Two Testaments (45 page)

Gabriella found Sister Rosaline and Sister Isabelle crying in the dining hall. Amid hugs and tears, Sister Rosaline pronounced the words, “She is gone.”

The three women sat in stunned silence and watched the downpour, listening to its drowning repetition. It seemed appropriate for it to rain, particularly this type of driving, persistent rain, as if the storm itself were delivering the final, deliberate blow to St. Joseph.

The thirty days would soon be up and the orphanage closed. It did not seem to matter, now that Mother Griolet was gone. Gabriella swallowed, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t go away. She thought about Henri Krugler working hard to find families to take in the children. She thought about the children who had already found homes in Lodève.

And then she thought about Mother Griolet lying, as Sister Rosaline had described, serene and still, her ash-white hands folded over her abdomen.

Gabriella had no desire to fight anymore. Let the authorities come and pronounce their sentence. She watched the windowpane fill up with drops of rain.

Presently Sister Rosaline sighed and stood up. “I’m going to call M. Cohen. He’ll help us let people know.” She wiped her brow. “And I need to inform her superiors. There’s a certain protocol for that.” Her voice caught, and she turned quickly and left the room.

“
Alors, moi
,” said Sister Isabelle, wiping her eyes. “I’m going to tell Pierre. He’ll see to it that the whole town knows quickly.” She tiptoed out of the room without looking back, an umbrella tucked under her arm.

In that short moment Gabriella saw her future more clearly. Soon she was really going to leave St. Joseph with her parents and start a new life in the States. Her soul ached. Her mouth went dry. “But, Lord, I don’t want to leave,” she whispered.

She buried her head in her hands. She knew what Mother Griolet would say: don’t give up until the Lord Himself directs otherwise.

She was doing no good just sitting there. A hundred details needed attending to. It was not the time to give in to the numbing power of the rain. But before she did anything else, Gabriella had an appointment to keep. She left the room and walked outside, letting hundreds of wet drops fall on her face before she found refuge in the parsonage.

It did indeed look as if the nun were merely asleep, she thought as she calmly entered the room. It was as if Mother Griolet had known what was happening, and awareness had brought a faint smile to her lips.

“At home with the Lord,” Gabriella said softly. She touched the nun’s cool hand. “I know you’re not here,” she said, “but I had to come see you again. I had to tell you that you are the godliest woman I have ever known.” She dropped to her knees, resting her head against the bed. “I’m not ready for you to be gone, Mother Griolet. It was so much easier to trust when you were here. I could have stayed here, just observing you work, for many years.”

Slowly she stood up. “You said God turns tragedy to triumph, but I don’t see it. There’s only a whole lot of hurt around here right now.” She cupped the gold Huguenot cross hanging around her neck, then bent forward and kissed Mother Griolet’s cold cheeks. “I haven’t forgotten that He is in control. I won’t forget.”

As she stood back up, the cross spun slowly around on its chain. Outside the rain continued to fall.

David’s initial response to the news of Mother Griolet’s death was to take charge. It helped him to be busy, because the crazy, angry questions did not come as quickly to mind. He spent the morning with the orphans, working on verbs. When he felt composed enough, he gently broke the news to the children.

They stared at him, speechless. Finally little Christophe blurted out, “Where is she? Is she still up there? In her room?”

When David nodded, several girls squealed and hid their faces. Most of the boys remained silent, their young faces stoic. Ophélie ran to the front of the room and hugged her father. “It can’t be, Papa! It just can’t be!”

“Shh.” David cuddled her and cleared his throat. “I am very, very sorry to have to tell you this. We all loved Mother Griolet very much.”

He could not think of what else to say. Their sad eyes were pleading for comfort, but he had none to give.

“What will happen to us now?” Anne-Sophie asked. “Will they send us away?”

“No, children. Don’t worry. It will be all right. It’s okay to be sad and to cry, but remember, as Mother Griolet has told you …” He faltered for a moment. “God is in control.” Saying those words, whether he truly believed them or not, somehow helped David regain his composure.

“Shall we pray?” he suggested, and the children nodded. He watched them, their heads bowed, eyes closed, small hands folded neatly on top of the desks. They trusted him completely in that moment. But no words came to his mind.

Ophélie, who was sitting on his desk, whispered, “Do you want me to pray, Papa?”

He nodded.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she prayed in a strong, sorrowful voice. “Thank You for Mother Griolet. Thank You that she took good care of us. Thank You that she has gone to heaven now, and I’m sure she must be very happy.” She began to cry again. “Please take care of us, Jesus. Please, oh please, take care of us. We don’t want to leave. Amen.”

