Chapter 9

A shorter chapter today. Schubert invites Genevieve to Sunday service. We learn a little bit more about Genevieve's past life in Vichy France. The pastry thieves are found.


Chapter 9

Sunday morning arrived and with it, a sense of obligation for Schubert. His life experiences had taken him far from the absolutes of belief. Dogma had been palatable when he was an artist because the inhumanity he was familiar with inhabited poetry and song. The coming of war and his current occupation had shaken whatever poorly laid foundation he had and the rituals of religion made less and less sense. Strange as it seemed, he did find comfort in hearing the words intoned by the pastor or the songs the congregation sang. It was probably the singing that kept him coming back.

Geneviève had agreed to accompany him. As a newcomer to Whitehorse he thought she might appreciate meeting people from her community. She hesitated, confessing she was a (very lapsed) Catholic. He had laughed admitting that he was not the prime example of a dedicated Baptist, either. It was his honesty that had convinced her.

She sat next to him, unsure of the liturgy and followed as she was able. Some of the hymns sounded familiar and at times, memories returned from her childhood. She enjoyed singing next to Schubert, although her thin alto was no match for his baritone. He seemed to sing without effort, like a bird on a draught of finely spun air. At a certain moment in the service, Schubert leaned in close. 

“Be right back,” he whispered.

At the front of the sanctuary a choir processed; she counted at least forty people of all ages. Schubert, the conductor, stood in front of them. He signaled the pianist and began conducting the opening hymn. She recognized the tune from her own liturgical past…and then she remembered: it was a sanctus by Franz Schubert, heard often in the Catholic liturgy as well. 

The fragments of these thoughts opened a doorway to fuller memories she had tried to repress. A knot slowly formed in her stomach and then from a forgotten place, panic gripped her. Her throat tightened and her vision clouded. Her last memory of hearing a sanctus came from Paris, in the Sacré-Cœur. A man stood a few rows ahead of her, Guillaume Thomas. For a time, they had been lovers and he had trained her, but after her last assignment, he betrayed her to the Nazis. Now, he was walking towards the priest, for communion, and she, a few steps behind. She was there to kill him. 

The sanctuary from her present time and place began to spin: she tried to stand but fell back into the pew, unable to regain her balance. She gasped, her lungs begging for air, her mind trying to flee the memory and her body, unable to move. Had she killed him? His eyes, pointing towards the apse were void of light…but then, then he whispered something. Geneviève leaned in closer. 

This is my body, broken for you, he said. 

Geneviève fainted, no longer knowing where she was, whether in Paris or Whitehorse.

Geneviève’s eyes fluttered open. Panic gripped her. Then she saw Schubert and Peter Harms. 

“Geneviève, I’m here.” Schubert held her hand. Pete looked on.

“Where am I?”

“You’re safe, you’re in Whitehorse, in Pete’s home. Where else would you be?” Schubert seemed confused by her question.

She leaned back onto the couch, but her breathing was erratic. Her eyes darted back and forth, unable to settle. 

Harms said: “You gave us quite a fright. Seems you had a panic attack during the service.” 

Schubert said: “You’re among friends. You’re safe.” He passed her a glass of water.

Schubert recognized this was no ordinary panic attack, if such a thing existed. Something from her past had risen violently to her conscious memory. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Geneviève shook her head. “No—there is nothing to talk about.”

Schubert left her lie unchallenged. He understood the pain of memory. He still hadn’t told her the full story of Lydia’s murder nor his mother’s death.

“Well, all is not lost. I believe I’ve found your vandals.” He turned to Pete. “Would you fetch the boys?”

The Harms boys, Kevin and Scott, ages eleven and nine, entered the room, shuffled forward by their father. 

Pete said: “Boys, you have something to say to Miss Sinclair?”

It took a moment for Kevin to muster the courage to speak, but he finally admitted, “I broke your window.” 

On his older brother’s heels, Scott confessed, “And I ate your pastry.” 

The awfulness of the panic attack seemed to evaporate in the presence of children. Geneviève was buoyed by their presence and the innocence of their delinquency. She smiled but spoke with gravitas, as much as the situation would allow. 

“You know, both of you should be punished. This was a serious crime.”

“Here, here,” Schubert chimed in.

Scott’s pushed himself further into his father’s arms while Kevin stood resolute, ready for their punishment to be meted out.

“You will come to my bakery and clean pots and pans for a week. And after your chores, I will teach you how to make pastry so you’ll not break more windows. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” and “Uh-huh,” said the brothers. 

Kevin stepped forward, his hand extended. “Thank you for forgiving us.” 

“And for giving us another chance,” Scott added.

Forgiveness. The word careened off the walls of Geneviève’s imagination. Another chance. For her, that was all she wanted for the remainder of her life. But such was the naïve province of childhood, she reminded herself. Guillaume’s face returned. Then, she remembered the other agents who had taken part of the operation. It was an assassination, a voice sounded in her head. She tried to hold the memories at bay—for now. Had Schubert noticed?

“I expect you to arrive promptly after school, ready to work. OK?” She motioned them closer and kissed each boy on the cheek. 

“I’ll be checking in with Geneviève to make sure you boys keep your commitment,” Schubert said, doing his best to remain stern.

“Yes, Uncle Karl,” the boys said in unison and then darted from the room.

“Well played, you two,” Pete said. “One of the best sermons I’ve heard in a long while. Greta has lunch ready. Geneviève? Would you join us or shall I take you home?”

Her instinct was to leave but she craved any kind of normalcy, the common currency of life before the war, like the simple act of a family eating together, quiet conversation over coffee or children’s laughter. She made her decision. 

“I would love to stay.” 

She felt she didn’t deserve it. She thought back to what happened in the Sacré-Cœur, the act she committed, her guilt and complicity. Judas wasn’t given a second chance. Why had she been given one? She took Karl’s hand, and together they walked to the dining room. But this sense of peace, she knew, was temporary. Her past would eventually demand a reconciling, a balancing of accounts. It was only a matter of time before the truth would demand its voice.