The Resistance Girl. Jina Bacarr
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door, praying she steps aside. I don’t like her, but I respect her position as a member of the Church. ‘Let me pass… please.’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘I forbid you to accept the director’s outrageous proposition. Your life is here with us, serving God.’
I stand up tall, straighten my shoulders. ‘If God is as all-knowing as you say He is, then He knows how much I want to be an actress, or He wouldn’t have sent Monsieur de Ville here today to find me.’
Sister Ursula is having none of my philosophical tirades. The woman has an agenda that goes deep, a hatred for me that is mercilessly female at its core. Jealousy.
‘You’re a sinner like your mother, Sylvie Martone. Yet unlike her, you’ll not do your penance in the next life, but in this one.’ Her eyes shine. ‘You’ll repent for your sins now. On your knees.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I say, my voice going up an octave. ‘This is my chance to be somebody, a chance while I’m young to follow my dream so I don’t end up like you… old and shriveled up and mean.’
I don’t know why I let go with such hateful words, words I’ve kept inside me for so long, but I’m desperate. And they hit home. Sister Ursula’s face turns purple, her smooth forehead below her wimple wrinkles up with lines so deep they appear like ugly scars.
I pull back, mumbling, trying to take back my words. I’ve gone too far this time.
‘You insolent girl!’ she shouts, spewing hatred. ‘How dare you speak to me in such a manner.’
I see the rage flooding her black eyes like burning coal ash. She’s not thinking of her vows now. She wants to teach me a lesson. The nun raises her arm up high, her long, black sleeve fanning through the air like a whip when she slaps me. Hard. Oh… the pain… like liquid fire singeing my skin. Her anger stuns me. I try to duck, but she hits me again… her insistent blows sending me reeling, splitting my lower lip and knocking my bag off my shoulder. Fighting for balance, I stagger a few steps, the hot pain slamming through me, burning like a firebrand. A dizzying motion sends a bout of nausea through me and the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth, making me gag. I land with a thud on the hard cot in my cell. My face burns, but it’s my pride that hurts more.
‘I was wrong to say those things, Reverend Mother,’ I say with honesty. The woman is a monster, but there are times in your life when you have to bite your tongue to save your hide. ‘But I’m not like the other girls here,’ I sputter, spitting blood. I touch my right eye, which is starting to swell and is half-closed. ‘I don’t find peace in taking the white veil and adopting the holy habit of the order and changing my name. I’m Sylvie Martone and I have a right to choose my own path in life.’ I pause. ‘I don’t know why you hate me so much. What happened to you that you’ve lost the joy of what it’s like to be young and want something so bad it consumes you like a holy fire.’
A flicker of her eyelids tells me I’ve touched a nerve and for a moment I see a human side of her in those eyes. What I’ve said is true, but whatever horrid secret she’s keeping stays under her wimple.
‘Tidy up and I will send for you.’ She smirks. ‘Remaining locked in your room is too easy a punishment for your sin of vanity. You shall be admonished in front of the nuns and novices after evening prayers, lying prostrate on the cold stone, your arms spread wide, and beg for forgiveness. Then you shall remain locked in your cell for a week, mademoiselle. No food, only water, praying the Lord doesn’t send you to Hell, a vile, black place where bad girls go, because I will.’
Then she slams the door behind her and locks me in.
Taking deep breaths in spite of the pain in my chest, I try to calm down. I’m still reeling over how I ignited such fierce anger in the woman that she struck me like I was a godless soul. I can’t ignore the fierce heat that radiated from her eyes, the posture of her body as she rose up to her full height before she struck me. Hard. I touch my face with my fingertips and the pain makes me wince. I want to curl up and cry. Let my body heal as well as my mind till I get over the shock.
I can’t. If I don’t make my move now, I never will.
I put my ear to the wood, hear her breathing heavily. I imagine she’s outside my door, expecting me to cry, yell, and bang on the door. I won’t. There’ll be time for tears later if Monsieur de Ville leaves without me and I miss my chance. I have to get out of here. I want so desperately to be an actress. I have to go to Paris, find a life for myself.
Relief floods my veins like holy water when I hear her footsteps echo down the hallway.
Then it’s not tears I shed. A giggle escapes my bruised lips.
Sister Ursula doesn’t know I have a key.
I spend several minutes on my hands and knees trying to retrieve the old, rusty key I begged off Sister Vincent a while ago. I hid it under a loose floorboard, but the board is stuck. I keep trying to pry it open in spite of the intense pain in my shoulder.
I never dreamed it would be the key to my freedom when I got into trouble for stealing milk to feed a litter of kittens and their mother that took up holy sanctuary in the chapel. I fed the family of five for a week before Sister Ursula found out, locked me in my room, and dumped the kittens and their mother out into the rain. Sister Vincent told me it was cruel to turn out the poor things, so she opened my door with a spare key and after a lot of cajoling on my part, she let me keep it so I could come and go without Sister Ursula knowing what we were about. Together we searched for the tiny creatures till we found them, the furry bundles shivering and nearly drowned, huddled under the weeping willow in the center courtyard, the tall tree keeping them safe like a majestic guardian.
Soon after Sister Vincent found the lot of them homes in the village, but when she asked me for the key back, I swore up and down I lost it. I didn’t tell her I’d hidden it since Sister Ursula has a habit of locking disobedient girls in their cell… I wanted it for an emergency.
Five, ten minutes go by… I keep tugging on the board, bracing myself when I feel it budge a little, then—
Pop! I lift up the floorboard and reach around the damp earth underneath till my fingers wrap around the jagged key. I grab it, ignoring the settling heaviness in my body from the sister’s hard blows, then rub off the dirt and pray to the Almighty to forgive me for lying to Sister Vincent as I turn it in the lock. Click. I can’t hold back the excitement filling me, the sobs of joy. Never has a prayer been answered with such enthusiasm.
I’m free.
I grab my cloth bag and peek outside the door. The hallway with its dim gaslight is empty.
Head down, I take long strides, pulling my lace veil over my face and praying Monsieur de Ville won’t notice the bloodstains on the lace from my bleeding lip. A blue indigo twilight provides cover as I tiptoe out of the novice quarters and hug the side of the building. I feel confident I can make it across the courtyard if I get past the stream of light coming from the outside lamp that lights up the pathway to the chapel. It’s time for evening prayers and the nuns and novices are gathered there—
‘Sylvie, wait… please, child!’
Startled, I spin around. There’s no escape. I heave out a sigh of relief when I see Sister Vincent running toward me, holding up her black, filmy skirts and showing her slender ankles encased in black stockings. She catches up to me, out of breath, her spectacles smudged and askew on her face.
I grip my lace veil tight to shield my bruised face from her scrutiny.
‘Thank God, you’re here.’ She hunches over, hands on her knees, and takes in deep, heavy breaths. ‘I rushed back here after I saw you drive away with that stranger in the yellow Citroën. I’ve been so worried about you.’