“Yes,” Evangeline said. “I read the signature.”
“I am surprised you found this in the archives,” she said. “I thought they had taken everything away.”
“I was hoping,” Evangeline ventured, “that you might shed some light on its meaning.”
Celestine sighed deeply and turned her eyes, framed by folds of wrinkled skin, away. “This was written before I came to live at St. Rose. I didn’t arrive until early 1944, just a week or so before the great fire. I was weak from the journey, and I didn’t speak a word of English.”
“Do you happen to know why Mrs. Rockefeller would send such a letter to Mother Innocenta?” Evangeline persisted.
Celestine pulled herself up in the wheelchair, straightening the crocheted blanket about her legs. “It was Mrs. Rockefeller who brought me here,” she said, her manner guarded, as if she might give too much away. “It was a Bentley we arrived in, I believe, although I have never known much about cars made outside of France. It was certainly a vehicle befitting Abigail Rockefeller. She was a plump, aged woman in a fur coat, and I could not have been more her opposite. I was young and unspeakably thin. In fact, dressed as I was in my old-fashioned Franciscan habit-the variety they still wore in Portugal, where I had taken my vows before embarking upon my journey-I looked much more like the sisters gathered at the horseshoe driveway in their black overcoats and black scarves. It was Ash Wednesday. I remember because crosses of black ash marked the sisters’ foreheads, blessings from the Mass conducted that morning.
“I will never forget the greeting I received from my fellow sisters. The crowd of nuns whispered to me as I passed by, their voices soft and encompassing as a song. Welcome, the sisters of St. Rose Convent whispered. Welcome, welcome, welcome home.”
“The sisters greeted me in a similar way upon my arrival,” Evangeline said, recalling how she had wished for nothing more than that her father would take her back to Brooklyn.
“Yes, I recall,” Celestine said. “You were so very young when you came to us.” She paused, as if comparing Evangeline’s arrival with her own. “Mother Innocenta welcomed me, but then I realized that the two women were acquainted already. And when Mrs. Rockefeller replied, ‘It is lovely to meet you at last,’ I wondered suddenly if the sisters had been welcoming me at all, or if it was Mrs. Rockefeller who had won their attention. I was aware of the sight I presented. I had dark black circles under my eyes, and I was many kilograms underweight. I could not say what had caused more harm-the deprivations in Europe or the journey across the Atlantic.”
Evangeline strained to imagine the spectacle of Celestine’s arrival. It was a struggle to picture her as a young woman. When Celestine had come to St. Rose Convent, she had been younger than Evangeline was at present. “Abigail Rockefeller must have been anxious for your well-being,” Evangeline offered.
“Nonsense,” Celestine replied. “Mrs. Rockefeller pushed me forward for Innocenta’s inspection as if she were a matron presenting her debutante daughter at her first ball. But Innocenta merely propped open the heavy wooden door at a great angle, anchoring it with her weight so that the mass of sisters could return to their work. As they passed, I smelled chores on their habits-wood polish, ammonia, taper wax-but Mrs. Rockefeller didn’t seem to heed this. What did capture her fancy, I recall, was the marble statue of the Archangel Michael, his foot crushing the head of a serpent. She placed a gloved hand upon the statue’s foot and ran a finger delicately across the exact point of pressure that would crack the demon’s skull. I noticed the double strand of creamy pearls nestled in her grizzled neck, buttery orbs glinting in the dim light, objects of beauty that, despite my usual immunity to the material world, caught my attention for a moment and held it. I could not help but note how unfair it was that so many children of God could languish ill and broken in Europe, while those in America adorned themselves with furs and pearls.”
Evangeline stared at Celestine, hoping that she would continue. Not only had this woman known of the relationship between Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller, she appeared to be at the very center of it. Evangeline wanted to ask her to go on but was afraid that any direct questioning might put Celestine on guard. Finally she said, “You must know quite a lot about what Mrs. Rockefeller wrote to Innocenta.”
“It was my work that brought us to the Rhodopes,” Celestine said, meeting Evangeline’s eyes with a sharpness that unsettled her. “It was my efforts that led us to what we found in the gorge. We were careful to be sure that everything went as planned in the mountains. They didn’t overtake us, which was a great relief to Dr. Seraphina, our leader. It was our greatest worry-to be captured before we made it to the gorge.”
“The gorge?” Evangeline asked, growing confused.
“Our planning was meticulous,” Celestine continued. “We had the most modern equipment and cameras that allowed us to document our discoveries. We took care to protect the cameras and the film. The findings were all in order. Wrapped in cloth and cotton. Very secure, indeed.” Celestine stared out the window as if measuring the rise of the river.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Evangeline said, hoping to prod Celestine to explain. “What cavern? What findings?”
Sister Celestine met Evangeline’s eyes once more. “We drove through the Rhodopes, entering through Greece. It was the only way during the war. The Americans and British had begun their bombing campaigns to the west, in Sofia. The damage was growing each week, and we knew it was possible that the gorge could be hit, although not likely, of course-it was one cave in thousands. Still, we pushed everything into motion. It all happened very quickly once the funding from Abigail Rockefeller was secure. All of the angelologists were summoned to continue their efforts.”
“Angelologists,” Evangeline said, turning the phrase over. Although it was a familiar word, she did not dare admit this to Celestine.
If Celestine detected a change in Evangeline, she did not let on. “Our enemies did not attack us at the Devil’s Throat, but they tracked our return to Paris.” Celestine’s voice grew animated, and she turned to Evangeline, her eyes wide. “They began to hunt us immediately. They put their networks of spies to work and captured my beloved teacher. I could not stay in France. It was too dangerous to remain in Europe. I had to come to America, although I had no desire at all to do so. I was given the responsibility of bringing the object to safety-our discovery was left to my care, you see, and there was nothing I could do but flee. I still feel that I betrayed our resistance by leaving, but I had no choice. It was my assignment. While others were dying, I took a boat to New York City. Everything had been prepared.”
Evangeline struggled to mask her reaction to these bizarre details of Celestine’s history, but the more she heard, the more difficult it was to remain silent. “Mrs. Rockefeller assisted you in this?” she asked.
“She arranged for my passage out of the inferno that Europe had become.” This was the first direct answer she had given to Evangeline. “I was smuggled to Portugal. The others were not so lucky-I knew even as I departed that the ones left behind were doomed. Once they found us, the horrid devils killed us. That was their way-vicious, evil, inhuman creatures! They would not rest until we were exterminated. To this day we are hunted.”
Evangeline stared at Celestine, aghast. She did not know much about the Second World War or how it pertained to Celestine’s fears, but she worried that such agitation might bring her harm. “Please, Sister, everything is fine. I assure you that you’re safe now.”
“Safe?” Celestine’s eyes were frozen in fear. “One is never safe. Jamais.”