry out in despair; a primordial sound that wrenched at the heart. Sister Danielle scooped him up into her arms and sitting on a chair rocked him like a baby as he wept.
    Later, when he had been checked over by Dr Felix and was finally asleep in one of the tiny bedrooms usually kept for visitors, Sister Danielle went to consult with Mother Marie-Pierre.
    “We must bring their mother in for Christian burial,” she said. “It is very hard for children as young as David and Catherine to take in what has happened. The baby, of course, will remember nothing. As long as she’s fed and dry she will do very well, but the little boy…” The nun shook a regretful head.
    “I’m not sure about the Christian burial,” replied Mother Marie-Pierre. “I have been talking to Sister Henriette, and she says the woman who brought the children here said that they are Jews. That’s why they were on the road, I imagine.” She looked across at Sister Danielle. “I think it would be wiser to keep this piece of information to ourselves. Sister Henriette knows too, of course, but it could be very dangerous for those children if it leaked out.”
    “You mean to the Germans?” Sister Danielle was wide-eyed. “What would they do?”
    Mother Marie-Pierre shrugged. “Probably nothing with children this young. They’d be no use in one of their work camps, but there is no need to draw attention to the fact that they are Jewish.”
    “Would anyone guess?” wondered Sister Danielle.
    “Again, probably not,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, “but the woman who brought them did remind Sister Henriette that there would be a physical sign on the boy.”
    “A physical sign?” Sister Danielle looked puzzled.
    “Jewish boys are circumcised,” Mother Marie-Pierre said, adding with a faint smile, “you remember Our Lord in the temple when he was a baby?”
    “Oh!” Colour flooded up into Sister Danielle’s face. She knew the story well enough, everyone did, but the actuality, the physical side of it had never dawned on her and the thought of her Lord Jesus having such a thing done to him brought a hot flush to her cheeks.
    Seeing her confusion, Mother Marie-Pierre said gently, “Don’t worry about it, Sister, all we have to do is see that it is you who gives him his bath. He’s only a little boy, you know.” Then to change the subject onto less embarrassing ground she went on. “However, their mother, and all the other dead, must be brought to the village for burial. Father Michel will say Mass for them and they will be buried in the churchyard. I will speak to him about the children’s mother.”
    It wasn’t just the Germans Mother Marie-Pierre was worried about, though she could hardly say so to Sister Danielle. Marthe, one of the lay workers at the convent, was also a Jew. Her family had lived in St Croix since before the first war and were part of the village community. Her father, Claude, was a farm labourer and her mother, Rochelle, kept a tiny store that sold everything from buttons and lace to billhooks and lamp oil. Marthe had come to the convent looking for work to help maintain the family… there were four children younger than she… and