For several minutes afterward the children sat in silence. Then Anne-Sophie started to sing a simple chorus, and the others gradually joined in.

“God is watching over me,

No matter how small I may be.

He is listening to my prayers.

How good to know that my God cares.

God is watching over me.”

It seemed to calm them; it also calmed David’s heart.

Sister Isabelle came into the classroom, red eyed and sniffling. “Thank you, M. Hoffmann, for your help. Children, you have thirty minutes of rest time in the dorms before lunch. We’ll take you by threes under the umbrellas.”

David left the classroom, promising Sister Isabelle that he would let M. Vidal know about the news. She smiled gratefully at him as the children lined up three by three at the door.

He had never been to the old history teacher’s house, but he knew where it was located: down the hill and back on a tiny side street of the village. The rain was coming with such force that, in spite of his umbrella, by the time he reached the small stone house, his shoes and pant legs were sopping wet. He knocked forcefully on the door.

After what seemed an eternity, the older man opened it, blinking behind his glasses. “David!
Quelle
surprise! Look at you. Please, come in.”

David felt vulnerable, unprepared, and unworthy to speak to the older man, as he stood before him, dripping on the tile floor.

“What brings you here today?” Jean-Louis asked brightly. Then he saw David’s face. “What’s happened?”

Jean-Louis hurried him into the kitchen, where a single chair sat in front of the small, narrow table. A half-full bottle of red wine was the only thing on the table. Jean-Louis retrieved another chair from the salon, and they sat down. He cleared the wine bottle off the table and wiped his bloodshot eyes.

“It’s Jeanette,
n’est-ce pas
?”

David nodded. “I’m sorry to be the one to bring you this news.” He shivered, although the air was heavy and warm. “Sister Rosaline found her this morning. It appears she died peacefully in her sleep.”

“I see.” Jean-Louis thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Yes, I see.”

He turned away, and David felt like an intruder in the other man’s grief. “Would you like me to leave?” he asked finally.

“No,” Jean-Louis said quickly, almost desperately. “Could you stay for a moment?” Jean-Louis went into his salon again and returned with a bottle of pastis. “Will you have a drink with me, David? I think I need a drink.”

“Yes, of course.”

For the next hour they sat in strained silence and slowly sipped their tall glasses of pastis. Jean-Louis seemed completely lost in thought, perhaps anesthetized by the constant sound of the pouring rain. At length he said, “She was my dearest friend.” Then he looked down at his empty glass, his face bright red, and mumbled, “I loved that woman. I did.” After another long silence he asked, “She is still … she is still in her room?”

“Yes. I need to call the authorities to report the death, but I thought you might …”

“Yes, I shall go and see her. Would you please wait for me to get my coat?”

“Of course.”

They left the little stone house five minutes later and walked with their umbrellas pushed in front of them to keep the driving rain away.

Word of Mother Griolet’s death spread quickly throughout the town of Castelnau. In their voices over the phone, Pierre Cabrol could hear it as he announced the news. In the eyes of those who came into the bakery, he could see it. Sorrow and shame.

They wonder if their obstinate complaining had anything to do with it
, Pierre thought. Well, let them wonder. Even his wife, Denise, had shed quite a few tears.

A hundred different scenarios flashed through Pierre’s mind as he rolled out his dough and baked it in the large ovens in the back of his shop. He remembered when Mother Griolet had first come to Castelnau. He had been a boy of sixteen and enchanted by the young nun with the dancing eyes and rippling laughter. The black habit she had worn had never been able to hide her beauty.

He remembered Sebastien Vidal, who had stolen her heart while she was still in training. That had been the talk of the town! Would the pretty young novice give up her calling for the fleshly desire of marriage? And then he remembered, with sorrow, the news of Sebastien’s death on the battlefield so far away. Pierre had helped Jean-Louis install the stone plaque on a column in the chapel all those years ago, in remembrance of those lost during the First World War.

He thought of the really terrifying times during the Second War when the three of them, Jeanette, Jean-Louis, and he, had taken their part in the Resistance. Terrifying and extremely rewarding.

Denise had always watched Mother Griolet jealously when she had business to do with Pierre. More than once Pierre had felt a pang of guilt. He cared for this nun. It had long ago stopped being the foolish crush of his youth. Over the years his feelings had mellowed into great respect for this woman who had a wonderful ability to joke and trust in God’s surprises.

He brushed his flour-coated hand across his face to wipe a tear, leaving a patch of dough over his right eye.
I’m going to miss you, Jeanette.
And he knew he wasn’t the only one. Not by a long shot.